Page 58 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Days passed much the same. They travelled during the day and camped at night. They had been out of Camelot for over a week now and hadn’t seen even the faintest glimpse of the knights.

There had even been talk of staying at an inn when they found the next town.

But for now, they set up the tent each night, finding solace in each other and in the night sky.

The fire was low, their camp quiet. Guinevere lay curled on his cloak beside him, not quite asleep… just drifting. Safe in the rhythm of his presence.

Then she heard it… a twig snapping. Not far.

Gwen pushed herself up slowly. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Voices, now. Low, muttering. At least four.

Then they stepped out of the trees. “Well, well,” the tallest said, stepping into their path with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s a pair like you doing this far off the king’s road?”

Guinevere’s hand curled around Lancelot’s arm. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Lancelot’s posture had already shifted — subtle, but ready.

He rose, hand curled around the hilt of his sword. “Keep walking.” He was calm. Controlled.

Deadly.

But they didn’t.

One of them grinned. “Looks like we found ourselves a prize, boys.” He took a step closer, lazily tossing the dagger in his hand.

“She’s dressed too fine,” said another, circling toward Guinevere. “Look at those hands. Look at that mouth. What’s it taste like, eh, sir knight? Honey and lies?”

Still, Lancelot didn’t raise his sword.

His grip just tightened.

“She’s too pretty a thing to be wandering without a guard.” The last man, stout and grimy, said with a laugh.

“She has a guard.” Lance’s jaw was tense. Guinevere was standing with her hand digging into his arm, eyes darting around to the men as her heart raced.

“And what are you? Deserter? Trouble? There’s only one of you, buddy.”

“I’m her husband .” He snarled the last word, the muscles in his shoulders tightening further.

That made the men laugh.

“She doesn’t look like she minds a little attention,” one of them said, stepping forward, smile showing a cracked tooth. “Could show her a better time than you, knight.”

Guinevere stiffened. Her body remembered too much. Too recently.

“I bet she begs pretty,” said the third man — tall, broad, licking his lips like a dog who hadn’t eaten. “How ‘bout you let us try her? Let the poor bitch see what real men feel like.”

Her heart punched up into her throat, but she held still.

“You gonna share?” Cracked Tooth spoke again. “There’s four of us and one of you…” A nasty grin unfurled across his face. “Let us have a go, and we’ll leave you unharmed.”

“I don’t share.” Lancelot’s voice was darker than she had heard it before, his arm tight around her waist. She clung to him.

“Pity,” said the broad one, stepping closer. “Could’ve let you watch. Could’ve made it sweet for her.”

Guinevere flinched as he licked his lips again, eyes dragging over her like she was meat left to rot. One hand reached toward her — casual, confident, greedy.

And that was it.

Lancelot moved .

It was not a step. Not a lunge. It was a strike . A blur of motion as his sword came free with a hiss and buried itself in the man’s side.

The man made a wet, choking sound. Staggered. Looked down at the steel jutting from his belly as if he didn’t understand it.

Collapsed.

The others froze.

“You’ve made your choice,” Lancelot said, low and cold, eyes locked on the three remaining. “Now, you die.”

They surged at him.

Guinevere backed away fast, stumbling into the tree line, breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t look away.

For the last year, she had heard tales of Sir Lancelot. The knight with nothing to lose. The man that fought like his life depended on it. The soldier with more grit than all the Round Table combined.

This surpassed all of that.

The second man swung a blade, Lancelot caught it on his arm, didn’t even flinch as blood sprayed across his forearm. He stepped into it, driving his elbow into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch. The man dropped, choking.

The man with the cracked tooth came at Lancelot from behind. Guinevere screamed, but it was too late.

Steel met steel, Lancelot spun , blood in his teeth, his body twisting like instinct, like art. He slashed deep across the man’s chest, and he shrieked and crumpled to the ground.

But the last one, helmeted, snarling, faster than the rest, got lucky.

A knife.

Quick.

Hidden.

It sank into Lancelot’s side.

He grunted, staggered, then drove his sword through the man’s gut and ripped it free with a snarl.

And then-

Silence.

Lancelot swayed, and that was all it took for her to snap out of her fear-induced stupor.

She ran to him, caught him as he went down on one knee. His blood was warm and red and everywhere .

“I’m fine,” he rasped. His breathing was ragged.

“You’re bleeding,”

His eyes flicked to hers, still wild. “You’re not hurt?”

She shook her head quickly, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she tried to stop the blood that covered her hands. “No, I’m not. You’re hurt. Lancelot, please.”

“Then it’s fine,” he said again, but his voice was breaking, his skin pale and shining with sweat.

She wrapped her arms around him, trying to hold him up. “You’re not allowed to die. Do you hear me? You’re not allowed .”

He managed the ghost of a grin. “Yes, wife.” He coughed.

And slumped forward.

His weight tipped against her, heavy and shuddering. Guinevere staggered to keep him upright.

“Lancelot… Lancelot!”

His sword dropped with a dull thud beside them, sinking into the leaves. His blood was hot and soaking her clothes.

“No, no, no. Look at me-” Her hands went to his face, forcing it up. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused. He was still breathing — but shallow, uneven, every inhale a struggle.

He tried to speak. Coughed instead.

