Page 44 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

The winter court arrived cloaked in snow and silence.

It had been months since Guinevere had whispered her fears into the low embers of the fire, since Lancelot had kissed the tears from her cheeks and promised her a world without thrones or heirs.

Since then, Camelot had hardened around them — the walls colder, the halls quieter, the eyes sharper.

And then, with the first thaw of spring, Morgana screamed.

The child was born at dawn, beneath a sky the color of bruises.

Trumpets didn’t sound — not at first. There was too much blood, too much waiting. But when the wails came — the baby's, and then Morgana’s, triumphant and primal — the castle erupted.

By midday, Arthur had declared the child the heir to the throne.

He held the infant high above the kneeling court, eyes fever-bright, voice like thunder: “A child of prophecy. My father’s legacy.” And though the boy’s hair was tawny and his mouth already set with Morgana’s stubbornness, no one spoke against it.

They couldn’t. Not now.

Not when Arthur had doubled the guard. Not when Morgana’s rooms were watched day and night. Not when Guinevere stood beside the king like a statue carved of grief and quiet fury — Lancelot behind her, silent as a blade in shadow.

The child had a name.

The court had a future.

And Guinevere… had a deadline.

They had left them alone. Lancelot had moved all of his belongings into her chambers. They spent very little time apart.

If members of the court knew about the manner of their relationship, no one said anything.

Her maids came as normal, laundering their clothes, turning down their bed, dressing her for events and meetings.

Guinevere’s gowns were darker now, crimson silks and midnight velvets. It was not mourning, it was armor.

Lunete told her she looked severe — dangerous — in her new wardrobe.

Lancelot told her she looked devastating.

He stayed by her side. No longer a secret, but a shadow. His sword was hers. His silence belonged to her.

His rage?

Leashed.

For now.

She hadn’t met the infant yet, but the young boy was set to be baptized this morning.

Were this a different child, a different set of circumstances, he would have been baptized the same day of his birth, but Arthur wanted an audience.

Morgana wanted to be in attendance.

So they postponed the baptism until three days post birth.

The bells tolled before dawn. Not for mourning, but proclamation.

A new prince.

A new line.

A new era.

Guinevere dressed in silence.

Her gown was black this time, trimmed in garnet embroidery that caught the candlelight like blood. Her maids fastened her cloak, pinned her hair, adjusted the gold circlet atop her head — all without speaking the obvious. This child, this claim, might mean the end of her.

Lancelot buckled his sword belt in the corner. He didn’t wear court colors anymore. His tunic bore no sigil, no crest. Only plain, ash-dark wool — the color of storm clouds.

“You don’t have to stand beside me for this,” she said, eyes on the mirror.

His gaze met hers in the reflection. “There is nowhere else I would stand.”

She didn’t smile. Couldn’t. But she let him take her hand.

Outside, the court gathered like crows. The chapel smelled of incense and rose oil. Banners hung heavy from the stone rafters, their silks stiff with embroidery: the Bendragon crest alongside Morgana’s ancestral sigil — a snake wrapped around a flowering tree.

Arthur stood at the altar, golden-robed and expressionless, hands folded behind his back. Every noble in Camelot had come to witness it. To kneel. To bow. To bear witness to the so-called future.

Morgana entered to a swell of harp and horn, the baby swaddled in white velvet, a crownlet already tied around his brow. The child did not cry.

Guinevere walked just behind her, Lancelot at her side. They looked like monarchs in mourning — shadows carved from obsidian. The hush that followed them as they took their place beside Arthur was not reverent. It was wary.

The bishop stepped forward, intoning rites in Latin. Water shimmered in the font like glass.

“Name this child,” the bishop said.

Morgana’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Mordred.”

Gasps moved like wind through the congregation. The name had power. Old power. Wild and prophetic.

Arthur didn’t flinch. “Mordred Bendragon,” he said. “Son of Camelot.”

Son of Camelot. Not my son.

Guinevere’s nails dug into the flesh of her palm.

The child was baptized in silence, the water gliding over his brow. He did not cry. He did not blink. He looked, for all the world, like he was watching.

And from across the room, where the knights knelt in solemn rows, Percival raised his head just enough to meet Lancelot’s eyes. A single nod. A warning.

Something had shifted.

“Your Grace,” the bishop turned to Arthur. “Please name the godparents for this child. These sanctified persons will watch over this boy as he grows, show him the way in his faith and in his morals. I trust you and Her Grace have chosen wisely.”

A sly grin appeared on Morgana’s face, the twinkle in her eye set Guinevere’s soul on fire. “Of course, bishop.” She shifted the boy in her arms. “For the godfather, our oldest friend and most revered knight of Camelot. We ask Lancelot du Lac to be the godfather of this boy. ”

Gwen watched as his jaw tensed, the grip on his sword turning his knuckles white. Her breath shook. “Of course, Morgana.” He replied, his words clipped, terse.

“And the godmother?”

It was Arthur that answered. “Who better than the matriarch of Camelot herself?” He paused, then feigned embarrassment. “Or — oh, dear. My apologies, wife. Matriarch might no longer be the word.” He looked at the crowd, inviting their laughter, then turned back to her.

She had to bite down on her tongue to keep from lashing out. “We ask Guinevere Bendragon, reigning Queen of Camelot. May she pass down the knowledge of the crown, as well as the ideals and morals that our people expect of their leaders.”

There was no air in the chapel.

Not even the child made a sound.

Guinevere said nothing. She could not. Her hands had turned to fists in her lap.

Lancelot stared straight ahead.

“Thank you, esteemed guests, for joining us in the Great Hall to further celebrate this wondrous occasion.” The king’s voice rang out throughout the chapel, exiting to a thunderous applause.

Morgana followed, a proud smile pasted across her face. The child, Mordred, was silent in her arms.

Guinevere did not rise until Lancelot offered his arm. She took it with a hand she barely trusted to remain steady. He was her anchor, as ever — steady, silent, seething beneath his composure.

He hid it better than she did. The anger. The grief. The helpless, swallowing rage each of these staged moments demanded of them both.

There weren’t many whispers now. The court had seen too much — and perhaps feared too much — to speak aloud. The queen was never seen without her champion.

And they had heard the rumors.

In every shape. Every version.

Since the Grail.