Opus One

by Edward Kyle Stokes

Chapter 1

A Prince of England.

The heavy oak door, intricately carved with the fleur-de-lis of France, creaked shut, the sound echoing softly in the antechamber. Inside the richly appointed salon, Charles Stuart, Prince of England, leaned back against the plush velvet cushions of a chaise lounge, a half-empty decanter of ruby-red wine resting precariously on the small table beside him. The remnants of a truly magnificent meal – roasted pheasant, sugared plums, and a creamed concoction he couldn't quite place but had thoroughly enjoyed – lay scattered on a nearby serving platter.

At twenty-four years, Charles possessed the languid grace of royalty, even in captivity. His dark hair, though slightly dishevelled from the previous day's disastrous battle, still framed a handsome face, the Stuart features softened by the flush of wine and a certain weariness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. The defeat had been absolute, a crushing blow to the Royalist cause, and the image of his father's standard falling amidst the chaos was a brand seared onto his memory. Yet, here, within the gilded cage of this French palace, a semblance of his former life was meticulously recreated. Luxury was a poor substitute for freedom, but it was a balm nonetheless.

He swirled the remaining wine in his goblet, the candlelight catching the deep crimson hues. The French, ever the masters of diplomacy, were treating him with a respect that bordered on reverence, even as they held him prisoner. He understood their game, of course. A captive English prince was a valuable pawn, a potential lever in the intricate dance of European power. But for tonight, at least, he could forget the weight of his lineage, the sting of defeat, the uncertainty of his future.

A soft knock at the outer door of his suite interrupted his thoughts. "Entrez," he called out, his voice slightly slurred but still carrying a regal tone.

The door was opened by a stern-faced man in the livery of the French King, his expression unreadable. This was Monsieur Dubois, his appointed gaoler, a man whose politeness was as unwavering as his vigilance.

"Your Highness," Dubois said with a formal bow. "You requested… company?"

Charles offered a wry smile. "Indeed, Monsieur Dubois. A long day of solitude, followed by such… generous hospitality, has left me in need of some lighter amusement. I find myself rather… lonely." He let the implication hang in the air, his eyes twinkling with a familiar mischief that even captivity couldn't entirely extinguish.

Dubois's face remained impassive, though a flicker of something – perhaps resignation, perhaps a hint of distaste – crossed his features. He was well aware of the English prince's reputation. Tales of his charm and his fondness for youthful companionship had travelled across the Channel long before Charles himself.

"As you wish, Your Highness," Dubois said, his voice carefully neutral. He stepped back and with a discreet gesture, ushered forward three young men.

They were slight of build, their ages likely ranging from fifteen to perhaps eighteen. Their clothes, while not overtly lavish, were clean and neat, suggesting they were favoured servants or perhaps even young members of the palace staff. Their eyes, wide and a little apprehensive, flickered between the prince and Monsieur Dubois. One had a shock of unruly blond hair, another possessed a delicate, almost feminine beauty, and the third had a shy, downcast gaze.

Charles surveyed them with a practiced eye, his gaze taking in their form. The colourful blouses reached elegantly to the tops of slender legs, the fine hose covering those same youthful legs, framing the half hidden neat little packages. A faint smile played upon Charles' lips and his cock twitched with anticipation. They were a very pleasing trio and their nervousness added a certain piquancy to the situation.

"Excellent, Monsieur Dubois," Charles said, his voice regaining some of its former warmth. "You have anticipated my needs admirably. You may leave us now."

Dubois gave another curt bow. "At your service, Your Highness. I shall be just outside should you require anything… else." He cast a final, almost pitying glance at the three young men before retreating, the heavy door closing once more with a decisive thud, leaving the English prince alone with his carefully chosen companions in the opulent silence of his gilded prison. The night, it seemed, was about to become considerably more interesting.

The air in the salon had grown thick with the scent of spilled wine and youthful sweat. Laughter, at first hesitant, had become more unrestrained as the hours passed. Charles, a natural raconteur, had regaled the young men with tales of courtly life in England, exaggerating the triumphs and glossing over the growing tensions that had ultimately led to his capture. He possessed a charm that could disarm even the most wary, and the initial apprehension of his companions had gradually melted away, replaced by a mixture of fascination and something akin to adoration.

