The Kings Boy - A Medieval Novel - 3. Whispers and Wanderlust

The initial night spent in Charles’s chambers was not an isolated incident. In the weeks that followed, Étienne found himself summoned to the prince’s private quarters with increasing regularity. What began as a gesture of comfort and reassurance evolved into a more intimate companionship. The formal address of "Your Highness" gradually softened to a more familiar "Charles" within the confines of those richly adorned rooms.

Charles, burdened by the weight of his precarious position and the constant scrutiny of the English court, seemed to find solace in Étienne’s quiet presence. He would speak of his anxieties, his frustrations with the political machinations, the longing for a stability that still felt elusive. Étienne, in turn, offered a listening ear, his own experiences giving him a quiet understanding of vulnerability and the need for trust.

Their conversations often stretched late into the night, fueled by wine and a growing sense of ease in each other’s company. Charles, a man of considerable charm and charisma, possessed a natural warmth that Étienne found increasingly alluring. The physical closeness that had begun as a physical demand, a quenching of lust, began to take on a different quality. A lingering touch of hands, a shared glance held a moment too long, a comfortable silence that hummed with unspoken feelings.

Soon, Étienne found himself sharing the prince’s bed almost every night. It began as a duty which he willingly accepted, he was at the command of the Prince both for his normal palace duties and those other desires in the bed chamber. As familiarity grew, so did the intimacy. A casual embrace might linger, a comforting arm across Étienne’s shoulders might tighten into a more possessive hold.

Étienne did not find these developments disagreeable. In truth, he found himself drawn to Charles in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The prince possessed a certain world-weariness that resonated with Étienne’s own recent hardships, yet he also had a playful charm and a genuine kindness that shone through his regal bearing. He appreciated the prince’s attentiveness, the way Charles seemed to see beyond his role as a mere attendant.

In some ways, Charles filled a void Étienne hadn’t even realised existed. His own father had died when he was a young boy of seven, leaving a lingering ache of loss and a yearning for guidance. Charles, nearly ten years his senior, possessed a natural authority, a confidence that Étienne found both reassuring and attractive. There was a paternal quality in the way Charles sometimes looked after him, ensuring his comfort, offering advice. Yet, there was also the undeniable spark of something more, a mutual attraction that transcended the boundaries of rank and circumstance.

Their intimacy deepened, becoming a source of shared pleasure. Caresses lingered, kisses became more tender, and the nights they spent together were filled with a quiet exploration of each other’s bodies. For Étienne, it was a journey of sensual discovery, a blossoming of feelings he had only just begun to understand during his brief encounter with Tom. But with Charles, there was an added layer of emotional connection, a sense of being truly seen and desired by someone he admired and, increasingly, loved.

Charles, too, seemed to find solace and perhaps even affection in Étienne’s company. He treated the young man with a tenderness that went beyond the casual dalliances he likely indulged in with others in the court. There was a protectiveness in his touch, a genuine concern for Étienne’s well-being which hinted at a deeper attachment. In Étienne, perhaps, Charles found a respite from the demanding world of court, someone who saw him not just as a prince, but as a man whom he could comfort and soothe.

The depth of their relationship remained a closely guarded secret, a fragile intimacy blossoming in the shadows of the palace. They navigated the treacherous currents of court life with a careful discretion, aware of the scandal that would erupt if their closeness were discovered. But within the privacy of Charles’s chambers, they found a haven, a space where rank and expectation faded away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of two souls finding solace and affection in each other’s arms. For Étienne, Charles was becoming more than just his prince; he was a protector, a confidant, and perhaps, something akin to the family he had lost so long ago.

One night, as a storm was raging outside, mirroring the disquiet that had begun to simmer beneath the polished veneer of the English court, Étienne became confident enough to share his deepest secrets. Rain lashed against the leaded glass windows, punctuated by the ominous rumble of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the palace. Inside, however, a fragile warmth lingered in Charles’s chambers. The embers in the fireplace glowed softly, casting dancing shadows on the tapestried walls, and the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and the lingering musk of their recent intimacy.

Étienne lay naked, nestled beside Charles, the silken sheets tangled around them. The prince’s arm was draped possessively across his waist, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on Étienne’s hip. The earlier passion had subsided into a comfortable quietude, a sense of shared vulnerability that the storm outside seemed to amplify.

It was in this hushed intimacy that Étienne found the courage to speak of the shadows that had haunted his young life, the memories he had long suppressed. The journey from France, the whirlwind of the English court, and the unexpected closeness with Charles had somehow created a space where he felt safe enough to finally unburden himself.

He began hesitantly, his voice low and thick with emotion, speaking of his mother, an English lady who had, against the wishes of her family, married a Frenchman. He described the early years, a fleeting period of relative peace before his stepfather’s true nature revealed itself.

Then, the words began to flow more freely, a torrent of long-held pain. He spoke of the man’s bitter resentment towards the English, a hatred that often manifested in cruel words directed at Étienne, a constant reminder of his English heritage. He recounted the beatings, the sting of the martinet across his bare backside, the arbitrary punishments that left welts and a gnawing fear.

His voice grew softer, almost a whisper, he had a tear in his eye as he spoke of the other abuses, the debauched pleasures his stepfather had forced upon him, the violation of his young body and spirit. He didn’t go into graphic detail, the memories themselves still too raw, but the implication hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight of shame and trauma.

