The warmth of her skin, the heat of her fever, clashed with the coldness of the mess, the stench of sickness hanging in the air. Lancelot froze for a moment, staring down at her.
“Gwen…” His hands shook as he tried to catch her, to hold her steady, but she was trembling so violently that it felt like the world was slipping through her fingers.
Her breathing was shallow, ragged. She couldn’t stop shaking. Lancelot pulled her into his chest. “I’m right here, love.” He whispered, but his voice trembled. Her skin was slight with sweat, but she shivered against his warmth. “I’m here.”
“I’m cold,” she slurred, fingers clenching against his bare skin. “I’m so cold, Lance.” She pressed her face into the line of his throat. He was solid and steady, he wassafe.
But her stomach lurched again, head spinning. “I… I think-”
He was more prepared this time. In one single, swift movement, he grabbed the small washbasin from beside her, holding it for her while she got sick again.
Her fingers curled around the basin, her body trembling violently as she fought to regain control. But it was futile. The nausea, the dizziness, the sickness — it overwhelmed her, like the world was closing in on her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Lancelot didn’t let go, didn’t flinch as she retched a third time. He cradled her against him, his arms firm but gentle, his body steady. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, against her cheek, and that, in some small way, anchored her to something real.
He wiped her brow with the back of his hand, trying to soothe her, but his eyes betrayed him, full of anguish and panic. She could feel his heartbeat thudding against her skin, faster now, as if he, too, was fighting the fear that gripped him.
When the worst had seemingly passed, she collapsed against him, her body still trembling with the aftershocks. The heat of her fever mixed with the chill of the room, but it was nothing compared to the way her body felt — heavy, distant, as though she were fading in and out of herself.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured, trying to pull him down into the bed with her, forgetting they were both covered in her sickness.
“No, no. Not yet.” He kept her close to him while he maneuvered her soiled gown off of her. Tossing it in on the ground, along with theblanket, he helped her lay back on the pillows. “Stay awake for me, love.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I need to get help.” His voice was quiet. She could barely hear him over the pounding of her own heart. “You need a bath, and we need clean bedding.”
She reached for him, clutching weakly at his arm. “No, no. Please don’t go.”
“I’m not leaving you, love,” he whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from her brow. “I’ll be right outside the door, and I’ll be back before you can miss me.”
Her eyes fluttered, glassy with fever and fear.
“I swear to you, Guinevere. I’m not leavingyou. I’m fetching help forus.”
He lingered a heartbeat longer, kissing her forehead, then turned — swift and sharp.
Gwen forced herself to sit back up, curling her arms around her legs. She pressed her forehead against her knees, trying to breathe around the smell of the sickness that clung to the room.
Whatever this illness was, it had come on so violently.
Lancelot had lied.
He hadn’t returned before she could miss him.
She was freezing cold, unable to find anything to wrap herself up in that wasn’t tarnished.
The door opened, and Lunete slid inside. “Your grace,” she bowed before rushing over to her. “Let’s get you up, Guinevere.” Her touch was kind as she coaxed the queen from her bed. “Edith and Delphine will be here with bath water in a moment, dear.” She pulled Gwen’s hair back, tying it up with a strip of leather.
With the maid’s help, she stumbled over to the chaise, laying on her side.
Lunete smoothed her hair. “There we go. Now we can get you some clean beddings, my queen.”
The maid had always been kind to her. She was several years her elder, but she had been with Guinevere since she had arrived in Camelot.
The door opened again, the other two women carrying large, steaming pails of water. Followed by her knight in soiled breeches.
She reached for him, instinctively. Perhaps she should have pretended not to need him, should have put on a show for her handmaidens, but she couldn’t.
He was back by her side in an instant, scooping her into his arms like she was as light as a cloud.
