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Opus One

by Edward Kyle Stokes

Chapter 2

Love and Deception.

The ride from the palace grounds was a blur of hushed urgency and the rhythmic thud of the horse's hooves on the damp earth. James, ever the pragmatist, had arranged everything with meticulous care. A change of clothes awaited Charles at a secluded coaching inn a few hours away, along with fresh horses and a small escort of trusted men. They rode hard, avoiding main roads and villages, the threat of pursuit a constant shadow.

Their destination was La Rochelle, a bustling port city on the Atlantic coast, known for its Huguenot history and its somewhat less-than-zealous adherence to royal decrees. James had secured passage on a small, swift frigate, the Sea Serpent, whose captain, a man named Dubois (no relation to the gaoler, thankfully), was sympathetic to the Royalist cause, or at least amenable to a hefty sum of English gold.

Étienne, bundled in a borrowed coat that was several sizes too large, travelled with them. James, recognizing the boy's crucial role in Charles's escape and sensing his quiet loyalty, had agreed to bringing him along. Leaving him behind in the clutches of the French court would have been an unacceptable risk.

The embarkation at La Rochelle was a hurried affair under the cloak of darkness. The Sea Serpent lay anchored in the sheltered harbour, its masts swaying gently against the star-dusted sky. Captain Dubois, a burly man with a weathered face and shrewd eyes, greeted them with a curt nod, asking few questions.

Étienne, wide-eyed with a mixture of fear and excitement, was placed under the care of Lieutenant Beaumont, a young officer with a surprisingly kind demeanor. Beaumont, a man of perhaps twenty years, seemed genuinely concerned for the boy's well-being, showing him to a small, cramped remise below deck.

The remise was a dimly lit space, smelling of tar and brine, with barely enough room for a narrow cot and a small chest. For someone who had known the relative comfort of palace life, it was a stark and unsettling change.

The sea, however, proved to be Étienne's greatest adversary. As the Sea Serpent cleared the harbour and he began to feel the rhythm of the open ocean, a queasy pallor spread across his face. The gentle rocking soon turned into a more violent sway, and Étienne found himself gripped by a debilitating nausea.

He lay in his cot, his stomach churning, the smells of the ship – the fish, the oil, the damp wood – assaulting his senses. He could hear the creaking of the timbers, the slap of the waves against the hull, the distant shouts of the sailors, all conspiring to amplify his misery.

Lieutenant Beaumont checked on him frequently, offering sips of water and dry biscuits, but little seemed to help. Étienne longed for the solid ground, for the familiar stillness of the palace, even with its gilded bars.

It was during one particularly rough patch, when Étienne was convinced his insides were about to revolt entirely, that a small, wiry figure appeared in the doorway of the remise. It was a boy of roughly his own age, with a mop of sandy hair and bright, inquisitive eyes.

"You look like you've swallowed a kraken," the boy said with a cheeky grin. "I'm Thomas, the cabin boy. Everyone calls me Tom."

Étienne could only groan in response, clutching his stomach.

Tom, unfazed by Étienne's distress, perched on the edge of the cot. "First time at sea, eh? It gets everyone. My first voyage, I spent three days hugging a bucket."

Étienne managed a weak nod.

"Here," Tom said, offering a small, gnawed piece of ginger root. "My mum always said this settles the stomach. And look out at the horizon. Don't stare at the waves."

Étienne cautiously took the ginger and nibbled at it. The spicy tang was surprisingly soothing. He followed Tom's advice and fixed his gaze on the distant horizon, where the grey sea met the paler sky. Slowly, gradually, the worst of the nausea began to subside.

Over the next few days, as the Sea Serpent sailed towards England, Tom became Étienne's unlikely companion. Tom, a seasoned sailor despite his young age, regaled Étienne with tales of the sea – of storms and sea monsters, of faraway lands and strange creatures. He taught Étienne the names of the ropes and sails, the calls of the gulls, and the rhythm of life aboard a ship.

