Arthur has no grave, they tell her, taken instead to sleep in Avalon until Logria calls once more. But sleeping or dead, he is gone and Guinevere grieves him.
She rises before Lauds every morning and goes to the garden, kneels by the old hawthorn tree and sings her repentance. Sometimes she brings him flowers too - never roses, for those were Lancelot’s flowers - but wildflowers; daisies and forget-me-nots, buttercups and bluebells. They remind her of her young husband bringing her whatever flowers caught his eye, claiming that their simple beauty reminded him of her. Other days, she remembers the older man; wiser and more weary, but still generous and just. Always just. On those days she brings nothing but her tears.
(She will never know, but in his monastery in France, Lancelot follows a similar ritual.)