“Bed,” she replied with a yawn.
Once he tucked her tightly back underneath the blankets, he turned, discarding his own stained clothing.
Her brow knitted, but saw Lunete had managed to bring him something clean, too.
She always thought of everything.
Gwen smiled softly as the mattress shifted once more, as the heat of her knight surrounded her, holding her tight against his bare chest.
“Lancelot?” She whispered.
He responded with a quiet hum, nose nestled behind her ear.
“Thank you.”
36
She woke the next morning with a kiss against her temple.
As her eyes fluttered open, she heard a soft sigh. “I didn’t want to wake you,” Lancelot whispered, smiling faintly. “How are you feeling?”
“Hollow,” she groaned, turning on her side to face him more fully. “But better. Where are you going?”
“Would you believe that the knights of the Round Table train each and every day?” The gentle mirth in his voice caused her own lips to tug upwards.
“I would actually.” She moved to sit up. “I’ve lived in Camelot, my love.”
“No, no. Don’t get up.” His hand steadied on her shoulder. “It’s early. You should go back to sleep.”
Guinevere pouted, shaking her head. “Without you?”
Ducking his head, he pressed his lips to hers, quickly but no less meaningful. “Yes, my queen.” He tapped her on the nose. “I’ll be back later.”
With another quick kiss, he slipped from the room.
Gwen pulled the blankets higher, tighter. But truly — nothingcould mimic the feel of his arms around her.
The door hadn’t even cooled from closing before another knock followed.
It was soft… dainty. Guinevere blinked, half-curled beneath the sheets, before calling faintly, “Come in.”
Morgana stepped inside like a wraith cloaked in silk, her gown untouched by the morning hour. Her hair was pinned, her eyes already sharp. She was alone.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said smoothly, folding her hands before her. “The handmaidens said you were awake.”
Guinevere sat up a little straighter. “Not at all.”
A pause. Morgana’s gaze slid slowly around the room.
“I had a... curious report this morning,” she said at last, her voice a blend of sympathy and severity. “One of my girls was helping the laundresses. There was a pair of breeches being scrubbed. Men’s. Stained with...” A tilt of her head, almost delicate. “Well, for fear of being crude… evidence of somethingverypersonal.”
Guinevere said nothing. The weight of her stare was like ice crawling up her spine.
“They were washed with your linens,” Morgana added. “And your gown. The one you wore last night. The one also covered in sick.”
Guinevere’s stomach twisted.
“I’m not here to shame you, Guinevere.” Morgana’s voice lowered, almost soothing now. She perched herself at the end of the bed, one hand extending towards her. “But I think you ought to consider the damage you’re doing. To Arthur. To Camelot.”
