53
They kept to the road after the attack. Lancelot couldn’t mount the horse with his injury, and they were far enough from Camelot that he didn’t seem to mind walking.
Guinevere quite enjoyed it. Walking hand in hand with him on the cobbled streets, listening to him talk about nothing at all.
His wound had begun to heal, and although it was far from pretty, they had seemed to stave off infection.
With Gwen and horse in tow, her knight could hardly keep the smile from his face. They moved slowly, making frequent stops for rest and re-bandaging, but he seemed intoxicated, the way joy emanated off of him.
“I think Kineton is just up ahead.” Lancelot pulled her hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss against her wrist.
“Like… ‘sleep in a bed tonight’ just ahead?”
“Like a ‘warm meal and bath’ just ahead.” With a grin stretching across his lips, he squeezed her hand. “If you pick up the pace, that is.”
“Do we…” Voice trailing off, Guinevere worried her bottom lip. “Can we…” With a groan, she shook her head. “Nevermind.”
“I have coin,mon amour.”
A faint blush heated her cheeks, but she didn’t respond.
So he continued. “Knights don’t exactly receive a bag of gold at the end of each day. But Arthur did give me some land on my return from the Grail quest.” He shrugged like they discussed the weather. “I sold mine several fortnights ago. Pocketed the money and old King Arthur was none the wiser.”
“I don’t think that’s allowed.” But she giggled.
“I don’t much care.”
It took the two of them the better part of the afternoon to reach Kineton, but once the warmth of the sun mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread, Guinevere nearly wept.
They had fled over a week ago, living off roots and stolen apples, sleeping beneath damp canvas and dirt-stained stars. The promise of soup — hot, seasoned, served in a bowl — felt almost obscene. A chilled glass of wine?
Luxury.
Civilization.
Salvation.
Gwen shifted her weight impatiently as Lancelot handed over a few coins to a stableboy, shouldering their packs as the boy lead the horse away. “Let me carry something,” she said, reaching to tug on the strap slung over his shoulder.
“Don’t be daft.” He bent down, kissing her quickly. “It’s just our clothing and the rest of our coin.” He nodded to the horse. “The tent poles and the canvas can stay with the saddle. I don’t think we’ll need them.”
“We’d better not.” A scowl formed on her features.
“Of course,ma femme.” Another kiss between her brows, an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles from her pout. “What first?”
“Bath. Bath first. You reek.” She waved her free hand in front of her scrunched nose. “And I’d like to clean your wound with actual soap and water. Not just whatever herbs youclaimare good for infection.”
He laughed, throwing his head back. The sound warmed her to her very core. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?”
They crossed the inn’s threshold like beggars at the gates of paradise. It was small, but clean — polished wood, a warm hearth, the faint scent of stew and rosemary hanging in the air. Guinevere leaned in close as Lancelot spoke to the innkeeper, pressing a few more coins into the man’s palm.
“A room with a bath,” he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear. “And privacy.”
“And soap.” She chimed in, earning her a gentle elbow in the ribs.
Upon being shown to their quarters, the sight of a steaming basin nearly undid her. She didn’t wait for permission. She tugged off her boots, dropped her cloak to the floor, and turned toward him with her hands on her hips.
“Sit,” she said, firm and fond all at once.
