Page 40 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She woke the next morning with a kiss against her temple.

As her eyes fluttered open, she heard a soft sigh. “I didn’t want to wake you,” Lancelot whispered, smiling faintly. “How are you feeling?”

“Hollow,” she groaned, turning on her side to face him more fully. “But better. Where are you going?”

“Would you believe that the knights of the Round Table train each and every day?” The gentle mirth in his voice caused her own lips to tug upwards.

“I would actually.” She moved to sit up. “I’ve lived in Camelot, my love.”

“No, no. Don’t get up.” His hand steadied on her shoulder. “It’s early. You should go back to sleep.”

Guinevere pouted, shaking her head. “Without you?”

Ducking his head, he pressed his lips to hers, quickly but no less meaningful. “Yes, my queen.” He tapped her on the nose. “I’ll be back later.”

With another quick kiss, he slipped from the room.

Gwen pulled the blankets higher, tighter. But truly — nothing could mimic the feel of his arms around her.

The door hadn’t even cooled from closing before another knock followed.

It was soft… dainty. Guinevere blinked, half-curled beneath the sheets, before calling faintly, “Come in.”

Morgana stepped inside like a wraith cloaked in silk, her gown untouched by the morning hour. Her hair was pinned, her eyes already sharp. She was alone.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said smoothly, folding her hands before her. “The handmaidens said you were awake.”

Guinevere sat up a little straighter. “Not at all.”

A pause. Morgana’s gaze slid slowly around the room.

“I had a... curious report this morning,” she said at last, her voice a blend of sympathy and severity.

“One of my girls was helping the laundresses. There was a pair of breeches being scrubbed. Men’s.

Stained with...” A tilt of her head, almost delicate.

“Well, for fear of being crude… evidence of something very personal.”

Guinevere said nothing. The weight of her stare was like ice crawling up her spine.

“They were washed with your linens,” Morgana added. “And your gown. The one you wore last night. The one also covered in sick.”

Guinevere’s stomach twisted.

“I’m not here to shame you, Guinevere.” Morgana’s voice lowered, almost soothing now. She perched herself at the end of the bed, one hand extending towards her. “But I think you ought to consider the damage you’re doing. To Arthur. To Camelot.”

A beat.

“To yourself. ”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Morgana.” Her voice was not as steady as she might have liked. This was Morgana's talent — walk in with silk and honey, and leave you bleeding, somehow certain you'd slit your own throat.

“Don’t be daft, dear.” Sharper now, her eyes cut daggers. “Lancelot challenging Arthur last night?” A short, bitter laugh. “It was hardly subtle. Everyone knew about it by morning light. What a scene .”

“Arthur was out of line.” Guinevere shot back, anger building in her chest.

“You’re his wife . God forbid he want to find ease in you.” She waved her hand like Gwen was the one being ridiculous.

“Have I no autonomy?” She spoke before thinking. It was useless to reason with her. Morgana had always been the first to defend Arthur.

“It’s not unheard of… a queen taking a consort. Or a king.” She paused, eyes sparkling, “But really, sister… Lancelot?” She withdrew her hand, resting it on her round stomach. “Your precious nephew’s father?”

Guinevere opened her mouth to speak, but Morgana held a hand up, silencing her. “You think he’s some toy to wield against the king?” All softness was gone from her voice now. “What did you promise him?” She stood again, pacing as though circling prey.

“Impossible that your barren little cunt could be that good.” Gwen flinched. “What strings have you pulled to make him so desperate to protect you?”

Guinevere didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Not because Morgana was right — God, no — but because her mouth had gone dry and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking beneath the covers. Because if she spoke, she might scream. Or cry. Or worse… beg .

But… Morgana wasn’t wrong, either. Not entirely.

She was cruel, though.

And Morgana, ever the predator, mistook the quiet for surrender.

She stood. Satisfied, smiling.

She pulled the door open, turning back to give one more sickeningly sweet grin.

“Your lies are getting lazy.” It wasn’t much. Guinevere’s voice was barely a whisper. But Morgana paused in the doorway.

And that was enough.