Page 48 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

When she awoke the following morning, the fire had died out, and she found herself alone in their bed. Guinevere faintly remembered something about jousting, practice, and perhaps a horse.

It wasn’t long before a gentle knock came from her chamber room door. Lunete and Delphine stood on the other side, smiles bright as they entered. “You’ve a meeting this morning, your grace.” The older woman said as they guided Gwen to the vanity.

Once seated, the queen noticed the brightness in their smiles was tight. It didn’t reach their eyes. “Lunete?” She asked, brow furrowing.

“Oh, it’s nothing, my queen. His Majesty has asked you to join him as he prepares for a tournament in the next fortnight.” Tugging the brush through her hair, she offered another half-hearted grin.

“A tournament?” Her heart stuttered in her chest, tensing beneath the brush.

“Yes, your grace. Knights from across the realm answered the king’s summons. His Majesty wishes to entertain the court.” She paused, breathing deep. “Continue the celebration of the newborn babe.”

Guinevere felt her lungs constricting. “And the Round Table?”

Delphine’s hand squeezed her shoulder gently, laying a dress out on the bed behind them. “He’ll be fine, your grace. ”

She nodded, blinking back tears. Lunete’s hands braided her hair carefully, calmly. “He’s a good man, Guinevere,” the older woman whispered with a smile. “They’ll look out for him.”

“Who?” She swallowed, trying to push back the emotions that threaded through her throat.

Lunete leaned around her, adjusting her own greying hair in the mirror.

That was when Gwen noticed a ribbon in her maid’s hair.

A deep crimson tie held her hair up, a stark contrast to the plain colors of her clothing.

“Friends can be found anywhere,” she smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You just have to know where to look.” She tightened her ribbon before lovingly pinching the queen’s cheek.

Guinevere stood in the sunlight hours later, the dress Delphine had laid out stiff at her shoulders, too fine for a morning meeting. Arthur liked her in gold and ivory — like an icon, untouchable. She felt like a statue as she moved through the stone halls.

And yet… something strange stirred in her chest.

At first, it was nothing.

A kitchen boy passed her in the corridor, bowing awkwardly. A strip of crimson cloth wrapped around his wrist, half-hidden beneath his sleeve.

A noblewoman stood in the hallway, speaking in hushed tones to a steward. A ribbon tied around her fan fluttered red in the breeze.

Two knights walked past in conversation, helmets at their sides. One bore a crimson braid woven into the leather hilt of his sword.

It continued.

A stable hand. A lady-in-waiting. A scribe. A seamstress. A guard posted silently at the stairs.

Little things. Barely there threads. But all the same shade .

Crimson.

It bloomed like a secret, one only she was meant to see. A signal passed hand to hand, worn like a prayer, a promise.

By the time she stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the training yard — where Arthur stood watching the squires drill, arms crossed in imperious satisfaction — her breath was shaking.

Because down below, among the armor and banners, she saw it again.

Lancelot.

Crimson tied around the base of his lance.

She pressed a hand to her chest, trying not to fall apart right there before the king.

This wasn’t just a whisper of rebellion.

It was everywhere .

And she was no longer alone.

Arthur caught her eye with a scowl. Leaving the knights to their preparations, he made his way to the balcony.

“Quite nice of you to join me, Guinevere.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the wooden post. “I called upon you hours ago.”

“ Rome ne s'est pas faite en un jour, ” she waved her hand at him, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

The king took an indignant step forward. “You spend too much time with that arrogant Frenchman.” He pinched her chin, brows knitted tight. “This isn’t Rome, wife. You come when I call.”

She reached up and pried her face from his hand. “What, pray tell, do you require from me, my lord?”

Arthur smiled without warmth. “You’ll stand with me when the tournament begins. It is, after all, unbecoming of a queen to find herself anywhere else during such an event.”

“Unbecoming?” she asked, brows arching.

“Of course. And a queen so beloved deserves a champion.” He leaned in, voice a low hum by her ear. “It would be a shame if none stepped forward. Terribly humiliating. And fatal, I fear.”

She froze.

He stepped back, eyes glittering.

“You see, wife, there’s... a certain poetry in it. If no knight claims you — no sword lifted, no vow made — then clearly, the court must believe you unworthy.” His tone softened into something almost pitying. “And an unworthy queen? That’s treason. You know the law.”

He turned, letting his cape swing as he made his way back toward the stairs. “Let us hope someone fights for you, Guinevere,” he called over his shoulder, quieter now. “Though I suppose if your beloved knight does… well. Accidents happen in tournaments.”

He laughed as he walked down the steps. “Good luck, Guinevere. However will you spin your way out of this one?”

Arthur’s voice echoed around her, in the walls, in the air, in her bones. She could hear her heart in her ears as she braced against the balcony, dizziness shaking her.

Fleetingly, she caught the eyes of her knight, a look of confusion and worry etched across his features, but her vision blurred and she had to lower herself to a seat before she lost consciousness.

