She smiled again.
She hadn’t allowed herself to believe he could come back.
Guinevere didn’t leave her room that day, taking just one meal in her chambers.
When she looked in the mirror, she was met with a shocking sight. Her cheeks looked hollow; her eyes were dull.
Her fingers trembled as she braided her hair.
The sun was setting when a knock at her door shook her from her trance.
“Your Grace?” A handmaiden. When she opened the door, the maid she had passed the visitor off to the night prior stood before her.
“Good evening, Lunete.” The queen attempted a smile — it felt foreign on her lips.
“Your grace, the gentleman that passed through here yesterday asked me to deliver this to you. Said it was from ‘the big one’, and that you might know where to send it.” She handed over an envelope. Guinevere barely clocked the gentle curve of the older woman’s lips. The knowing look in her eyes.
There was a single word written on the outside.
Dove.
Her hands began to tremble again, nodding to her maid. “Yes, thank you, Lunete. I will deliver it from here.” Her voice was thick, her words sticking in the back of her throat.
The door clicked shut; she fastened the lock.
Her fingers traced the lettering on the envelope, as if she could feel his touch through the paper.
“Lancelot,” she whispered, and her heart felt like lead.
A tear darkened the paper, and she tossed it on the bed. She couldn’t ruin it, she couldn’t ruin it.
I love you.
She wiped her face quickly, shaking her head. Retrieving the letter, she gently peeled back the envelope.
Mon amour,
I can hardly believe that this letter will make it into your hands. Edmund, while a kind fellow, seems quite simple. I pray you see this.
Should you see this, know that I cannot look at a lily without thinking of you. Truth be told, there are very few things that I can look at without thinking of you.
You remain imprinted on my heart, in my very bones. My comrades tease me, as they find company in every town we stop in. But I am left only with your memory, and that is richer than anything they might find.
I love you, ma chérie.
Ever yours,
L
“I love you,” she whispered, clutching the letter to her heart. “I love you.” Her cheeks ached. When her fingers brushed them, she realized she was grinning, wide, easily.
“I love you.”
Guinevere fell back on the bed, the letter still clutched between her fingers. She read it again.
Twice.
Three times more.