And that cough, wet and rattling, turned her blood to ice.

She looked down at his side. The knife had been small, but the wound—it was deep . Blood bubbled with every breath.

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

She dropped with him to the forest floor, one arm tight around his shoulders as she dragged him toward the tent.

He half-walked, half-fell with her, steps unsteady, breath hitching. His legs gave out three times. By the fourth, she was sobbing and dragging him. “Please, Lancelot, please.”

They collapsed together behind the canvas. She cradled his head in her lap, brushing the sweat from his brow with trembling fingers.

“Stay awake,” she whispered, frantic. “Please, Lancelot, stay with me- ”

He groaned.

“Just… just hold on.” She fumbled for the bag. Her fingers didn’t feel like hers. Everything was too fast. Too slow. Her vision blurred.

Lancelot blinked, trying to focus on her. “Pretty when you panic,” He tried to grin, but his lips turned downward into a grimace.

“Shut up!” She shouted, tears leaving stains down her cheeks.

“Gwen.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You have to stitch it.”

Her breathing hitched. “I can’t.”

“You can.” He gritted his teeth, trying to shift, but hissed when the pain bit into him. “You have to.”

“I’ve never… I don’t…” Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know how. I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t.” His voice was rough, but steady. Calmer than she was. Always calmer than she was when it mattered. “Just listen.”

“I am listening!”

“Good.” He exhaled slowly, dragging his hand up to touch hers — slippery with his own blood. “There should be a needle and thread in the smaller pouch.”

She tore through his satchel, finding the bag with the supplies needed. “I’ve got it.” Her voice shook.

“Thread the needle.”

She fumbled, nearly dropping it twice. “This is… I’m not… this is your body! ” She was crying, trying desperately to tamper down her sobs as she shook.

“Gwen.” His voice cut through the rising panic in hers. “I trust you.”

That stopped her cold.

Her fingers curled around the needle.

“Go slow,” he rasped. “Start on the edge. Small bite. Just the skin.” The needle pierced his skin, and her stomach lurched. Blood continued to pool. He grunted quietly. “That’s right. Go a little deeper.” She continued to tremble, but she thread the stitching through to the other side. “Good girl.”

Her breath caught. Her hands kept moving.

“Again. You’ve got it. You’re steady now. ”

“I’m not steady.” She shouted, blinking tears out of her eyes.

“You are,” he said, voice thinning with each word. “You’re doing it. Gods, you’re doing so good.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she kept going. Bite by bite. Thread by thread.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” he breathed, eyes fluttering.

“For this. For not knowing. For being me .”

He gave the smallest smile. “You’re the reason I’m alive.”

Her next stitch slipped. He groaned. She gasped, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t stop.” He clenched his jaw. “Don’t — stop. I can take it.”

“I can’t! ”

“You can, baby.” His eyes opened again. Bloodshot. Glazed. But still, somehow, gentle. “For me.”

She finished the last stitch with trembling fingers, not even sure if the knot she tied would hold. Her hands were slick with his blood. Her knees ached. Her whole body buzzed with panic so thick it didn’t feel real anymore.

Lancelot didn’t answer when she said his name.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

Her breath caught in her throat. The needle slipped from her fingers and clattered to the dirt. “Lancelot,” she whispered, cradling his face.

Her stomach turned.

No, no, no, no.

“Please.” She bent over him, her voice breaking. “Please don’t leave me. Please.”

There was blood under her nails. In her mouth. On her dress. She didn’t know how long she sat there with him, curled over his chest, hands fisted in the fabric of his tunic like she could will him to breathe.

It had been hours.

Or maybe minutes. She didn’t know anymore.

Lancelot lay motionless beneath her trembling hands, his shirt peeled back and soaked red, his skin slick with sweat. The bleeding had slowed. That was good, wasn’t it? But his breath …

Too shallow.

Too fast.

Each rise and fall of his chest was a battle she couldn’t fight for him. All she could do was watch, and wait, and hope. She’d packed the wound. She’d stitched him shut with her own clumsy fingers, knotted the thread with blood-slick hands while he coached her through gritted teeth.

And then he’d gone quiet.

But not gone. Not completely.

Now she knelt beside him, still in her bloodstained tunic, knees in the dirt floor of the tent, one hand resting lightly on his ribs — just to feel the movement. Just to know he was still breathing.

Her other hand covered her mouth.

Because if it didn’t, she’d scream.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. It was the first thing she’d said in… too long. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to.”

Her voice caught in her throat as his chest took a little too long to rise. “You have to come back.” She brushed a curl of hair off his forehead. “I won’t leave your side.”

She wanted to curl into him, to feel his warmth and his breath and his laughter as he told her how silly she was being. As he made a joke that made her want to slap him and kiss him. “I love you.” She tried not to let her sobs escape, but the panic was suffocating her.

Time lost all meaning as she sat there, counting the moments between each breath, praying that his lungs would keep expanding.

The bleeding had slowed dramatically, and she was able to use what was left of their water and a piece of one of their spare shirts to gently dab as much of the mess away as possible.

The moon was high in the sky; the air chilled as the night blanketed over their tent.

And yet her heart still beat erratically.

Gwen sat beside him, legs curled to her chest, cheek pressed against her knee as she watched vigilantly.

His chest still rose and fell.