The crowd was in chaos. Screams. Steel unsheathed. Somewhere, someone sobbed. She didn’t look at Arthur — she couldn’t. The only thing grounding her was the feel of Lancelot’s chest against her back.
The tremble of his breath at her ear.
But she could feel the cool steel of the dagger against her throat. That wasreal.
The warmth of her own blood trailed down her throat.
“You’re going to let me walk out of here unharmed, or your queen will fall.” Lancelot snarled, already taking steps backwards, handstill clamped over her mouth.
The archers did not lower their arrows, but Arthur flung himself over the dais, stalking towards where they stood.
Lancelot removed the dagger, pointing it at the king. “Take another step, brother.” He threatened, “And yourwifewill meet her demise.”
“I thought it was love, Du Lac?” The king laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Was that all a ruse? An act for the courts?” He shook his head. “Her cunt isn’t made of gold, old friend. She’s a rotten lay.”
“All of this would have been worth it if your kingdom falls, Arthur.” He never stopped moving, stepping backwards in time while his hands clutched at the queen. “That’smy goal, you bitch.”
His back hit the door, jostling both of them.
“Let’s think this through, old friend.” Arthur did not get any closer, but his voice rose a little. “She’ll die out there, she’s lived a life of luxury. We’ll hunt you down. She won’t survive. She’s not a vagrant like you.”
“You’ll let us go,” Lancelot growled. He tightened his grip as they hit the gate, his hand still sealing her mouth, the dagger still slick with her blood. “Open it,” he barked at the guards, voice thunderous. “Now.”
No one moved. Bows still raised. Swords drawn. Arthur stepped forward once more, arms wide like a priest at sacrifice.
“Think, Du Lac,” the king said, smiling with his teeth. “She won’t last a week out there. She’s soft. She bleeds easy, doesn’t she?” He gestured to the red streak trailing down Guinevere’s neck. “Not made for sleeping in mud and ash.”
Lancelot didn’t flinch. “You’ll let us go,” he repeated. “Or you’ll watch her die.”
Arthur laughed again. “You think I care about her life? Kill her, make her a martyr. Give them a new saint to pray to.”
Lancelot’s hand flexed against her mouth. His fingers shook, just barely, but his voice didn’t.
“You’ll let us go,” he said again, low and lethal, “or everyone in Camelot will hear the truth about your heir.”
Arthur stilled.
“The bastard whelp,” Lancelot continued, each word deliberate, slicing through the noise, “born of incest. The holy, godly decision of the king himself.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a tide pulling back before a storm.
Arthur didn’t laugh this time.
Not wasting time, Lancelot kicked the door behind him, dragging Guinevere over the threshold. Leaning against the wooden frame, he released her, quickly turning her to face him.
“Fuck, baby.” His fingers skimmed her throat, and she did her best not to wince. “I’m so sorry.”
Her hands were still shaking, tremors still wracking her body. She shook her head, unable to find the words she needed.
“Lancelot,” a voice called from the shadows.
Percival appeared with a large pack slung over his shoulder. Lance stepped around her, clasping arms with the other knight. “I’ll send them in the wrong direction for as long as I can.” Percival bowed, handing the bag over to him. “Be safe. May God guide your path.” He turned to Gwen, kneeling. “Your horse is just out these doors, yourgrace. It has been my honor.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she realized… it wasn’t just Lancelot. It had been Bors, Percival… perhaps even Lunete and Delphine. So many hands had carried her to this moment, risking everything for her freedom.
She swallowed hard, her voice unsteady, but true. “Thank you,” she whispered. The words weren’t enough. But they were all she had.
“Let’s go,” Lancelot said softly, taking her hand. His fingers laced through hers with a reassuring squeeze before tugging her along.
