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It was often that Guinevire would find Lancelot reading.
It was a small book, although not a short one. Even though the cover was no bigger than the distance between the heel of his palm and the tip of his longest finger, its thickness was that of three digits. The spine was cracked and worn, bent in places of frequent reference. The edges of the pages were patterned with love, small tears and rips in them from the near constant flipping to and fro among them.
It transfixed his attention every time she caught him in a moment of rest. In between tasks, the odd time where they were left waiting before departure or a meal it would be pulled from his chest plate and opened, the thin crimson ribbon removed from its place nestled between signatures. Once, when he was interrupted from his reading, she swore the ribbon flicked in annoyance the way his tail would have, if he’d been standing.
The cover was always obscured by his hold, fingers splayed across the leather as he held it preciously. From what she had seen, the flecks of gold implied there had once been gilding in the recesses of the cover’s design, but it had long since worn away.
She asked Percival about it, while they were overseeing some deliveries for the kitchen as their final task of the day.
“I don’t recall the book you speak of I’m afraid. Lance ceases his movements so infrequently that I sometimes forget that he has the ability to do so. Any time he is fully at rest I would imagine he would be in your chambers which, as you may imagine, is not an area I frequent.”
Guin hummed, “I had hoped you’d have an answer. Galahad seems to be just as confused as you. He suggested some kind of book for scribbles, but I have never seen him take ink or charcoal to it. Besides, if it was a book in which one writes, it surely would have been used to completion by now.”
“Have you tried asking the royal librarian? She is knowledgeable about all tomes within these walls. Certainly if it is one of the king’s then she will have a memory of it.”
“You just want to see your wife.” Guinevere teased.
The cat’s tail flicked. “I come and give you a solution to your problems and you accuse me of trying to skirt my duties. Some thanks you give!”
“You intent to skirt something it seems.” Guin elbowed the other knight in the shoulder, causing the feline to break out into a grin.
“Oh hush. You run your mouth too comfortably Guinevere. Come along.”
It was a slight deviation from their usual route of walking the grounds as they checked in on various comings and goings. Certainly it was a detour Percival took often as the feline weaved around others and avoided the odd carpet bump or blind corner with ease.
“I see we are not the only ones visiting my wife today.'' Percival pointed out, directing Guin’s attention to Lancelot, who had just emerged from the library. Even in his more casual dressings he was still partially armored, his gauntlets and sabatons still adorned. His breastplate and pauldrons were missing, swapped out for a set of day clothes she’d only seen when they’d been traveling.
He walked away down the hall, and the knights entered the library. It was a cavernous space, full of bookshelves that stretched to the high ceilings, each stuffed to the brim with volumes upon volumes of books and scrolls. Tables and various chairs sat unfilled.
Percival’s wife was tucked into the back corner of the room, standing next to a wheeled contraption. It appeared to be crafted of two wagon wheels, and stretched between the pair were slats of wood that rotated when the wheel was turned, allowing the librarian to have several books of reference available for her perusal.
“Darling?” Percival called.
Blanche turned around, surprised but delighted. She set the book she was holding aside and approached the knights. “Well, three knights in one day, to what do I owe the pleasure? You’ve just missed Lancelot.”
“It pained me to be away from you for a full day’s length.” Percival bowed at the waist and took her wife’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it.
Blanche blushed and giggled, withdrawing her hand. “Such a tortured soul you are. Hello Guinevere, how do you do?”
Guin smiled at the hedgehog. “I am well Blanche. I hope we aren't bothering you.”
“Not in the slightest. Although I doubt you are actually here for the reasons my beloved claims. May I help you with something?”
Guinevere nodded and intended to answer, but something caught her eye. Over the shorter hedgehog’s shoulder was a stack of books, askew in their organization as they sat on her desk.
And atop them was the book she’d been seeking.
“Yes, actually. That book on top of the stack, that is Lancelot's, correct?”
Blanche nodded. “The one with the red ribbon? Yes, he’s just brought that in for a repair. Said that part of the spine had been damaged. An easy fix, I’m hoping. He’s usually very gentle with the books he borrows.”
“Is it one of yours?”
“Let me see,” she hummed, picking the book up and gasping as it came away in two separate pieces.
One of the spine's cracks had widened and split, as had the binding underneath it to expose the individual signatures. The white hedgehog ran her thumb along the grooves, humming in dissatisfaction
“I’ll have to redo the whole spine and binding process. I see why he was so adamant that he pay triple my fees. Were you coming to inquire about the repair costs?”