Étienne, in turn, told Tom snippets of his life in the palace, carefully omitting the more sensitive details of his involvement in the prince's escape. Tom listened with wide-eyed fascination, imagining a world of glittering chandeliers and silken robes, a stark contrast to the rough realities of his own existence.

They were an unlikely pair, the former palace servant and the seasoned cabin boy, bound together by the shared experience of the sea and a growing sense of camaraderie. Tom's cheerful resilience and practical advice helped Étienne navigate the physical discomfort of the voyage, while Étienne's quiet intelligence and gentle nature offered Tom a glimpse of a world beyond the confines of the ship.

As the white cliffs of England finally rose on the horizon, a sense of anticipation filled the Sea Serpent. For the two princes it was a return, however uncertain, to their homeland. For Étienne, it was the beginning of a new chapter, far removed from the gilded cage of the French palace. And also, sadly an end to the unexpected friendship forged amidst the rolling waves.

The final night aboard the Sea Serpent held a different atmosphere. The anticipation of landfall hung heavy in the air, a palpable shift from the constant motion and salty tang that had become their temporary reality. Étienne, his sea legs finally found, felt a lightness he hadn't experienced since before his arrival on board. The queasiness was a distant memory, replaced by a burgeoning excitement for the unknown that lay ahead.

That evening, the cramped remise felt less like a prison and more like a familiar nook. Tom, ever the pragmatist, was already settled in what had become their shared cot, a narrow strip of canvas slung between wooden supports. Étienne, after a final, lingering look at the endless expanse of the dark sea through the small porthole, joined him.

The close confines, usually a source of mild discomfort, now felt different. The gentle rocking of the ship as it lay off the coast, once a torment, was now a soothing lullaby. The familiar scent of tar and boyish sweat was no longer offensive.

They lay side-by-side in the dim light filtering from a single lantern in the corridor, the sounds of the ship settling into a quieter rhythm as most of the crew sought rest. Conversation, which had flowed freely in recent days, now dwindled, replaced by a comfortable silence.

Étienne found himself acutely aware of Tom's presence beside him – the warmth of his small body, the soft brush of his arm against his own. He had grown accustomed to Tom's easy camaraderie, his cheerful banter, but tonight there was a different undercurrent, a subtle shift in the air between them.

Tom shifted, turning slightly to face Étienne. His bright eyes, usually full of mischief, held a softer, more curious gaze in the dim light. He reached out a hand, his calloused fingers tentatively brushing against Étienne's.

A weird flutter ignited in Étienne's chest, a sensation both familiar yet different, and strangely pleasant. He didn't draw his hand away. Tom's touch was surprisingly gentle.

Their fingers intertwined, a silent exploration in the darkness. The small space of the cot seemed to shrink, the air growing warmer, charged with an unspoken energy. Étienne could feel his heart beating a little faster, a nervous excitement building within him.

Tom's thumb traced small circles on the back of Étienne's hand. The simple gesture sent a shiver down Étienne's spine, a sensation entirely new and undeniably stirring. He had never felt such a connection, such a profound awareness of another person exactly like himself. He had endured the unwanted attentions of a cruel stepfather and had found something akin to warmth of feeling with Charles, but this was different.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tom moved closer, his breath warm against Étienne's ear. Étienne turned his head, their faces now inches apart. He could see the soft curve of Tom's lips, the slight parting of his mouth.

An instinct, primal and undeniable, rose within Étienne. He closed the small distance between them, their lips meeting in a tentative, innocent kiss. It was a fleeting touch, a soft exploration, yet it sent a jolt of pure sensation through him.

They drew apart slightly, their eyes meeting in the darkness. There was a mixture of surprise and wonder in Tom's gaze, mirrored in Étienne's own heart.