In a matter of moments, she heard the clatter of boots bounding up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Though her visitor shouted her name, she heard only muffled sounds. She was still seeing double.

Her lungs couldn’t drag in enough air. She felt herself clawing at her own throat, trying to open a path to breathe again.

Everything was stifled.

Everything was loud.

Hands framed her face, and the voice, the person in front of her, continued to call her name, thumbs brushing against her cheekbones.

Her breathing was ragged, tears in her eyes — on her cheeks.

Perhaps everywhere.

“I can’t breathe,” she managed, shocked by the tremble in her own words.

“You’re safe. I’m here,” He, Lancelot , whispered, voice hoarse with panic. He sank to his knees before her, pulling her against his chest without hesitation. “Breathe with me, mon amour , just breathe with me.”

“I can’t.” She gasped. She felt herself shaking in his arms.

His hand found the back of her neck, the other pressed gently against her ribs, steady and warm. “You can. You will .” She felt him expand with a deep breath. Her body couldn’t help but imitate.

She tried. Failed. Tried again.

“Good.” He pressed his lips against her hair. “That’s it. Just stay with me.” Every word was a tether, grounding her. “He won’t hurt you, not while I live.”

She clung to the front of his tunic, breath still jagged but catching now, syncing slowly to the rhythm of his voice, his body.

“That bastard,” Lancelot muttered under his breath, fierce and quiet. “You shouldn’t have to endure this.”

Her fingers tightened in his shirt. “He said… if no one steps forward…”

“I heard him,” Lancelot said bitterly. “The whole courtyard did.” His grip on her tightened. “You don’t have to worry, I’ll- ”

“A-and,” Her words failed hers, breathing haywire again. Her knuckles turned white with the grip she had on him. “He… He…”

“Not now, heart.” He shushed her gently, a smile flickering on his lips. “You will have a champion.”

“No,” she gasped, shaking her head. Tears flooded her vision once more. “You can’t.”

Gwen tried to meet his gaze. His face was drawn, eyes wild, as he brushed the tears from her cheeks.

“He’ll kill you.” She managed before her chest began to collapse against her again, breath stuttering as the panic in her stomach swelled.

That’s when something changed.

Not in her.

In him .

His hands didn’t move. His voice didn’t rise. But something snapped behind his eyes.

And even through the blur of tears, she saw it.

Saw his fury still and sharp, not flaring outward — but folding in like a blade sheathed too tightly. “He hurt you.” He whispered. “Through me .”

She couldn’t speak, clinging to him like he was the last anchor in all of England.

“I won’t let him use me as the weapon to break you, Guinevere.”

She shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head as she tried to drag air in, as she continued to tremble beneath his arms.

“I would rather die,” she choked, the words so soft they barely escaped her lips. “Then watch him kill you. I would rather die , Lancelot-”

“Don’t,” he growled, and the word struck like flint. Not loud. Not sharp. But final.

Her eyes flew open.

His grip had not shifted — but every part of him had gone still.

Utterly still.

A quiet that crackled, like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

“Never say that again.” Her breath caught. His hands were gentle, but his body radiated a rage that was barely leashed. “I’ll kill him, Guinevere, and I will relish watching the light flicker from his deadened eyes.”

Another sob escaped her as she buried her face in his tunic. He smelt of sweat and grass, he smelt like himself. “Don’t-” Her breath hitched.

“I’ve got you.” The words were quiet. Steady. Absolute.

And then he stood.

He lifted her like she weighed nothing — no ceremony, no performance. Just purpose . His arms beneath her legs and back, one hand cradling her shoulder as though the mere idea of her slipping was unbearable. In his arms, she was safe.

Her cheek fell against his chest, where his heartbeat thundered.

Unshaken.

A hush had fallen over the yard below.

Everyone below had heard her cry out.

Seen him vanish up the steps like a man possessed.

And now…

Now they watched Lancelot descend the stairs with their queen in his arms.

His jaw was tight, expression unreadable, but his grip said everything. The way he held her like she was precious.

Sacred.

Untouchable.

Not even Arthur moved.

Guinevere felt it — the shift in the air. No longer just whispers of rebellion, but something else.

A reckoning.

She closed her eyes, let the ache and the panic bleed out of her into him.

Let herself be carried.

They were halfway across the yard before Arthur spoke. “Touching,” the king called, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Truly, Sir Lancelot, your devotion knows no bounds.”

But her knight didn’t stop, didn’t even flinch. He adjusted his grip on her — holding her closer, tighter.

“I do hope,” Arthur continued, nearer now than he was a moment ago, “That you fight as fiercely as you cling to her. It would be a pity if your loyalty outlived your life.”

Her fingers clenched into his tunic once more, shutting her eyes tightly. But Lancelot kept walking, even as a chill swept through the air.

Past the knights.

Weaving around the whispers.

Straight through the threat.

His eyes were level, looking ahead. He never faltered. It would take more than words to shake the Queen’s champion.

He didn’t stop until they were behind their chamber door. The lock slid into place behind them.