The blond boy, whose name was Antoine, was the most boisterous, emboldened by the prince's attention and several glasses of wine. He peppered Charles with questions about English customs and fashion, his eyes wide with curiosity. The more delicate one, Jean-Luc, possessed a quiet grace, his movements fluid and his smile shy but captivating. He seemed content to listen, occasionally offering a soft-spoken remark that revealed a surprising intelligence. The youngest, a boy named Étienne, remained somewhat more reserved, his gaze often downcast, but he would occasionally offer a tentative smile or a soft chuckle at one of the prince's jokes.

As the night progressed the atmosphere in the room became perfused with a masculine aroma. The two older lads, free of all inhibitions, sprawled across the large bed their bodies wrestling together in a tangled erotic dance, before moving to the floor in front of the fire. Charles watched just as he encouraged their boisterous play which soon took on another aspect altogether. As he sipped the wine from his goblet he savoured the taste of the exhibition which was unravelling in front of him.

Both lads had managed to strip each other of all their garments. The prince's gaze followed the joust reveling in the anticipation of moves, knowing that soon one would triumph over the other and his lance would strike it's target. He was not surprised when Antoine twisted his body and gained the upper hand. His extra year or so over the more youthful Jean-Luc, his solid build and muscle, dominated. A smile played across Charles' lips as he observed Antoine pin back his slighter bodied adversary, pushing his legs over his shoulders. His weapon ready, a brief pause, before he bore down and struck home.

Charles' tongue licked his lip as with grunts and moans the joust reached its conclusion. His eyes fixed on the rhythmic movement of those strong pale buttocks which rose and fell with each jab and thrust till finally their bodies shook and Antoine raised his head proclaiming his victory in the climax of the battle.

The prince's eyes, full of lust, became fixed on Étienne, the youngest and most exciting for Charles Stuart. He had his cock as hard and straight as the steel of his sword and it was with that dagger he would prick the youngster's derriere. He moved swiftly to pull the boy into his embrace, then undressed the lad with a speed that echoed the urgency. For a moment he held the boy at arms length, admiring the smooth shapely form and pleased by the reaction so evidently displayed before him.

Charles kissed Étienne with a force that surprised even himself, then swung him around and pushed him forward towards that huge bed. The young lad bent over in front of his Prince as Charles enticed by those firm round orbs was overcome by the irresistible temptation. The cry from Étienne echoed the noise of the battlefield, only here it was Charles the victor and Étienne the vanquished. He grabbed hold tightly around the boy's boney hips as he took his pleasure pounding the lad until he too, with a cry of satisfaction, pronounced the crescendo.

He did not capture the full meaning of Étienne's whispered words, when he spoke softly saying, "I am here for you my Prince and for you alone." Charles took the words as consent, a submission, which whilst that was so, more was in the phrase than simple servitude.

The bacchanalian orgy continued into the early hours when the revelry subsided. Antoine and Jean-Luc eventually succumbing to the combined effects of wine and fatigue, their breathing deep and even as they lay sprawled on the large Persian rug before the dying embers of the fire. Charles, however, found himself still wide awake, his mind a restless battlefield of memories and anxieties despite the temporary reprieve.

He rose quietly from the chaise lounge, his limbs heavy but his senses alert. He moved towards the large windows that overlooked the palace gardens, the moonlight casting long, skeletal shadows across the room. He pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, peering out into the stillness of the night.

It was then that he noticed a slight movement in the corner of the room, near a tall, intricately carved cabinet. Étienne was sitting up, his small frame illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the window. His eyes, wide and luminous in the dimness, were fixed on something outside.

"Étienne?" Charles murmured, surprised. "I thought you were asleep."

The boy started, turning his head quickly, his expression a mixture of guilt and surprise. "Your Highness… I… I could not sleep." His voice was barely a whisper.

Charles approached him, a flicker of curiosity piqued. "What is it that holds your attention so intently?"

Étienne hesitated for a moment, then pointed towards the window. "The bird, Your Highness. There… on the ledge."

