Page 7 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

“You’re not going to hide away, are you?” Lancelot’s voice broke through several moments of silence. She had managed to eat about half of the food in front of her before her stomach revolted. He was leaning back in his chair once more, hands resting behind his head.

“I’m not hiding.” She said, but her protest sounded weak, even to her own ears. “A good queen would-”

“Don’t be daft,” He laughed, standing from the table. “From what I hear, your version of a good queen had frequently involved sneaking out.”

Guinevere didn’t answer, narrowing her eyes as she looked at him. His eyes curled up at the edges as he laughed. The rich timbre of his voice resounded deep inside her bones.

“A walk, your grace.” He stood, offering a hand.

She took it, keeping a skeptical look on her face. “A walk?”

“Surely the gardens of Camelot have a path?” His hand covered hers as she slid it into the crook of his elbow.

“Our gardeners take great pride in our florals,” she offered, falling in step beside him easily. “But I fear that a jaunt about the castle walls isn’t exactly what Arthur had in mind for punishment.”

Lancelot’s steps faltered just a little. “If anyone says anything, I’ll take the brunt of the blame.” He turned his gaze to meet hers, winking. “You’re welcome.”

As they walked side by side through the rows of flowers and the budding trees, Gwen smiled softly to herself. Truth be told, she had stopped taking in what her knight was saying. He was speaking of the different plants he had seen in the last town he was in… maybe.

“You enjoy the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Lance?” She interrupted him, casting a sideways smile at him.

He stopped in his tracks, hands crossing over his chest. “Just because you’re practically mute, your grace, doesn’t mean you have to criticize the efforts of a dedicated conversationalist.”

She couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up. “I’m just wondering how much you actually know about foliage, and how much you’re making up.”

“I’ve got to keep you on your toes somehow, my queen.” He shrugged — the picture perfect look of innocence.

“On my toes?” She grinned, a little more freely this time. She began walking again. Certain he would follow. “You’re more like a wandering troubadour in desperate need of an audience.”

“Ah,” He mused, running a hand down his face. “I see now. It’s not the stories you dislike. It’s the company.”

She raised an eyebrow, her steps slowing as she glanced at him, amused. “Company? Well, I can’t exactly have someone trailing behind me, blabbering about flowers all day, can I?”

Her heart was in her throat. Guinevere couldn’t remember a time when conversation was so light… so easy. The friendly bickering between her and her knight-to-be could almost be considered cordial.

Everyone kept her at arm’s length. She was the timid, leashed queen. Thinking back to the last year, she couldn’t remember a time when she smiled , let alone felt comfortable enough to tease.

Her entire being ached. Of course, he was easy to talk to. You didn’t talk your way into beds, into knighthood , by being dull.

Lancelot’s smirk only widened as he caught up, his pace matching hers once again. “Ah, but who else would you have to listen to? It seems I’m the only one foolish enough to endure your silence .”

Her grin softened, her mind working hard to convince her not to fall for his charms. “It’s not silence. It’s just… selective speech.”

“I see.” Lancelot made a dramatic show of placing his hand over his heart. “That’s very gracious of you, Your Grace. How fortunate I am to be chosen as your conversational partner.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a choice ,” she teased, flicking him a sidelong glance. “It’s more like… my hands are bound and you are the one with the key, good knight.”

His smirk faltered slightly, eyes narrowing as the words landed heavier than she expected.

“Arthur assigned you to break me, did he not?” She quipped, feeling bolder than she had in days.

Lancelot stepped closer, invading her space.

The world around them felt charged, as if the air itself had thickened with something she wasn’t yet willing to name.

“Break you?” His voice had dropped to a whisper, so low she almost couldn’t hear it.

His hands hovered by her sides — just out of reach. “You think I want to break you?”

“Isn’t that what your oldest and most trusted friend asked of you?” She breathed, “Is that not your duty?”

He moved slowly, his face inches from hers in the light. Her eyes fluttered closed, her heart racing as the closeness of his presence wrapped around her like a storm she couldn’t escape. She told herself she was ready, but her pulse betrayed her.

His forehead pressed against hers, hands cupping either side of her face as if she was fragile beneath his touch. Their breath mingling in the air around them, soft and synchronized, the heady scent of tinder surrounding her.

The tenderness of this moment was enough to break her, if she let it. “Guinevere, I-”

A nearby rustling forced her back to Camelot, back to the version of herself that should not be this close to one of her husband’s knights.

The queen inside her seized control. She took several steps away from him, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Who’s there?” Lancelot called, hand twitching over the knife on his belt. “Show yourself.”