Emboldened by the initial contact, Tom leaned in again, the kiss deepening this time. Étienne responded instinctively, his own lips parting slightly. The world outside the small cot seemed to fade away, replaced by the intense focus on the feel of Tom's lips against his own, the soft rasp of his breath, the gentle pressure of his hand.

Their embrace grew more intimate, their bodies shifting closer in the narrow space. Hands explored tentatively, discovering the contours of shoulders, the curve of a neck, the rough fabric of their shared blanket. Each touch was a revelation, each shared breath a silent language of burgeoning desire.

There was no urgency, no demand, only a slow, tender exploration of newfound sensations. The rocking of the ship seemed to echo the rhythm of their own quickening pulses. The night, filled with the promise of a new land, became also a night of personal discovery, a secret unfolding in the quiet darkness of their shared cot.

As the first hint of dawn began to paint the sky beyond the porthole, they lay entwined, their breathing soft and even. The shared experience had forged a deeper bond between them, a silent understanding that transcended words and circumstance. The sea, which had initially been Étienne's tormentor, had inadvertently become the backdrop for a profound and tender awakening. The shores of England awaited, but within the small confines of the Sea Serpent, a different kind of journey had just begun.

The grey light of dawn seeped into the remise, casting long shadows and signaling the imminent arrival in England. A bittersweet ache settled in Étienne's chest. The camaraderie, the unexpected intimacy shared with Tom, felt like a precious, fleeting dream about to dissolve with the morning mist.

Tom stirred beside him, his sandy hair tousled, a soft smile gracing his lips as he opened his eyes. He reached for Étienne's hand, their fingers intertwining once more in a familiar gesture that now held a deeper resonance.

"So, this is it, then?" Tom murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "England."

Étienne nodded, a lump forming in his throat. "Yes. A new beginning."

A shadow of sadness crossed Tom's face. "Will I… will I see you again?"

Étienne wished he could offer a definitive answer, a comforting promise. But the world that awaited him in England, the world of princes and palaces, felt a million miles away from the rough-and-tumble life of a cabin boy. "I don't know, Tom," he said honestly, his voice low. "But I won't forget you."

The disembarkation at the bustling port of Dover was a chaotic scene. Charles, now dressed in more fitting English attire, was greeted with a mixture of relief and hushed excitement by a small contingent of the King's Guard. James oversaw the arrangements, his expression a mask of cool efficiency.

Étienne, feeling somewhat lost and out of place amidst the flurry of activity, stayed quiet awaiting his instructions. He caught Tom's eye one last time, a silent farewell passing between them before the cabin boy disappeared back into the throng of sailors. A pang of loneliness echoed in Étienne's heart, a stark reminder of the unexpected connection he was leaving behind.

The journey to London was swift. Étienne travelled in the company of the princes attendants, the grandeur of the carriages and the unfamiliar English countryside a stark contrast to the cramped confines of the ship.

Arriving in London, Étienne was immediately immersed in the opulent chaos of the Stuart court. Charles, now surrounded by a throng of loyal supporters and hopeful courtiers, installed himself in the sprawling royal palace, a labyrinth of grand halls, ornate chambers, and bustling corridors.

Étienne found himself assigned as one of the many young men attending to the prince's needs. There was a constant flow of pages, grooms, and various other attendants, each vying for the prince's attention. Étienne, still somewhat shy and unused to the intricate social dynamics of court, felt like a small boat adrift in a vast, glittering ocean.

He observed the other young men who served Charles. Some were impeccably dressed and possessed a polished charm, clearly accustomed to courtly life. Others were younger, like himself, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

One of these younger attendants, a boy named Henry with a winning smile and a seemingly open manner, took an immediate interest in Étienne. "You're new here, aren't you?" Henry had said, his arm slung casually around Étienne's shoulders as they both waited outside the prince's private chambers. "I'm Henry. Welcome to the madhouse."

Henry was quick to offer Étienne guidance, showing him the routines of the palace, introducing him to other members of the household, and sharing snippets of court gossip. Étienne, grateful for the attention in this overwhelming new environment, found himself drawn to Henry's easygoing nature.