Charles followed his gaze. Perched precariously on the stone balustrade outside the window was a pigeon. It was an ordinary-looking bird, its feathers a mottled grey and white, but there was something about its stillness, its focused gaze towards the window, that struck Charles as unusual.

"A pigeon," Charles said, a slight frown creasing his brow. "What is so remarkable about a pigeon?"

Étienne, emboldened by the prince's attention, crept closer to the window. "It has something on its leg, Your Highness. A small… tube, I think."

Charles leaned closer, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. In the dim moonlight, he could indeed discern a small cylinder attached to the bird's leg. It was too deliberate, too purposeful to be a natural growth.

"Open the window, Étienne," Charles said, his voice now low and urgent.

The boy, his initial hesitance forgotten, scrambled to obey. The heavy casement creaked open, letting in a rush of cool night air and the soft cooing of the pigeon. The bird remained surprisingly still, its intelligent eyes fixed on Charles.

Carefully, Charles reached out a hand. The pigeon, seemingly accustomed to human contact, did not flinch. He gently detached the small cylinder from its leg. It was made of thin metal, no larger than his thumb.

His fingers trembling slightly, Charles pulled out the tiny stopper. Inside, tightly rolled, was a piece of parchment, no bigger than his fingernail. He unfurled it with painstaking care, his eyes straining in the dim light.

The message was brief, written in a familiar, coded script: "Hope remains. Look to the shadows at dawn. J."

A wave of elation, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over Charles. Hope. After the crushing defeat, the despair that had begun to settle in his soul now lifted, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. Someone knew he was here. Someone was planning something. And the initial, almost illegible, "J" could only stand for one person: his brother, James, the Prince Royal, known for his unwavering loyalty and sharp intellect.

He looked down at Étienne, who was watching him with wide, innocent eyes. This quiet, observant boy, lost in the shadows while the others slept, had delivered a lifeline.

"Étienne," Charles said, his voice thick with emotion, "you have sharper eyes than all the guards in this palace." He clapped the boy gently on the shoulder, a genuine smile breaking through his weariness for the first time since the battle. "You have brought me news of great importance."

The night, which had begun with a request for fleeting pleasure, had unexpectedly yielded a glimmer of hope. The gilded cage might yet have a hidden exit. And as dawn approached, Charles knew he would be watching the shadows with a renewed sense of purpose, all thanks to the observant eyes of a young boy who couldn't sleep.

The first rays of dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of pale rose and soft grey. Charles, feigning sleep on the chaise lounge, listened intently for the subtle shift in the palace's rhythm. He had dismissed Antoine and Jean-Luc some hours before, offering them a generous handful of coins and a stern warning to speak of nothing unusual that had transpired during the night. They had departed, bleary-eyed and giggling, seemingly none the wiser to the momentous message Étienne had unwittingly delivered.

Étienne, however, remained. Charles had kept the boy close, pretending a lingering weariness that required Étienne's assistance. The boy, now privy to the secret, moved with a newfound sense of purpose, he was there to fulfil a mission and would do so with a quiet determination.

As the palace began to stir, with the distant sounds of servants preparing for the day, Charles made his move. "Étienne," he murmured, his voice low, "the time is near. Do you remember what I told you?"

Étienne nodded, his eyes bright. "The tapestry in the hallway, Your Highness. The loose threads near the hunting scene."

Charles had spent the remaining hours of the night meticulously planning. The message, brief as it was, had indicated a rendezvous point outside the palace walls, accessible through a hidden passage. His brother, or his agents, clearly had inside knowledge.

"Good," Charles said. "Now, act naturally. If anyone asks, you are merely assisting a weary prince." As Charles spoke these words his hand reached inside his cloak and touched the hilt of a dagger. He had kept hidden the weapon when taken prisoner, realising it might serve him later if only to end his life, for he would not rest gaoled in this foreign land.

With Étienne trailing slightly behind, Charles emerged from his suite. Monsieur Dubois was already waiting in the antechamber, his expression as impassive as ever.

"Good morning, Your Highness," Dubois said with a formal bow. "I trust you rested well?"

