Page 56 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Guinevere woke to bird songs and cold air biting at her cheeks. The tent smelt of sweat and earth and sex, canvas walls glowing grey in the early morning light. Her body ached in ways she didn’t entirely hate.

Lancelot was warm behind her, breathing slow and steady. One heavy arm was wrapped around her middle. He had his nose tucked into her hair.

She almost let herself drift back under.

But the world hadn’t stopped just because they had.

She eased out of his grasp as gently as she could, biting back a hiss as her sore muscles protested. Her tunic lay crumpled somewhere near her knee. Her thighs trembled when she moved.

Behind her, Lancelot groaned.

“You’re abandoning me,” he mumbled into the crook of his arm.

Guinevere snorted. “I’m getting dressed, you dolt.”

He lifted his head just enough to peek at her, hair tousled, cheek creased from the blanket. “Your legs sore?”

“None of your business.”

He smirked, then winced as he sat up, joints popping. “Gods, everything hurts.”

They dressed in silence, the warmth fading from the tent with every movement. Lancelot swore quietly as he tightened his sword belt, eyes scanning the flap like he expected Arthur’s men to come crashing through it at any moment.

Guinevere tightened the ties of her cloak with brisk fingers. “About ready?” She asked quietly, upset to know their secret haven was about to be torn down.

He nodded. Serious now. “We’ll cover the tracks. Circle east before heading north.”

She paused. “You’ve already planned a route.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Her eyes softened. “You were holding me,” she whispered, gently placing her hand on his cheek.

“That’s probably the only thing that kept me from bolting.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m going to build a small fire, burn our clothes from yesterday.” His smile faded quickly into a grimace. “There’s… something else.”

She turned, quirking an eyebrow as she rolled their bedding up. Gwen stepped out of the tent as Lancelot dismantled it, avoiding her gaze. “Lance,” she asked, looking pointedly at him. “What is it?”

“It was Lunete’s idea… really. She cares much for you.” He busied himself with folding the canvas up tight.

“Spit it out, du Lac.”

“We need to cut your hair.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “Lunete and Delphine put together a concoction for you, too. Said it would darken the color.” His voice had dropped to a mumble, cheeks flushed.

“Oh,” Gwen tied the bedroll to the horse. “Of course, it makes sense.” She didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Lancelot busied himself with tying knots that didn’t need tightening. He could feel her staring at him.

At last, she exhaled. “Well,” she said, voice thin, “I suppose it was never mine to begin with.”

That made his head snap up.

Guinevere was still facing the horse, hands clenched around the saddlebag strap. Her back was very straight. Her knuckles white.

He crossed to her slowly, cautious as if she might bolt. “It is yours,” he said softly. “That’s why we’re cutting it.”

She didn’t answer. Just stood there like stone.

“I’ll do it,” he offered, voice rasping. “But only if you want me to.”

She turned then. Her eyes were glassy.

“You’re not going to let me take the blade myself? ”

“You’d butcher it.” His fingers brushed over her cheek.

A ghost of a smile. “Probably.”

He reached into his pack and pulled out a short dagger. Held it out flat in his palm like a peace offering. It was not Arthur’s dagger.

“Sit,” he whispered.

She did. Knees tucked under her. The cloak pooled around her like blood.

Lancelot knelt behind her. His fingers were careful as he undid the braid, unraveling it slowly. Her hair fell like a curtain across her back, crimson and tangled, threaded with pine needles from the night before.

He combed through it with his fingers, reverent.

“I love your hair,” he murmured, winding a curl around his finger. “It was the first thing I noticed about you that night.” She felt his hand pull through her locks. “I love when you wear it wild. It matches your spirit.”

“I know,” she said, not quite smiling.

“I’ll make it quick.”

She nodded.

The blade made a quiet sound as it sliced through the air. The tension in the strands resisted, then gave. A soft, final sound. Like something being severed.

A quiet sob crept up her throat, soft and unbidden.

When it was done, he gathered the cut length in both hands, weighing it like something sacred.

Guinevere couldn’t speak. But with him — she didn’t have to.

Lancelot wrapped her hair in cloth, tucking it deep into his satchel. A relic. A secret.

Behind him, she reached for the small pot Lunete had tucked into her bundle. The concoction inside smelled sharp and herbal, bitter with sage and walnut bark.

“We don’t have to use this.” His breath was warm against her skin, a welcome sensation. The breeze of the morning brushed over her shoulders and across her neck…

“Yes, we do.” She whispered through tears, running her hands through her hair. It fell just above her shoulders now. “How many women have you met with hair like this?”

“No one could hold a flame to you, Guinevere.” Lancelot dipped his fingers into it and worked it through her hair, darkening it strand by strand, until the red was lost in dusk-brown shadow.

By the time they were done, she didn’t look like a queen.

She looked like a ghost of herself. A wraith in the wild.

Her knight moved behind her. She heard him cleaning his hands on something before the warmth of his body returned to her back.

He caressed her shoulders gently. “They said to let it dry on your hair, mon amour .” His voice was almost indiscernible from the crackle of the small fire in front of them.

They sat in silence for a while longer, watching as the flames licked across their clothes, the remainder and reminder of who they were yesterday.

When they mounted the horse a while later, Guinevere couldn’t help but feel that something final had happened in this clearing.

Something monumental.

But something good.