However, a small seed of unease lingered within Étienne. There was a certain glint in Henry's eyes, a subtle possessiveness in his manner, that made Étienne instinctively cautious. He couldn't shake the feeling that Henry's friendliness might be masking a hidden agenda.

His apprehension proved to be well-founded. One evening, when Étienne had finished his duties, Henry offered the boy refreshments in his private room, a request Étienne could not refuse. Henry's true intentions were revealed. The room was dimly lit, and Henry, lounging on his bed, called the boy over.

"Étienne, come closer," Henry said, his voice suddenly lower, his smile losing its earlier warmth.

As Étienne approached, Henry reached out, his hand snaking around Étienne's waist, pulling him down onto the bed. Étienne felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach.

"You're a pretty lad, Étienne," Henry murmured, his breath hot against Étienne's ear. "I've been watching you."

Étienne tried to pull away, but Henry's grip tightened. "Please, Henry," Étienne stammered, a cold fear gripping him.

Henry's smile turned cruel. "Don't play coy with me. I know what you're like. You've got that… look about you." His hand moved possessively, his touch suddenly rough and unwelcome.

Étienne's mind raced. He felt a surge of panic, a sickening echo of the vulnerability he had endured for years with his stepfather. He struggled against Henry's hold, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Let me go!" Étienne pleaded, his voice trembling.

Henry chuckled, a harsh, unpleasant sound. "And why would I do that? You're here to serve, aren't you? And I have a particular… service in mind."

Étienne was lost, Henry was both physically stronger and in a position of power. Struggle as he might his pleas fell on deaf ears and he was forced to submit. Just as he had endured life at home with his stepfather, before entering service at the French palace, so he acquiesced to Henry's lust, fearing what might happen should he resist.

The encounter left Étienne shaken and disgusted. Henry, exploiting Étienne's newcomer status and his own position within the palace hierarchy, had used a false pretense of friendship to satisfy his own desires. The vibrant tapestry of palace life had suddenly revealed a dark and predatory thread.

Étienne retreated, his trust in Henry shattered. The palace, which had initially seemed like a place of wonder, now felt treacherous. He was alone, navigating a complex and potentially dangerous world, the memory of Tom's genuine kindness a stark contrast to the cold exploitation he had just experienced. He knew he had to be more careful, more discerning, in this new and unforgiving environment, where smiles could mask cruel intentions and friendship could be a dangerous deception.

The immediate aftermath of the assault left Étienne reeling, a cold dread settling deep within him. The opulent surroundings of the palace, once holding a glimmer of novelty, now felt suffocating, each gilded surface seeming to mock his violated state. Shame warred with a burning, impotent rage. He scrubbed his skin raw in the communal washing room, as if he could physically cleanse himself of Henry's touch, but the violation felt ingrained, a stain on his very being.

Sleep offered little respite. Nightmares plagued him – shadowy figures with Henry's cruel smile, the suffocating weight of his body, the feeling of being trapped and powerless. He would wake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, the silence of the dormitory amplifying his isolation. He avoided Henry, his stomach churning at the mere sight of him in the palace corridors. Henry, for his part, acted as if nothing had happened, his usual charming façade firmly in place, occasionally casting a knowing, possessive glance Étienne's way, a silent reminder of his power.

Étienne knew he couldn't stay silent. The injustice of what had happened festered within him, threatening to consume him. He thought of Tom, of the genuine kindness he had shown, a stark contrast to Henry's predatory cruelty. The memory strengthened his resolve. He wouldn't let Henry's actions define him. He wouldn't become a victim.

His first instinct was to confide in someone, to seek help within the palace walls. But who could he trust? He had arrived with the prince, a virtual unknown. The other attendants seemed either indifferent or aligned with those in positions of power, like Henry. The memory of Monsieur Dubois's impassive face in France served as a chilling reminder that authority didn't always equate to justice.

He considered the idea of speaking to Charles. He had shown him kindness, ensuring his passage to England. But the Prince moved in rarefied circles, his mind likely occupied with matters of state and the delicate political landscape surrounding his brother. Would he truly care about the plight of a lowly page? And what if Henry, with his established connections within the court, twisted the narrative? The risk felt too great.

Alone and feeling increasingly isolated, Étienne began to observe. He watched the intricate dance of palace life, the subtle power dynamics, the unspoken alliances and rivalries. He learned who held influence, who was trusted, and who seemed to operate outside the usual hierarchies.

His attention was drawn to an older servant, a woman named Agnes who worked in the royal kitchens. She was quiet and unassuming, her face etched with a lifetime of service, but there was a shrewdness in her eyes that Étienne had noticed. She seemed to move through the palace with a quiet authority, privy to the inner workings without being directly involved in courtly intrigue.

Gathering his courage, Étienne approached Agnes one afternoon in the bustling kitchens, offering to help with some of the more menial tasks. He worked silently beside her for a while, his heart pounding with nervousness. Finally, when they were somewhat apart from the other servants, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

He didn't reveal the full extent of Henry's violation, finding the words still too difficult to utter. Instead, he spoke of Henry's unwanted advances, his veiled threats, and the fear he felt. He presented himself as a young, vulnerable newcomer being preyed upon by someone more established.

Agnes listened intently, her hands still moving deftly as she prepared vegetables. Her expression remained impassive, giving nothing away. When Étienne finished, she didn't offer immediate comfort or outrage. Instead, she simply said, her voice low and steady, "Power often wears a charming mask, boy. And silence protects the wicked."

Her words, though not overtly supportive, resonated deeply with Étienne. He sensed a knowingness in her gaze, a hint of understanding of the darker undercurrents of palace life.

"What can I do?" Étienne asked, his voice filled with desperation.

Agnes finally looked directly at him, her eyes sharp. "Be patient. Observe. And when the time is right, speak with truth, but choose your audience wisely. Not everyone in this gilded cage has clean hands."

Her advice was cryptic but offered a glimmer of hope. Étienne took her words to heart. He continued his duties, his outward demeanor subdued but his inner resolve hardening. He became a keen observer, noting Henry's interactions with others, the subtle ways he exerted his influence. He listened to snippets of conversations, piecing together the complex web of relationships within the court.

His plan began to form slowly, like a seed pushing through hard ground. He knew he couldn't directly confront Henry without risking his own safety and reputation. He needed leverage, proof of Henry's character, something that would expose him without leaving Étienne vulnerable.

He started paying closer attention to Henry's other interactions with the younger attendants, noticing the same possessive glances, the same subtle manipulations he had experienced himself. He realized he wasn't Henry's first target, and likely wouldn't be his last.

His plan was risky, but it was the only one that offered a chance of justice. He would gather evidence, however small, of Henry's predatory behavior. He would seek out others who might have been similarly targeted, offering them a chance to speak their truth together. And then, armed with this collective testimony, he would choose his moment carefully, seeking an audience with someone who held genuine authority and a sense of fairness, someone who might actually listen to the whispers from the shadows of the palace. The fear was still there, a knot in his stomach, but it was now intertwined with a steely determination. He would not be silenced. He would find a way to make Henry answer for what he had done.

Several weeks passed, each day a tightrope walk for Étienne. He continued his duties, his interactions with Henry kept to a bare minimum, a carefully constructed wall of polite distance between them. He quietly sought out other young attendants, his inquiries subtle, his demeanor cautious. He found a few who flinched at the mention of Henry's name, their eyes holding a flicker of fear or resentment, but none were yet willing to speak openly. Agnes's words echoed in his mind: "Be patient. Observe."

One evening, a royal page approached Étienne with a direct summons. "The Prince requests your presence in his private chambers."