“No, the content.” Guinevere explained. “ He is rarely seen without this book. I wanted to know what was so special about it.”
Blanche frowned. “Could you not ask him?”
“You know how Lance can be. Ever the mystery.” Percival pointed out.
The white hedgehog turned the book over, exposing the inner page that had now become an outer facing one. Skimming it, she read aloud;
“That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her-”
“A sonnet?” Guinevere asked.
Blanche nodded. “A collection of them. I know these, we have another of its likeness somewhere in the library. Then again, it lacks the portability of this version.”
Blanche set the half-book down, wandering away amongst the shelves with Percival accompanying her - no doubt to steal a few kisses amongst the scrolls and tomes.
Guinevere picked up the other half, observing the words inked on the page.
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow’s form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
A book of love poems.
Ah.
That explained it.
She’d never quite figured out how the tense and antisocial knight had managed to bed half the kingdom. But having a poet’s words at one’s fingertips, that would certainly tip the odds in his favor. In the iambic lines, it was easy to see how his speech sometimes reflected the poem’s pentameter.
It took no effort to imagine the affectionate words in his voice. The ones she stared at now dragged up the faintest of memories, fragments of a dream. One that she had fought to push away every time the mention of their visit to her family came up.
It was easy to imagine the poem as the preamble to the night vision, something whispered in the fragile atmosphere of want and hesitation that broke any reserve held.
The sound of a thud behind her - and Percival's quiet laughter - snapped Guinevere out of her thoughts, cheeks burning. Soon the married couple appeared again, Percival’s helm having been removed. Blanche was holding a gilded book and she presented it to Guinevere.
“Here, bring this to him. He might find some comfort in having a copy on hand.”
The cat pressed the back of her hand to Guin’s cheeks. The cool metal felt nice against the heated blush, but the cat's concern was evident.
“Are you well? You've taken on quite the heat.”
“Just lost in thought… “ Guin assured.
Blanche chuckled. “I suppose you’ve just stumbled upon one of the raunchy ones, hm
?”
“Now you have me curious.” Guinevere admitted, skimming the half in her hand. It seemed she only had the first section, the bulk of which remained in Blanche’s possession.
Percival groaned. “It’s hardly the most romantic of the sonnets.”
“No,” Blanche confirmed, taking back half of the book from Guin. “ But it’s certainly a dirty one. This author is known for beautiful poetry and compelling prose…. And also a plethora of odes to the carnal desires.”
Percival huffed. “ I would be surprised if Lance’s copy contained such… blunt vulgarity.”
Blanche shrugged, setting the book on her desk and taking her seat. “To each their own. Now, I beg that you take your leave. As much as I adore the company, the daylight is fading and I need to start my repairs.”
“We will leave you to work, Thank you Blanche” Guin said, bowing her head and starting out the door.
Percival followed a moment later, no doubt having stolen a kiss for the road as she adjusted her helm.” Satisfied with our findings?”
“I am unsure of my satisfaction. But we did find something , which is more than I expected.”
“Well, an answer that begs more questions is an answer still. Do you have any duties left to attend to or will you be retiring?” Percival asked, motioning down the hall. “I am headed to the kitchen to scrounge up a meal for Blanche, she will be working until she can work no more and by then the chefs will have retired for the night. Care to join me?”
Guin shook her head. “I shall retire, I think. Even if only to settle for a moment before I seek my own sustenance. I will see you in the morning, yes? I believe we have a sparring match set up.”
“Yes we do. Rest well Guinevere.” the cat said, before heading off down the hallway.
When Guin returned to their chambers, Lancelot was absent. All the better, as she set the book of poems down and stripped herself of her armor. Changing into her day clothes was an easy relief, and she sat in one of the wingback chairs to admire the gilding of the cover.
Well. this wasn't his copy so she could take her time reading its contents, could she not? Perhaps it would be in her best interest, to familiarize herself with his methods to better seek them out if any courting of mistresses was to be done in front of her. Or if - for a reason she dared not entertain - that he attempted to court her.
The fact that he’d told her himself that he had taken no lovers was ignored. She had seen him dance around the restrictions of his inability to lie before. He was capable of doing so, if not with great effort.
Guin settled with her feet tucked under her and began reading.
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decrease,
His tender heir mught bear his memeory: