Page 39 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

Guinevere had meant to pace, to sit up, to wait for him to come for her.

But the bed looked welcoming. The call of the otherness was so easy for her to slip into, like a second skin wrapping her up in sorrow and warmth. Her eyes stung, chest ached. Every time she blinked, she saw Arthur’s face. Or worse — Lancelot’s.

The blood at the corner of his mouth.

The fury in his eyes.

She turned into the pillows and let the tears come. Quiet at first — then wrecking. Until eventually… nothing.

She didn’t hear the door open, or the lock slide into place behind him.

It was only when the mattress dipped, when his arms came around her — warm and real , that she stirred.

“I’m here,” He whispered, pressing his lips to her hair as his body curved to fit hers.

“I tried to stay awake,” she whispered, her voice thick with the strain of tears.

“I know,” Lancelot brushed her hair out of her face, rubbing the pad of his thumb gently against the tear stains on her cheeks.

He was still in his formal knight attire. He smelt like steel, smoke, and blood.

But his touch was so gentle, so reverent, that he could have been in his full armor and she wouldn’t have cared.

“He hit you.” Her fingers reached for his jaw — carefully, searching. She found the swelling.

“It’s nothing.”

“Lancelot-”

“It’s nothing .” He turned his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm. His hand came to cradle her face softly. “If it means you get to walk back to your chambers without the fear of being violated in your own home, I will gladly take his punches every night for the rest of our lives.”

Guinevere’s breath caught. The honesty in his voice broke something clean and deep inside her. “Don’t say that,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Don’t talk like that… like this is just how it has to be.”

His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, slow and reverent. “I would bear far worse if it meant I could still come back to you.”

They sat in the silence together for a long while, Guinevere felt the tug of sleep tempting her once more. Now that he was here, now that his arms were around her, it was harder to refuse.

“I hate that he touched you,” Lancelot spoke again, his words low… almost a growl. “I hate that I was too late. I hate that I can’t undo it.” His fingers clenched a little tighter around her. “I hate him.”

Her stomach churned at his words.

Not in fear of him — never that. But in the echo of everything she had buried. Everything she had tried not to remember.

Everything she had endured.

But with the sickness of remembering.

With the nausea of losing him.

With the fear of knowing how much worse it could still get.

“I hate him.” Lancelot said again, quieter this time. His voice broke on the words.

Gwen pressed her lips faintly against his. “Then love me louder.”

He didn’t answer her, he didn’t have to. He loved her in the ways he held her. In the ways he protected her.

In the ways he shielded her.

“Take off these awful things.” She tried to sound playful, but it came out like a whisper of urgency. “I’m so cold, and they’re keeping your warmth tucked away.”

“Needy queen,” he teased, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He slipped from her hold, his movements unhurried, as if allowing the moment to stretch between them. Standing at the side of the bed, he undid the ties of his tabard, the notch on his belt, the laces of his breeches.

Guinevere couldn’t tear her eyes away from him — each movement felt like it was undoing something inside of her, something locked up tight and hidden away. She watched him, desperate to feel his skin beneath her hands again, to know that he was here with her, not just in body, but in spirit.

Her heart ached in a way that was almost unbearable, and the sickness of the past seemed to tighten its hold on her body with every breath.

She reached for him before he was fully undressed, her hands trembling slightly.

“Lancelot,” she whispered, voice strained, a plea — for warmth , for more .

But even as she called out to him, something in her seemed to falter, and she leaned back against the pillows, her body suddenly feeling too heavy, the world around her spinning in dizzying circles.

“Guinevere?” He was by her side in an instant, hands cupping her face. “You’re burning up, dove.”

“Lance.” Her eyes were unfocused. She couldn’t bring herself back to the room. “Lancelot, please.”

“I’m right here, mon amour .” His voice cracked as he brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, heart hammering in her chest. His thumb stroked her fevered skin, eyes searching her face as though trying to piece her together, to understand what was happening.