A wave of apprehension washed over Étienne. He had had little direct interaction with Charles since their arrival, his duties mostly revolving around the general needs of the household. He wondered what the prince could possibly want.

He found Charles in his lavishly appointed study, surrounded by books and papers, a half-empty wine goblet on a nearby table. The prince looked weary, the initial excitement of his return to England seemingly tempered by the weight of political manoeuvering and courtly obligations.

"Étienne," Charles said, his gaze direct. "You were with me in France, were you not? You assisted in… my departure."

Étienne nodded, his heart pounding slightly. "Yes, Your Highness."

Charles's expression softened slightly. "You showed courage and loyalty then. I do not forget such things." He gestured to a seat. "Sit. Tell me, how have you found life here in the palace?"

Étienne hesitated. How much could he reveal? He opted for a carefully worded response. "It is… overwhelming, Your Highness. The customs are different, the pace relentless."

Charles sighed. "Indeed. Court life can be a viper's nest. One must tread carefully." He paused, studying Étienne. "I have noticed… a certain quietness about you. Is everything well?"

Emboldened by the prince's unexpected concern and the weariness in his eyes that mirrored his own inner turmoil, Étienne decided to take a risk. He lowered his voice and spoke of Henry, carefully omitting the most brutal details but conveying the unwanted advances, the sense of violation and powerlessness he had experienced. He spoke of Henry's reputation among some of the younger attendants, the fear he instilled.

Charles listened intently, his initial weariness replaced by a growing intensity. When Étienne finished, the prince remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight.

"Thank you for telling me this, Étienne," Charles said finally, his voice low and grave. "Such behavior cannot be tolerated within my household. I was… made aware of certain… inclinations of Henry's before, whispers that I perhaps dismissed too lightly. Your words confirm a darker truth."

Charles spent the rest of the evening speaking with Étienne, asking gentle but probing questions, his demeanor shifting from regal detachment to genuine concern. He seemed genuinely troubled by Étienne's account, a flicker of protectiveness in his eyes. As the hours passed, and the wine flowed freely, a sense of unexpected intimacy grew between them, a shared vulnerability in the opulent surroundings. Étienne found himself drawn to the prince's unexpected empathy, a stark contrast to the cold indifference he had encountered elsewhere in the palace.

That night, Étienne did not return to the communal dormitory. He remained in Charles's chambers, finding a strange comfort in the prince's presence. There was a shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness that could lurk beneath the gilded surface of royalty.

The following morning, a palpable tension hung in the air throughout the palace. Rumors spread like wildfire, whispers of a royal investigation. By midday, Henry was summoned before the prince and a small council. Étienne, kept discreetly out of sight but within earshot, heard the raised voices, the denials, and finally, the pronouncement of punishment.

Henry was stripped of his position within the royal household. His reputation, once a source of power, was now tarnished. He was banished from the court, sent away with a stern warning never to return.

Étienne watched from a distance as a disgraced and ashen-faced Henry was escorted from the palace grounds. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over him – relief, certainly, but also a lingering sadness for the pain and fear he had endured. Justice, of a sort, had been served, but the scars of the violation remained.

As Henry disappeared through the palace gates, Charles sought out Étienne. His expression was serious but held a hint of understanding. "I trust this brings you some measure of peace, Étienne," he said quietly.

Étienne met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "It… it helps, Your Highness. Thank you for believing me."

Charles placed a hand on Étienne's shoulder, a gesture that felt surprisingly genuine. "You showed courage, Étienne. More than many in this court possess. Remember that."

The incident marked a turning point for Étienne in the English court. He had faced the darkness and found a sliver of justice. He had also forged an unexpected connection with his prince, a bond born from shared vulnerability and a recognition of the shadows within the gilded cage. The palace still held its dangers and complexities, but Étienne no longer felt quite so adrift. He had found a voice, and in doing so, had begun to find his place.

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