Page 53 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

“Oh, so it’s to be a duel?” He laughed loudly, yanking the dagger from her sleeve. In a single motion, she was pulled against his back with his hand covering her mouth. “Don’t shout, dove,” He whispered in her ear, theatrics taking over.

“Unhand her!” Arthur shouted from the dais, guards readying their weapons.

“I don’t think I will,” Lancelot responded with a grin, pressing the king’s dagger to Gwen’s throat. “Tell your archers to lower their arrows or your queen’s pretty blood will spill right here with the rest of your knight’s.”

He pressed the dagger into her skin with more force, causing her to gasp beneath his hand. Her eyes watered, not from fear of him — she trusted him explicitly, but from fear for him.

Her hands clawed at his arm, more for the act than the effort. She could feel the pulse racing beneath his skin, the tremor in his muscles as he held her. He was shaking — whether from blood loss, rage, or the weight of everything riding on this moment. She couldn’t tell.

And yet his voice was steady.

“Lower your arrows,” he called again, louder now, letting his smile slip into something sharper. “Or your queen’s last breath will be your crown’s final echo.”

The crowd was in chaos. Screams. Steel unsheathed. Somewhere, someone sobbed. She didn’t look at Arthur — she couldn’t. The only thing grounding her was the feel of Lancelot’s chest against her back.

The tremble of his breath at her ear.

But she could feel the cool steel of the dagger against her throat. That was real .

The warmth of her own blood trailed down her throat.

“You’re going to let me walk out of here unharmed, or your queen will fall.” Lancelot snarled, already taking steps backwards, hand still clamped over her mouth.

The archers did not lower their arrows, but Arthur flung himself over the dais, stalking towards where they stood.

Lancelot removed the dagger, pointing it at the king. “Take another step, brother.” He threatened, “And your wife will meet her demise.”

“I thought it was love, Du Lac?” The king laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Was that all a ruse? An act for the courts?” He shook his head. “Her cunt isn’t made of gold, old friend. She’s a rotten lay.”

“All of this would have been worth it if your kingdom falls, Arthur.” He never stopped moving, stepping backwards in time while his hands clutched at the queen. “ That’s my goal, you bitch.”

His back hit the door, jostling both of them.

“Let’s think this through, old friend.” Arthur did not get any closer, but his voice rose a little. “She’ll die out there, she’s lived a life of luxury. We’ll hunt you down. She won’t survive. She’s not a vagrant like you.”

“You’ll let us go,” Lancelot growled. He tightened his grip as they hit the gate, his hand still sealing her mouth, the dagger still slick with her blood. “Open it,” he barked at the guards, voice thunderous. “Now.”

No one moved. Bows still raised. Swords drawn. Arthur stepped forward once more, arms wide like a priest at sacrifice.

“Think, Du Lac,” the king said, smiling with his teeth. “She won’t last a week out there. She’s soft. She bleeds easy, doesn’t she?” He gestured to the red streak trailing down Guinevere’s neck. “Not made for sleeping in mud and ash. ”

Lancelot didn’t flinch. “You’ll let us go,” he repeated. “Or you’ll watch her die.”

Arthur laughed again. “You think I care about her life? Kill her, make her a martyr. Give them a new saint to pray to.”

Lancelot’s hand flexed against her mouth. His fingers shook, just barely, but his voice didn’t.

“You’ll let us go,” he said again, low and lethal, “or everyone in Camelot will hear the truth about your heir.”

Arthur stilled.

“The bastard whelp,” Lancelot continued, each word deliberate, slicing through the noise, “born of incest. The holy, godly decision of the king himself.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a tide pulling back before a storm.

Arthur didn’t laugh this time.

Not wasting time, Lancelot kicked the door behind him, dragging Guinevere over the threshold. Leaning against the wooden frame, he released her, quickly turning her to face him.

“Fuck, baby.” His fingers skimmed her throat, and she did her best not to wince. “I’m so sorry.”

Her hands were still shaking, tremors still wracking her body. She shook her head, unable to find the words she needed.

“Lancelot,” a voice called from the shadows.

Percival appeared with a large pack slung over his shoulder.

Lance stepped around her, clasping arms with the other knight.

“I’ll send them in the wrong direction for as long as I can.

” Percival bowed, handing the bag over to him.

“Be safe. May God guide your path.” He turned to Gwen, kneeling.

“Your horse is just out these doors, your grace. It has been my honor.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she realized… it wasn’t just Lancelot. It had been Bors, Percival… perhaps even Lunete and Delphine. So many hands had carried her to this moment, risking everything for her freedom.

She swallowed hard, her voice unsteady, but true. “Thank you,” she whispered. The words weren’t enough. But they were all she had.

“Let’s go,” Lancelot said softly, taking her hand. His fingers laced through hers with a reassuring squeeze before tugging her along.

They had barely made it past the final set of doors when another knight greeted them.

Sword raised.

“Du Lac.” He asked, holding his weapon, poised to attack.

“Gawain,” her knight breathed. She felt the tension ripple through him.

“My duty is to the crown,” Gawain started, sword shaking in his hand, if only just. “To the protection of the king and the queen.”

“Brother-”

“No, I don’t need your words, your excuses, or your lies, Lancelot.” The other knight’s eyes were wild, darting quickly between the two of them. “The King… is what you said true?”

Lance shifted slightly, putting himself between Gawain and Guinevere, shielding her.

A nod.

“Is she safe with you?” Gawain asked finally, sword falling limply in front of him. “Will you protect her?”

“With my dying breath, brother.” Lancelot put his free hand over his heart. “She is my entire world, Gawain. No harm will befall her while I am near.”

His sword clattered to the ground, steel singing in the small grove. “Go, Lancelot. Before I change my mind.”

“Thank you.”

“Should word return to Camelot that a single hair on her head has been harmed… I will come for you, personally.”

“I hope you do.” Lancelot tried to laugh, but it was a strained sound. He turned to Gwen, pressing his lips into her hair. “Let’s go,” he whispered again, tugging her past the final knight.

Their horse waited for them, just as Percival said it would. The saddle was loaded down with a few other packs, rolled blankets, and some weapons sheathed at the side.

Without even a glance back, he hoisted her up on the horse, swinging up behind her. “Ready to be abducted?” He chuckled in her ear as he cracked the reins.