Page 52 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

The days passed quickly, quicker than Guinevere would have liked. Especially with such an event on the horizon. She and Lancelot had agreed to spend time apart from each other in order to spin their tale more truthfully.

However… she found herself at his door in the middle of the night, desperate for his touch.

And on the nights she was strong enough not to search for him, she would find him curled around her when she awoke.

He kissed her hard the morning of the tournament, his hands gripping tightly to any part of her he could find. It felt like a goodbye, the way his lips lingered, the way he spoke her name like a prayer.

She was crying before she had time to react.

“ Je t’aime. ” He whispered against her skin, over and over again.

His own cheeks were stained with tears when he pulled back from her, framing her face in his hands. “I love you, Guinevere. In this world and the next.”

She brushed a loose piece of lint from his tabard. “I love you, Lancelot.” She stretched up to kiss him softly. “Thank you for digging me up.” Her voice was a whisper, as if speaking too loud would bring reality crashing down around them .

“Is there a world where I can convince you not to stand for me?” She asked, laughing through her tears.

“Not a chance, mon amour .” He kissed her forehead softly, a sad sort of smile appearing on his face.

“Go, before I refuse to let you leave.”

Her hands trembled as he turned to leave, to join the tournament with his fellow knights.

Bors came to fetch her moments after her knight departed. “M’lady.” He bowed deep, offering an arm.

They walked in silence through the halls of the castle, through the grounds and the garden, until they arrived at the tiltyard. A crowd had already begun to gather as they weaved behind the arena.

“Be good, your grace.” Bors bowed once more, and Guinevere caught a flicker of crimson tying back his hair. “It has been my honor.” And with a nod of his head, he took his leave.

Arthur awaited her on the dais, Morgana and Mordred to his left. “A pleasure, wife,” He greeted her with a sneer, “Do have a seat.”

Her fingers shook as she took her place, eyes scanning the crowds of warriors just below them. She clenched her hands in her lap, trying to hide the tremors.

A bell sounded, and the men below sheathed their weapons, withdrew their bows, and fell into position in front of the king and queen.

Lancelot’s eyes caught hers, and her stomach settled.

“Greetings, knights of Camelot, and welcome knights from far and wide.” Arthur stood, arms outstretched, as he spoke to the tournament contestants. “It is my honor to host this challenge today. A challenge to celebrate the birth of an heir. And to challenge the place of another.”

Her breath stuttered in her chest. She knew this would be coming. He had warned her.

“My wife, Queen of Camelot, has yet to provide an heir for the throne. She leaves me without a legacy, without a son, and without a future for Camelot.” There was a rumble of hushed whispers throughout the tiltyard.

“One might worry about her eternal soul, if the Lord does not see her fit to bear a child.”

Her face flushed. She couldn’t help it. When he told her she would stand trial, she didn’t realize he would expose her supposed sins to the world.

“Is there a man, from Camelot or otherwise, that would be willing to stand for her sins today?” Her husband’s eyes never looked at her, never left the men in front of him. “The Queen needs a champion to spare her reckoning.”

Guinevere couldn’t look at her knight, couldn’t look anywhere but at her wringing hands. There was still a piece of her that prayed he would stand down, live his life without her.

“I will stand for her.” Lancelot’s voice rang out, clear and unwavering. “Today, and every day henceforth.”

“Ah,” the king smiled, “We should have expected such moves from the Queen’s champion.”

The sun was cruel — high and bright, casting the arena in gold and sweat and sharpened steel.

Lancelot stepped forward from the line of knights, already drawing his sword. His eyes met hers across the tiltyard, and for a moment, Guinevere’s breath caught. He bowed — not to the king, but to her.

The first horn blew .

His first challenger charged quickly, youth in every swing. The fight was swift — three strikes, a turn of the shoulder, and Lancelot sent the boy sprawling. He did not draw blood.

Her hands lay still in her lap, but her knuckles ached from how tightly she pressed her fingers together.

The second knight was older, heavier. His blows rang off Lancelot’s shield like thunder. One caught his ribs, and Lancelot staggered. Guinevere’s spine stiffened. Her jaw tensed, her lips pressed to a thin line — but her face did not move.

Breathe , she told herself. Do not blink too long. Do not let the world see you watch him bleed.