"Adequately, Monsieur Dubois," Charles replied, offering a practiced, slightly strained smile. "Though I find myself still somewhat fatigued. This young lad," he gestured to Étienne, "is assisting me in taking a short walk in the adjacent hallway. The air in these rooms can become rather… stifling."

Dubois's gaze flickered towards Étienne, then back to Charles. "Of course, Your Highness. But I must insist on accompanying you."

Charles had anticipated this. "Naturally, Monsieur Dubois. Your diligence is most commendable."

As they moved into the long corridor, lined with imposing portraits of French royalty and heavy tapestries, Charles's senses were on high alert. He scanned the tapestries, his eyes searching for the subtle irregularity which was the key.

"This way, Your Highness," Étienne said softly, veering slightly towards a particularly large tapestry depicting a hunting scene. He stumbled slightly, reaching out to steady himself against the wall behind the hanging.

Dubois frowned. "Be more careful, boy."

In that brief moment of distraction, Étienne's small fingers worked quickly. Charles saw the almost imperceptible movement near the lower edge of the tapestry. A few loose threads, deliberately frayed.

"Forgive me, Monsieur," Étienne mumbled, righting himself.

Charles casually moved closer to the tapestry, feigning interest in the depicted scene of hounds chasing a stag. His fingers brushed against the loose threads, feeling a slight give in the fabric behind.

"A rather vigorous hunt," Charles commented, his voice nonchalant. "One can almost feel the chase."

Dubois merely nodded, his eyes still watchful.

"Perhaps a closer look, Your Highness?" Étienne suggested, his voice a little too eager.

"Indeed," Charles agreed. With a seemingly innocent gesture, he reached out and pulled the tapestry slightly to the side, revealing a narrow, dark opening in the wall behind.

Dubois's eyes widened in alarm. "What is this?"

Before Dubois could react, Étienne, surprisingly strong for his age, gave the gaoler a forceful push. In that same instant, Charles lunged forward, removing the dagger from its sheath. In one swift movement he slit the gaoler's throat, pushing him into the narrow passage.

Dubois collapsed inside the dark passageway as his life slipped away in a pool of blood.

Charles moved quickly with É tienne right behind him. In the cramped, stone-lined corridor, the air was thick with the smell of damp. He listened for any sounds of movement, but there were none, the palace slept. "Étienne! This way!" he hissed.

Étienne scrambled after Charles as they moved as quickly as possible through the narrow tunnel, the only light filtering from occasional cracks in the stone. The tunnel eventually opened into a small, disused storage cellar beneath the kitchens. The air was permeated now with the smell of stale vegetables and damp. A heavy wooden door, seemingly long forgotten, stood at the far end.

"The gardens," Étienne whispered, pointing to a sliver of light beneath the door.

Charles nodded, his heart pounding. He pushed against the door, its hinges groaning in protest. It opened to reveal the sprawling palace gardens, shrouded in the early morning mist.

Waiting near a cluster of overgrown bushes was a figure cloaked in dark fabric, a horse held patiently by its reins. As Charles emerged, the figure turned, and he saw the familiar, determined face of his brother, James.

"James!" He ran quickly to embrace his brother .

"You received my… feathered messenger." James exclaimed, relief evident in his voice.

"Indeed," Charles replied, his gaze sharp. Then turning to the young lad at his side, he whispered, "Étienne, you have been most brave."

Étienne beamed, his chest swelling with pride.

"We must make haste," James urged. "They will discover your absence soon."

Charles turned to Étienne, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "You have risked much for me, Étienne. You cannot stay here."

"It was my honour, Your Highness," the boy said, his voice filled with sincerity.

James was pressed to make good their escape. "Take the boy. He may yet serve you well."

Charles mounted the waiting stead and reached an arm down to Étienne. The lad grabbed a hold and was pulled up behind Charles. With a soft command, he urged the animal forward, disappearing into the swirling mist of the French palace gardens, leaving behind the gilded cage, but it would soon be discovered that the prized prisoner had flown. The hope, delivered on the wings of a pigeon and the brave heart of a young boy, had blossomed into a daring escape.