She didn’t miss how he moved in front of her, shoulders squared. Every inch of him a shield between her and the sound.

“Your grace,” A voice called, stepping into view. “Forgive the intrusion.”

A breadth of tension slipped from her shoulders as she sidestepped the knight in front of her. Her fingers brushed his arm, a silent acknowledgement of his protection — but the spark that she felt as she touched his skin left her mouth dry.

“There is nothing to forgive, squire.” She nodded her head at the young boy in front of her. “What news do you bring?”

“The steward has been awaiting your input on tomorrow’s excursion to the orphanage, your highness.” The squire did not look her in the eye. “Asked me to relay that since you have missed the meeting, and he can no longer prepare a guard for you.” The boy blushed .

Gwen stilled. The boy’s words hung heavy in the air, heavier than they had any right to be. Her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.

“The guard is no longer available?” she echoed, her voice soft, but clipped.

The squire shifted uncomfortably. “The steward said the window for planning has passed. He has reassigned the men.”

Of course he had. Her silence stretched too long, and she felt Lancelot’s eyes on her.

“Very well,” she said finally, her tone even, regal. “Tell the steward I will attend to the matter another day.”

The boy bowed and retreated, leaving behind a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.

She didn’t look at Lancelot. Couldn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let you distract me,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“Gwen, I-”

But she was already past him, walking back towards the palace.

“Guinevere!” She heard him calling after her, but she did not turn. Her only mission was to retreat to her sole sanctuary.

Unfortunately, it took no time for his long strides to catch up, grabbing her by the wrist.

“Let go of me.” She spoke in a controlled, bitter voice.

His grip on her wrist loosened, but did not fall away. “You’re not angry at me, my queen.”

“I am.” She spat back over her shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. “At you, at the steward, at… at myself.” She blinked hard, tilting her chin towards the sun as if its warmth could melt away her tears. “I to ld the children I would come…”

“We’ll find you another guard, Gwen.” His voice was so sure, so confident in his ability.

“What hurts the most is that I love going out into the city, Lancelot. I am freer outside the walls of this palace.” She laughed harshly. “It’s just another punishment.”

“My queen-” He started, but stopped quickly when she tugged her wrist out of his grip.

“I don’t need your reassurance, friend of Arthur .” She sneered, holding her wrist to her chest as if his touch had burned her. “Go now, report back on how broken I am after just one day.”

“Is that-”

“He’s winning, knight. That’s what he wanted. That’s your goal.” Her words sliced through the air, each one landing with a weight that she hoped suffocated him. “Run along, do what you were sent to do.”

A gasp escaped from her lips as she felt herself being pulled back. Lance’s hand gripped her shoulder as he turned her to face him.

He wasn’t gentle about it.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrowed, but it didn’t deter the fire in his eyes. He held her face in one hand, fingers gripping at her cheeks, keeping her in his sights. “Who do you think-”

“Who do I think I am?” His chest heaved, like he fought with himself as he stood there.

His eyes searched her face, scanning for something she couldn’t place.

“I think I’m the only person in this godforsaken palace that has looked at you like more than a pawn in the last day, highness .

” His voice was acrid, brow furrowed as he looked at her.

“Remove your hand from me at once.” She demanded, though the attempted strength in her voice left something to be desired. “I am the queen.”

“I bow to no queen, Guinevere. I do not hail from Camelot.” He was close now, she could feel his rapid breathing across her face.

She was so lost. Her king’s trust in her had evaporated because of a poor choice — perhaps it was never there to begin with.

Her sister-in-law had her sights set on her destruction.

And now this man, the childhood friend of people that were desperate to keep her quartered, gripped her tight, both physically in this moment, and by the heart.

His name escaped from her mouth unbidden, as quiet as the breeze around them. Tears burned at her eyes, and she could feel herself trembling beneath his harsh stare. “Stop.” A quiet plea, not in fear — but resignation.

“You heard Morgana this morning.” The queen flinched at the callback, at the way her knight seemed to seethe in front of her just now. “ Protective to a fault. That’s what she said, correct?” His eyes narrowed.

When she did not reply, he tugged her face closer to his, grip tightening. “Answer me.”

She nodded, barely

“You are mine to protect, Guinevere. That is my duty, that is my charge. I might not be a man of Camelot —” His voice dipped low, “but I am a man of my word.”

His hold on her loosened, but not before dragging his thumb over her lower lip. Were the world quieter, Gwen might have sworn she heard a rumble come from his chest as he touched her. His hand felt possessive, like a claim.

Her eyes fluttered closed without her knowledge, leaning into his touch. “Good,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”