“Breathe with me, Gwen.” His voice was urgent, almost panicked. “Focus on me, love. What’s going on?”

But before she could respond, her body betrayed her. She retched violently; the bile rising too quickly, her stomach heaving and emptying onto the blanket, her nightgown, and — horribly — onto Lancelot.

The warmth of her skin, the heat of her fever, clashed with the coldness of the mess, the stench of sickness hanging in the air. Lancelot froze for a moment, staring down at her.

“Gwen…” His hands shook as he tried to catch her, to hold her steady, but she was trembling so violently that it felt like the world was slipping through her fingers.

Her breathing was shallow, ragged. She couldn’t stop shaking. Lancelot pulled her into his chest. “I’m right here, love.” He whispered, but his voice trembled. Her skin was slight with sweat, but she shivered against his warmth. “I’m here. ”

“I’m cold,” she slurred, fingers clenching against his bare skin. “I’m so cold, Lance.” She pressed her face into the line of his throat. He was solid and steady, he was safe .

But her stomach lurched again, head spinning. “I… I think-”

He was more prepared this time. In one single, swift movement, he grabbed the small washbasin from beside her, holding it for her while she got sick again.

Her fingers curled around the basin, her body trembling violently as she fought to regain control. But it was futile. The nausea, the dizziness, the sickness — it overwhelmed her, like the world was closing in on her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Lancelot didn’t let go, didn’t flinch as she retched a third time. He cradled her against him, his arms firm but gentle, his body steady. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, against her cheek, and that, in some small way, anchored her to something real.

He wiped her brow with the back of his hand, trying to soothe her, but his eyes betrayed him, full of anguish and panic. She could feel his heartbeat thudding against her skin, faster now, as if he, too, was fighting the fear that gripped him.

When the worst had seemingly passed, she collapsed against him, her body still trembling with the aftershocks. The heat of her fever mixed with the chill of the room, but it was nothing compared to the way her body felt — heavy, distant, as though she were fading in and out of herself.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured, trying to pull him down into the bed with her, forgetting they were both covered in her sickness.

“No, no. Not yet.” He kept her close to him while he maneuvered her soiled gown off of her. Tossing it in on the ground, along with the blanket, he helped her lay back on the pillows. “Stay awake for me, love.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I need to get help.” His voice was quiet. She could barely hear him over the pounding of her own heart. “You need a bath, and we need clean bedding.”

She reached for him, clutching weakly at his arm. “No, no. Please don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving you, love,” he whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from her brow. “I’ll be right outside the door, and I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

Her eyes fluttered, glassy with fever and fear.

“I swear to you, Guinevere. I’m not leaving you . I’m fetching help for us .”

He lingered a heartbeat longer, kissing her forehead, then turned — swift and sharp.

Gwen forced herself to sit back up, curling her arms around her legs. She pressed her forehead against her knees, trying to breathe around the smell of the sickness that clung to the room.

Whatever this illness was, it had come on so violently.

Lancelot had lied.

He hadn’t returned before she could miss him.

She was freezing cold, unable to find anything to wrap herself up in that wasn’t tarnished.

The door opened, and Lunete slid inside.

“Your grace,” she bowed before rushing over to her.

“Let’s get you up, Guinevere.” Her touch was kind as she coaxed the queen from her bed.

“Edith and Delphine will be here with bath water in a moment, dear.” She pulled Gwen’s hair back, tying it up with a strip of leather .

With the maid’s help, she stumbled over to the chaise, laying on her side.

Lunete smoothed her hair. “There we go. Now we can get you some clean beddings, my queen.”

The maid had always been kind to her. She was several years her elder, but she had been with Guinevere since she had arrived in Camelot.

The door opened again, the other two women carrying large, steaming pails of water. Followed by her knight in soiled breeches.

She reached for him, instinctively. Perhaps she should have pretended not to need him, should have put on a show for her handmaidens, but she couldn’t.

