FORTY-TWO
He'd been about to suggest that it was time she entered the convent, for Lancelot had all but given up on seeing any sign of the vivacity Guinevere had shown before Artorius' illness. For two weeks he'd watched her, as she sat at his table, fading as surely as she'd done while imprisoned in Castrum Castle. Almost as if a part of her had died with her husband.
Was it because she was a woman, that she mourned so deeply for a man she'd barely known? Lancelot had known Artorius all his life, and missed him as keenly as any dutiful son would his beloved father, but he had not let his sorrow stop him from doing what was necessary. More than anything, he felt driven to action, to do the things Artorius would have encouraged him to do, for death's shadow lay upon them all.
She pushe
