Page 54 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

They rode hard for several hours, Lancelot’s hands the only thing that kept her on the horse. She was lightheaded, tired, afraid . The chill of the winter air whipped around them, freezing Gwen to the bones.

“We’ll stop soon,” His voice was by her ear, his arm holding her tightly against his chest. “Just a little farther.”

Her thighs ached. Her mind wandered back to the first time they had been thrown onto horseback, fleeing from Camelot.

He had told her not to wear a dress.

Guinevere secretly wished she had changed out of her tournament gown before mounting this horse. But there hadn’t been time.

The moon was high in the sky when Lance veered his horse off of the path, deeper into the woods. After a while, he pulled the horse to a stop, sliding off in a single smooth movement.

He grabbed the reins, leading the horse down a rocky bank slowly, guiding their every step with quiet instructions.

Once the ground had flattened out beneath their feet, Lancelot grasped her hips, gently easing her off. “How are you feeling?” he asked, hands steadying her as she regained her footing.

“Sore,” she whispered, looking up at him in the moonlight. The darkness masked his bruises. Gwen feared what she might see in the morning light. He still favored one leg, trying — and failing — not to limp as they walked.

“Let me set up the tent, then we’ll rest.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and went about preparing a place for them.

Lancelot tied the horse to a nearby tree, and unhooked one of the larger packs, unfurling a large canvas .

The tent was rudimentary at best. The canvas was slung over two tall poles, with a third stick connecting them in the middle. He made quick work of the stakes, driving them into the cold ground using a rock, his hands practiced and sure.

With a shy smile, he stepped around her and grabbed another pack, and a thick rolled-up piece of fabric, tucking them under his arm.

“Come.” He held his hand out, beckoning her.

“It will be tight. It’s a soldier’s tent.

” He ran his free hand through his hair, and she could have sworn his cheeks pinkened.

“Lance,” she slid her hand into his, squeezing gently. “You’re being silly. I don’t think a tent will be too close.”

He cleared his throat, holding back the canvas flap for her.

It was small. She could stand up, but just barely. He had to duck.

“Turn,” he said, kneeling down beside her. “Let’s get you out of this.” His fingers trembled as he unfastened the buckles on her gown, the fabric pooling at her feet.

Without missing a beat, he handed her a tunic and a pair of wool breeches. “They’ll be big,” he murmured, “but warm.”

“What’s going on?” She whispered, pulling the tunic over her head. She cradled his face in her hands. “Are you well?”

He leaned into her touch, humming contentedly. “No,” He sighed. “Yes.” His eyes fluttered closed. “I don’t know. I worry this won’t be enough for you. If we spend forever in tents in the dirt.”

She laughed, taking the bedroll from him. “If forever in tents is forever with you, it is more than I have dared dream.”

Guinevere untied the leather tassel holding the blanket together, the mat unfurling around her. “What is this?” She asked as she tried to decipher what she was looking at.

“Lunete,” Lancelot laughed, taking the bedding from her and spreading it out before them. “She was very cross with me, you know. Taking you from her like this, in the wintry nights.”

Her lips curled upwards, thinking of her sweet maid, scolding Lancelot.

“It’s two bedrolls that she stitched together for you. She knew you would be cold, and that you would worm your way into my bedding before the sun rose.” He laughed again, and she felt like she could fly. “ Thus… double bedroll.”

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, dragging her fingers over the stitching.

The tent was quiet but for the soft hush of the wind outside, stirring the canvas.

Inside, it was dim, lit only by the low glow of a lantern.

Guinevere sat on the bedroll, wrapped in one of Lancelot’s cloaks.

The scent of him all around her — leather, ash, the iron tang of steel.

Her bare feet tucked beneath her as she watched him undo the buckles of his armor, the curve of his shoulders stiff.

He glanced up once, as if to reassure himself she was still there. She was. She hadn’t stopped looking at him.

“You’re staring,” he said softly, a shadow of amusement in his voice, but his hands faltered at his bracers.

“I’m allowed,” she murmured, voice low. “You’re mine now.”

That broke something in him. A breath left his lungs as if she’d struck the air from him.

He dropped the bracer gently beside his boots and knelt before her instead, calloused fingers brushing the curve of her cheek.

“I’ve always been yours,” He whispered, the words thick.

“From the moment your eyes met mine at the revelry.”

Tears sparkled in her eyes as she watched this man in front of her, the man that had risked his life again and again for her. “Come, mon amour ,” she said, imitating his accent. “Come and hold me.”

Lancelot needed no more convincing, pulling back the top layer of the bedding so they could slip beneath it.

Before he lay down, he tied the front of the tent shut with a cord of leather, cinching the fabric to keep the cold air out.

“You smell like horses,” she said sleepily, pressing her forehead to his chest. “And smoke. And blood.”

He huffed a quiet laugh into her hair. “You’re not exactly a flower field yourself, my lady.”

“Rude,” she mumbled, though her smile betrayed her. His arms came around her, holding her tightly to the warmth of him. Her fingers curled into his shirt, and she trembled.

In the dim light, she felt him shift, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “Are you well, darling?”

She nodded, but her vision blurred, hands continuing to shake between them. “I-” Her breathing hitched for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut tight.

“Shh,” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, pulling her tighter against him. “Rest, mon c?ur. ” It was hard not to feel calm with the timbre of his voice. “You are safe.”

Guinevere didn’t mean to fall asleep. But exhaustion crept in like fog — bone-deep and gray — and the warmth of his body beside her lulled her under before she could fight it.

When she stirred, hours later, it was to find Lancelot sitting upright beside her, sword laid across his lap. His eyes were fixed on the tent’s entrance, shoulders tense, every inch of him coiled like a bowstring.

She reached up and touched his arm. “No one followed us,” she murmured.

His jaw flexed. “I know.”

She sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around her waist. “Then why do you look like you’re waiting to die?”

His throat bobbed. “Because I don’t know what to do now. For the first time in my life, I’ve got nothing to fight except the silence. And I think it might be worse.”

She said nothing, just leaned against him until his body softened slightly under the weight of her. After a long pause, she said, “Then let’s fill it.”

“With what?”