They had barely made it past the final set of doors when another knight greeted them.
Sword raised.
“Du Lac.” He asked, holding his weapon, poised to attack.
“Gawain,” her knight breathed. She felt the tension ripple through him.
“My duty is to the crown,” Gawain started, sword shaking in his hand, if only just. “To the protection of the king and the queen.”
“Brother-”
“No, I don’t need your words, your excuses, or your lies, Lancelot.” The other knight’s eyes were wild, darting quickly between the two of them. “The King… is what you said true?”
Lance shifted slightly, putting himself between Gawain and Guinevere, shielding her.
A nod.
“Is she safe with you?” Gawain asked finally, sword falling limply in front of him. “Will you protect her?”
“With my dying breath, brother.” Lancelot put his free hand over his heart. “She is my entire world, Gawain. No harm will befall herwhile I am near.”
His sword clattered to the ground, steel singing in the small grove. “Go, Lancelot. Before I change my mind.”
“Thank you.”
“Should word return to Camelot that a single hair on her head has been harmed… I will come for you, personally.”
“I hope you do.” Lancelot tried to laugh, but it was a strained sound. He turned to Gwen, pressing his lips into her hair. “Let’s go,” he whispered again, tugging her past the final knight.
Their horse waited for them, just as Percival said it would. The saddle was loaded down with a few other packs, rolled blankets, and some weapons sheathed at the side.
Without even a glance back, he hoisted her up on the horse, swinging up behind her. “Ready to be abducted?” He chuckled in her ear as he cracked the reins.
47
They rode hard for several hours, Lancelot’s hands the only thing that kept her on the horse. She was lightheaded, tired,afraid. The chill of the winter air whipped around them, freezing Gwen to the bones.
“We’ll stop soon,” His voice was by her ear, his arm holding her tightly against his chest. “Just a little farther.”
Her thighs ached. Her mind wandered back to the first time they had been thrown onto horseback, fleeing from Camelot.
He had told her not to wear a dress.
Guinevere secretly wished she had changed out of her tournament gown before mounting this horse. But there hadn’t been time.
The moon was high in the sky when Lance veered his horse off of the path, deeper into the woods. After a while, he pulled the horse to a stop, sliding off in a single smooth movement.
He grabbed the reins, leading the horse down a rocky bank slowly, guiding their every step with quiet instructions.
Once the ground had flattened out beneath their feet, Lancelot grasped her hips, gently easing her off. “How are you feeling?” he asked, hands steadying her as she regained her footing.
“Sore,” she whispered, looking up at him in the moonlight. The darkness masked his bruises. Gwen feared what she might see in the morning light. He still favored one leg, trying — and failing — not to limp as they walked.
“Let me set up the tent, then we’ll rest.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and went about preparing a place for them.
Lancelot tied the horse to a nearby tree, and unhooked one of the larger packs, unfurling a large canvas.
The tent was rudimentary at best. The canvas was slung over two tall poles, with a third stick connecting them in the middle. He made quick work of the stakes, driving them into the cold ground using a rock, his hands practiced and sure.