He was back by her side in an instant, scooping her into his arms like she was as light as a cloud.

Carefully, as if she might melt beneath his grasp, he lowered her into the bath water. A faint sigh escaped her lips as the warm water lapped at her freezing bones.

“Rest in the warmth for a moment, love.” Lancelot pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll clean you up.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as she sank lower. She heard her knight speak again. “We need a cool basin of water, too. Some towels, small enough for her forehead.” There was a panic in his voice she hadn’t noticed before.

“Yes, sir,” Lunete answered, sturdy as an oak. “We’ll see to it.”

“And if Arthur asks where I am — lie.”

And even in her sickly state, her cheeks warmed when she heard her handmaiden laugh.

“You don’t have to worry about that, knight.

I would take a lashing for her grace any day.

” Delphine and Edith agreed boisterously.

“You, sir knight, have brought our queen joy. Joy she has always deserved. Your secrets are safe with us.”

“Thank you,” His response was quiet, “If you could change the linens and bring new nightclothes, I will tend to her.”

They must not have answered aloud, because he was kneeling by the wash basin within moments, brushing his thumb along her cheek.

“May I wash you, your grace?” He asked quietly, reverently.

Guinevere’s lashes fluttered, the steam curling soft as silk around her face. She nodded faintly. “Yes,” she murmured. “Please.”

Lancelot dipped the cloth into the basin, wringing it out with care before trailing it along the side of her neck. His hands were gentle, reverent, as though she were carved from glass. He did not scrub, did not hurry — he soothed . He honored .

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice a thread of smoke. “Let me take care of you.”

She leaned into the touch like a prayer answered.

The water lapped at her skin, warming the bones that had ached for days, chasing the chill from where Arthur’s shadow had once settled. Her head lolled against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering closed.

“Too much?” Lancelot’s voice again, low and hushed, like he was afraid to break her.

“No,” she breathed. “Just… don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He ran the cloth down her arms, over her collarbone, to her hands, each finger given the attention of something precious. Not a queen now. Not even a woman.

Just loved .

Just his .

When he reached her legs, he paused, voice low. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. So he washed her — calf to thigh, all the places she was too weak to reach.

Not with hunger, not with lust, just with aching care.

As if he could undo every bruise ever left on her skin, every touch that hadn’t been asked for, every moment she’d been claimed instead of cherished.

When he finished, he cupped water in his hands and rinsed her shoulders again. “Better?” He had discarded the cloth, his hand laying softly against her cheek. She leaned into him, nodding. “Let’s get you out.”

His arms came around her again, lifting her from the water. Balancing her with one hand, he set her down in front of him, feet unsteady on the ground, as he wrapped her up in a plush towel.

“It’s cold.” She tried not to chatter.

“I’ll fix it.” He cradled her against his chest as he brought her beside the hearth, settling down before the smoldering fire. Her head lolled against his shoulder.

The maids were gone now. They had left behind a stack of clean clothing and a steaming cup of tea. As they sat in front of the fire, he convinced her to take a few sips.

She drank, but only for him.

Lancelot took to rubbing soothing circles on her skin using the towel, drying up the last of the water.

Guinevere felt him lean, saw him grab the clean dress that Lunete had left behind, and saw a smile tug at the corners of his lips.

He unwrapped the towel from around her before slipping the nightdress over her head. “Bed? Or hearth?” His breath was warm against her skin.

“Bed,” she replied with a yawn.

Once he tucked her tightly back underneath the blankets, he turned, discarding his own stained clothing.

Her brow knitted, but saw Lunete had managed to bring him something clean, too.

She always thought of everything.

Gwen smiled softly as the mattress shifted once more, as the heat of her knight surrounded her, holding her tight against his bare chest.

“Lancelot?” She whispered.

He responded with a quiet hum, nose nestled behind her ear.

“Thank you.”