Page 57 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

They made camp late, deep in the hush of the woods.

The fire crackled low, throwing light across their cloaks and the tangled brush beneath them.

Guinevere sat with her knees drawn up, eyes flicking toward the stars through the canopy above.

Lancelot lay stretched beside her, one hand behind his head, the other lazily turning his dagger in the dirt.

Both of them rested a little easier today. They hadn’t seen even a hint of Camelot’s guards since they had escaped.

“We’ll need names,” Gwen said after a while.

Lancelot turned his head, brow arching. “Names?”

“For when we reach the villages. When they ask who we are.”

He rolled to face her, resting his cheek on one hand. “Fine then. Let’s get married.”

She blinked. “What?”

“If we need new names. Let’s be married. Secretly. Scandalously. Under a crooked moon and some very sketchy oaths.”

She squinted at him. “This your way of courting me, sir knight?

“I will say-.” He sat up, grin growing. “When I imagined this moment, the pretenses were very different.” He reached over, taking her hand in his.

“You’ve imagined courting me?” She felt her cheeks heat, voice softer.

Lancelot laughed, the sound echoing off of the trees around them. “I am hopelessly, wildly , in love with you. Of course, I’ve imagined a world where you take my name.”

He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her softly. “Come, what do we call ourselves? Something woodsy. Something innocent enough to fool the world.”

“Rowan?” She offered.

He nodded. “Strong, protective, with roots that run deep.”

“And berries.” She was grinning now. “A little delicious danger in all that sweetness.”

“Lord and Lady Rowan seek a room for the night, fair tavern keeper.” Lancelot bowed to her, his eyes sparkling. “No, that’s not right. We’ll need first names.”

Guinevere wrinkled her nose. “Elaine?”

He made a face, “Gods, no.”

He pretended to think, brow furrowed in mock seriousness. “Wren. Like Gwen but… not.”

Her laughter bubbled out. “Lazy.”

He grinned, eyes wicked. “Fine. Wren Rowan. And I’ll be…”

“Not Luke,” she cut in.

“I wasn’t going to say Luke,” he lied, his wide smile doing little to hide it. “What about-”

“Raphael?”

He stared at her, betrayed. “You think I’m a Raphael ?” She didn’t answer, wrapped up in this all-too-innocent moment with him.

“How about Lyndon? I’ll call you Lyn.”

“Lyndon and Wren Rowan.” Lancelot stood with a theatrical flourish, pretending to brush dust off of him. He offered a hand, which Gwen took willingly.

“Guinevere Wren Rowan, I vow to be your husband in shadow, in silence, and in the eyes of unsuspecting innkeepers.”

“That’s it?” She laughed, but her breaths came quicker. “No vows of eternal devotion?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I vow to carry your secrets, sharpen your knives, warm your feet, and kiss you breathless whenever you look at me like that.”

She tilted her chin up, coy. “Like what?”

“Like you want to ruin me.”

“I always want to ruin you.”

He groaned and pressed a kiss to her hand. “Then say the words, my love.”

She grinned. “I vow to keep your heart under my pillow and your name on my tongue. To be your Gwen when no one’s looking. And just yours, always.”

He pulled her in, lips brushing hers like a secret. “Then we’re wed.”

“Illicitly,” she whispered.

“Blissfully,” he answered.

They sealed it with a kiss that felt like laughter — like something stolen and sacred all at once.

She was still breathless from their moonlit vows when he reached into the pouch at his hip, suddenly bashful.

“I’ve got something,” he muttered. “It’s stupid.”

Guinevere leaned in, smiling. “We just pretended to marry each other under a pine tree. Try me.”

“Not pretend.” He pulled out a ring — worn, small, the silver dulled and smoothed with age. No jewels. No crest. Just a faint, almost-vanished engraving she couldn’t quite read.

“This was with me when they found me. The knight. I didn’t have a name or a family, just this.” He looked down at it, something quiet and strange in his voice. “They said it might’ve been my mother’s. Or my father’s. I used to think maybe it meant something important.”

Her smile softened, fading into something tender. “It does. ”

He shook his head. “I’ve never worn it. Never gave it to anyone. Didn’t even think I’d ever tell anyone I had it.”

And then, carefully, he took her hand.

“I want you to have it, Guinevere. Not as a queen. Just as the woman who stood by a fire and vowed to be mine.”

He slid it onto her finger. It was warm from his palm. It went on easily. Like it had been waiting for her.

Guinevere stared at it, breath caught. “You carried this through Camelot. Through hell.”

“I didn’t know what it was meant for,” he said softly. “Until now.”

Her eyes burned. Not with grief this time—but something older. Something holy .

“I know,” she whispered, “that whoever left it for you would be proud of who it found.”

His hand cupped her cheek, and he smiled—not with mischief or swagger, but something shaken, something deeply moved.

“I can’t give you anything else.” He whispered, his eyes dropping to the ground.

Guinevere leaned in, nose brushing his as she smiled. “I don’t need anything else. Just you. Just forever.”

“I bind myself to you,” he whispered. “Name or no name. Crown or no crown. In shadow and in sun. Until the end of the world.”

She exhaled, full and trembling.

“I bind myself to you,” she echoed, voice fierce. “In fire, in flight. In whatever name we choose to wear. Until the world forgets we ever lived — and longer still.”

Lancelot kissed her like a man starved. And the moon bore witness.