Lancelot rose, spitting blood. His grin was almost feral. When he felled the knight, it was with a cry she could feel in her chest.

The third opponent came with something to prove.

He struck Lancelot’s face — clean and brutal.

Blood bloomed across Lancelot’s cheek, a red line from temple to jaw.

Guinevere inhaled sharply through her nose, head tilting slightly as though listening to a distant voice.

It was the only movement she allowed herself.

Her vision blurred for a breath. She swallowed it down.

You promised to come back to me.

By the fourth fight, Lancelot’s shield had cracked. The crowd had started to cheer for him — his name murmured in time with the pounding of hooves and boots.

But no one spoke her name. Only his.

The fourth challenger struck low, catching Lancelot’s thigh. He faltered. She saw the way he favored that leg — saw it before the crowd did. Her heart thudded painfully. She moved one hand to her cup, fingers trembling just enough to make the wine ripple. She did not drink .

When Lancelot disarmed the man with a roar and a backhanded blow, the crowd erupted. Guinevere’s throat clenched.

Enough .

Let him be done.

Let this be over.

But it was not over.

The final knight stepped forward. A tall man in dark armor, with a crest she did not know. Arthur smiled. A small, pleased thing.

Guinevere did not move. Did not look at her husband.

She only watched as Lancelot bled from the brow, the lip, the thigh — and lifted his sword again. She wanted to scream at him to stop, to run, to let her burn alone.

He didn’t.

He never would.

The last fight was not graceful. It was brutal — shieldless now, Lancelot fought close. Teeth bared, breathing hard, sword flashing in the sun. Blood sprayed across the dirt. Guinevere didn’t know whose.

She had a hand pressed lightly over her chest now, her thumb grazing the edge of her collarbone as if testing whether her body might cave in around her heart.

And then the challenger dropped.

Lancelot stood alone, swaying. His blade wavered in his grip, then lifted high.

“I have stood for her,” he said. His voice cracked but did not break. “And no man here could unmake my vow.”

The crowd roared.

Guinevere did not move.

But her lip, just barely, trembled .

“Go,” Arthur stood, facing her with a reddened face. “Go and present the prize to your victor.”

He grabbed her arm as she stood, pressing a dagger into her hand. “Face your champion and make a choice. Him, or you.” He slid the weapon up her sleeve, patting her like one would a petulant child. “Someone’s going to die today, wife. Aren’t you lucky I am allowing you the final say?”

Her heart shuttered in her chest with the command he gave of her.

Arthur expected her to drive this dagger through Lancelot’s heart.

Or through her own.

Any other version of Guinevere would have blanched at his request — his demand , but this Guinevere? She took the dagger, nodded, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions in check.

“Congratulations, Du Lac,” Arthur called from the dais, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Your Queen approaches with your prize.”

Her skirts billowed around her in the breeze as she stepped down off of the platform, forcing herself to walk, when everything inside of her screamed to sprint to him.

As she drew nearer to him, her breath faltered. He leaned heavily on his sword; the tip digging into the ground beside him. His eye was bruised, his lip busted open. Gwen couldn’t tell where the blood ended, and the bruises began.

But his smile?

Radiant.

His hair was matted with gore and mud, pushed back off of his forehead. And his eyes sparkled. “Hi,” he whispered, the word rough around the edges.

“Hey there,” she replied, fingers trembling around the circlet she was to present him.

“Kneel, knight of Camelot,” she decreed, a thunderous roar washing over them. “That I might present you with your crown.”

“Fuck a crown,” he growled, ripping the golden piece out of her hand and tossing it aside. He staggered forward, forgoing his sword to cradle her face in his hands.

His lips descended on hers, hot and quick, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her fingers flexed at her side, surprise jolting through her.

He tasted like blood, like sand and sweat. His mouth moved against hers, demanding reciprocation, claiming her.

Guinevere whimpered as his tongue traced the steady line of her lip, before claiming the inside of her mouth, too.

She didn’t register the commotion in the arena until he had pulled back. People were shouting, there were jeers and screams, cheering and booing.

All facets of emotions were pouring from the stands as he broke away from her. A delicious grin spread across his face as he released her. “ Prêt? ”

She didn’t want to nod, didn’t want to risk their cover being blown, so she took a step back, pulling her sleeve up to reveal the dagger Arthur had given her.