Page 9 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She rose before the sun, excitement blossoming in her stomach. Gwen quickly donned one of her more plain dresses, twisting her hair into plaits and pinning them on top of her head.

It was everything she could do to keep from skipping out of the room.

She would spend her day outside the palace walls. In a place where she felt useful , and she wouldn’t have to attend to whichever guards or squires that Morgana saw fit to assign to her.

Truly, this had the makings of one of the best trips outside the palace she had been allowed.

Guinevere opened the door quickly, slamming directly into a large figure.

“Well, good morning to you too, your grace.” Lancelot’s voice was still thick with sleep, his hair hanging in dark, loose curls. He steadied her, holding her firmly by the shoulders. “You’re chipper this morning.”

Without thinking, she curled her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the fabric of his shirt. She could have easily lost herself in the steady beat of his heart.

All at once, she remembered herself, pulling back.

But his hands were already circling around her, one arm holding her tight against him, the other gently playing with the loose strands of hair on her neck. “Make a habit of this, your grace.”

And Gwen… allowed herself to be held for just a moment longer. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she could remember the last time she felt so wholly embraced — so safe.

After a beat, she did the dutiful thing and wormed her way out of his grip, pretending to straighten out any wrinkles in her dress. “Forgive me, that was uncalled for.” She said, eyes on the floor as a light blush sprinkled her skin.

“But not unwelcome.” He tipped her chin up gently, meeting her eyes with kindness. “Come, queen, I am a man of my word.”

Outside the walls of the castle, Gwen felt alive. The wind whipped her cheeks with a gentle fervor, the sunlight warmed her very bones. The pair of them walked along a beaten path, passing groves and meadows.

“How old are you, queen?” Lance asked, breaking through the comfortable silence.

She shied away from his gaze. “Seventeen.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, jaw hanging open. “You’re-” He spluttered, dragging his hand through his hair, “There’s no…”

“Close your mouth, knight.”

“You’re a child.”

“I’m lying. ”

His glare made the moment all the more worth it. His eyes narrowed as he watched her, grinning. “You’ll be the death of me.”

And… Gwen giggled. Actually giggled. The sound was shy and surprised, as if she'd forgotten she still could .

"Careful, dear," he murmured, mock-serious as he offered his arm. "Someone might mistake us for people who enjoy each other's company."

She took it anyway, a smile tugging at her lips. "What a scandal that would be."

He shifted, resting his free hand atop hers with a gentle squeeze. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

Gwen hummed in agreement, gently leaning her head against his shoulder. “Twenty-three.” She said softly. “What about you?”

“Thirty-one.” He turned, pressing his lips into her hair. “At least, that’s what they tell me. I believe I was around two when a knight found me by the lake.”

Her heart stuttered at the familiar, yet achingly intimate, motion. She wasn’t even sure he realized what he had done — but she was unmoored with the single action.

“Which-” Her voice snagged, “Which lake?”

Lance stopped in his tracks, turning to face her as he shrugged. “I’m not sure, truthfully. The knight brought me to Camelot, and I never saw him again.”

“Oh, Lance.” She reached up, hand moving of its own accord. Her finger skirted across the length of his jaw, sparks crackling against her skin as she did. “I’m sorry.”

She curled her hand into a fist before she could touch him again, the feeling of his bearded chin suddenly addicting. His eyes reflected the fire she felt in her veins as he held her there. “Du Lac…” Gwen’s face twisted. “Your name… is Lancelot of the Lake?”

A loud laugh burst forth from her knight. “Yes, queen. Lancelot of the Lake, at your service.” He gently jabbed his elbow into her ribs with a smile.

Again, her heart stirred in her chest.

He touched her like she was just… Gwen.

Not Queen Guinevere.

Not the wife of King Arthur.

She had never gotten to be just Gwen . And her heart tugged her closer to him, deeper into the comfortable companionship Lancelot seemed to carry with him.

She was in trouble.

After a moment of the silence that clung to the air around them, Guinevere let out her own, breathless, laugh. “That’s cruel.” She said, eyes sparkling as she looked at the man that had captivated her every sense.

The man that had, somehow, wormed his way into her very being in less than a fortnight.

“No crueler than a queen flirting with her appointed guard instead of visiting orphans, I’d say.”

She shifted slightly, the teasing glint in her eyes softening. “You’re right — of course. We should go.”For the second time today, she untangled herself from the warmth of him, and set out.

The town was in their sights when his hand brushed against hers. Her breath caught once more, the ache of desire warring with the decorum of the queen.

But she didn’t have to make the choice. He laced his fingers through hers without a word, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Lead the way, Guinevere. This old brain cannot remember the path.”

The walk to the orphanage wasn’t long, but it left space for Gwen to, for a moment, imagine what life might have been like had Uther Bendragon not caught her father’s ear before she had been born.

A life filled with folly, with gentle brushes of hands, tuneless whistling, and tender kisses. A life where she wasn’t analyzing and fighting her partner’s every move.

A life where she didn’t have to sneak out to feel free.

“Just over there,” She said, nodding towards the large building. The sounds of children were already drifting towards them.

“Your grace!” A small voice shouted.

“The Queen!” Another joined.

Before long, many small faces had joined them outside, each one with a wide grin. “We’ve missed you, Queen Gwen!”

“Come come, inside we go.” She shooed them back towards the children’s home, unable to tamp down her own smile. She glanced quickly back at Lancelot, smile softening as she mouthed a quiet thank you .

“Sir Knight,” one of the women called for him, ushering him inside the home. “We are grateful that you have escorted her majesty here to see the children.”

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Lancelot waved his hand, his smile widening. “It was no trouble. She is unlike any other.”

“So true, sir knight.” The woman placed her hand on his shoulder. “Since we have you here, could you lend this old bag of bones a hand?”

With a nod, he followed the woman out of the room, and out of Gwen’s sight.

Her stomach lurched a little with him gone. Not out of fear, but a genuine ache.

She liked being by his side.

“Queen Gwen, Mother Martha says that I am taller! Do I look taller?”

With a smile, she absorbed herself in the children, sitting on the floor with them, braiding their hair to match hers, holding the young ones in her lap while they told her all she had missed.

Her cheeks ached with the smiles she shared — and she felt lucky, somehow, to be able to claim this kind of pain.

After some time, the door opened, and her knight walked in with a fresh bouquet of flowers. One by one, he gave each of the little girls in the children’s home a flower, tucking the lilies and daisies behind their ears.

And just like that, each of the children in the home was as enamored with him as she felt — for behind the flowers, were an assortment of sweets for the boys.

Guinevere rose from her spot on the floor, biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep her smile in check. “Do you know what you’ve done?” She asked him, stepping towards where he stood, encircled by a dozen young faces.

“Won over every heart in this building?” He suggested with a quirk of his eyebrow.

He had no idea.

“They’ll talk about this forever, Lance.” She drew closer to him, but forced herself to stay far enough that she couldn’t do anything rash.

“I have one left.” He held his hand out to her, and she took it. The children’s eyes were wide as they watched the interaction between knight and queen.

Tugging her closer, he tucked the remaining flower, a white lily, behind her ear. “Beautiful,” he whispered. She wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear.

“It’s getting late, your grace.” He said, finally breaking free of her gaze. “We should be going.”

A chorus of “nos” rang out in the room, which almost brought the queen to her knees.

“I’ll be back, my dears.” She promised with a smile. “I’m certain Sir Lancelot will escort me back again,” Her gaze flickered to him for just a moment, but she saw so much warmth in his eyes, her heart threatened to burst.

“It would be my honor, highness.” He bowed, and the young girls in the room just about swooned.

After they said their goodbyes, and left the room, the knight spoke again. “I hope you don’t mind, your grace. I chartered us a carriage.”

“I can walk, I don’t mind.”

“Bah,” he shook his head. “You’ve had a busy day, you’ve earned a little respite.”

“My life is nothing but respite, Lance.” Sourness leaked into her words, she hadn’t meant to feel so strongly.

“Perhaps it was before. Come, my lady, your carriage awaits.”

It was a simple design: two horses, a coachman, and a small cart. No cover, no grand adornments or doors, just — a coach.

Lancelot knelt down, offering his hand to her as she steadied herself for the step. Once more, her skin sparked to life with his gentle touch.

The sun was beginning to set, leaving a gentle chill in the air. Without a thought, Lancelot undid the cloak from around his neck, and offered it to her.

“What about you?” Gwen asked, trying her best not to let her teeth chatter.

Lancelot gently coaxed her forward, wrapping her up in his oversized cloak. She wouldn’t lie - it was warm, and enveloped her in the smell of him.

As the carriage began its course home, she found herself aching once more. For connection, for his touch, for the tenderness that oozed from him. Slowly — very slowly, she shifted herself closer to where he sat.

The knight laughed, “For a queen, you lack in grace, Guinevere.” He teased, tugging her against his side and curling his arm around her shoulders.

She couldn’t care less about his playful jabs. Between the warmth of his cloak, and the heat from his body, her eyes were suddenly very heavy. “I hope you don’t get any ideas,” she yawned, allowing her eyes to rest for just a moment. “I still think you’re improper.”

The last thing she remembered from that night was a gentle laugh, and maybe as she drifted off… something quiet, soft, whispered against her hair.

“Too late.”