Charles listened intently, his arm tightening around Étienne’s waist. His usual playful demeanor was gone, replaced by a profound stillness and a furrowed brow. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer platitudes, but simply held Étienne close, a silent offering of support and empathy. The only sounds in the room were Étienne’s soft voice, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the windows and the distant growl of thunder.

When Étienne finally fell silent, exhausted by the outpouring of his painful memories, Charles held him tighter. He pressed a gentle kiss to Étienne’s hair, his lips lingering there for a long moment.

“Étienne,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I… I had no idea.” There was a raw sincerity in his tone, a depth of feeling that surprised Étienne.

Charles held him close throughout the rest of the storm-wracked night. He didn’t offer empty words, but his presence was a tangible comfort, a silent promise of protection that Étienne had never truly known before. In the shared intimacy of their bed, amidst the tempestuous weather mirroring the turmoil of the court, a new layer of understanding and trust deepened between them. Charles, the prince, had become something more – a confidant, a protector, a beacon of warmth against the long shadows of Étienne’s past. And for Étienne, finally sharing his burden felt like the first step towards healing, a fragile hope blossoming in the darkness.

The weight of the English court pressed heavily upon Charles. The initial euphoria of his return had long since dissipated, replaced by the gnawing realities of a kingdom still fractured, a father whose disappointment in his son’s capture lingered like a phantom limb, and the suffocating atmosphere of constant suspicion and ambition. Every smile seemed to mask a hidden agenda, every whispered word carried the potential for betrayal.

His relationship with Étienne, though a source of profound comfort and genuine affection, was another secret he had to guard fiercely. The fear of discovery, the inevitable scandal and condemnation, hung like a Damoclean sword above their heads. The need for secrecy, the constant pretense, began to feel like another gilded cage, albeit one lined with silk and shared with the person he had grown to love.

One particularly fraught evening, after enduring a tense audience with his father and navigating a labyrinth of veiled threats and political manoeuvring, Charles sought refuge in his chambers with Étienne. The air was thick with unspoken anxieties.

“I cannot bear this any longer,” Charles confessed, pacing restlessly. “This endless dance of deceit, the constant looking over my shoulder…”

Étienne watched him, his heart aching with a mixture of concern and a growing understanding of the prince’s torment.

It was then, amidst the shadows of the stifling atmosphere of the court, that a radical idea began to take root in Charles’s mind. He stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on some distant point.

“Constantinople,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Étienne frowned. “Constantinople, Your Highness?”

“The Crusade,” Charles declared, a sudden fire igniting in his eyes. “The call has gone out. The Ottoman Empire encroaches further. Christendom must unite.”

Étienne stared at him, bewildered. “But… Your Highness, that is war. A dangerous undertaking.”

“And this,” Charles swept his hand dismissively around the opulent chamber, “is a slow, agonizing death. Here, I am a pawn, a symbol, forever haunted by past failures. There… there is purpose, perhaps even redemption. A chance to forge my own destiny, away from these suffocating walls.”

The more Charles spoke of it, the more resolute he became. He wouldn’t raise an army, wouldn’t seek the King’s blessing for such a rash endeavour. He envisioned a small band of the truly faithful, men weary of the court’s poison, seeking genuine purpose in a righteous cause. And, undeniably, the thought of escaping with Étienne, far from the prying eyes and judgmental whispers of the court, held a powerful allure.

“I would go,” Charles said, his gaze meeting Étienne’s with an intensity that brooked no argument. “Just a few loyal souls… and you, Étienne. You have shown me a loyalty that transcends rank and circumstance. I cannot imagine facing such a journey without you.”

Étienne’s heart swelled with a complex mixture of fear and a fierce surge of devotion. The prospect of war was terrifying, the journey to Constantinople fraught with peril. Yet, the thought of remaining in the stifling atmosphere of the court, constantly hiding their love and witnessing Charles’s growing despair, was equally unbearable. And the unwavering faith Charles placed in him, the idea of facing the unknown together, held an undeniable pull.

“If it is your wish, Charles,” Étienne said softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination, “then I will go with you. To the ends of the earth, if need be.”

And so, the decision was made. In secret, Charles began to gather a small coterie of trusted individuals – a seasoned knight weary of courtly intrigue, a devout physician seeking a greater purpose, a few loyal guardsmen. Preparations were made in hushed tones, funds were discreetly gathered, and a ship was quietly chartered. Under the guise of a pilgrimage, they would slip away from the English court, seeking a different kind of battle, a different kind of freedom, with Étienne by Charles’s side. The storm within the palace walls had finally driven them towards a far more perilous, but perhaps ultimately more liberating, tempest.

The decision to join the crusade, impulsive as it seemed, quickly solidified in Charles’s mind. It became an all-consuming purpose, a way to channel his restless energy and escape the suffocating atmosphere of the English court. He spoke of it with a fervent conviction that drew a small circle of loyal followers to his banner.

First among them was Sir Kaelen, a knight in his late forties. His once gleaming armour now bore the marks of numerous campaigns, and his face was etched with the weariness of a man who had seen too much bloodshed. Yet, beneath the hardened exterior lay a deep-seated piety and a disillusionment with the petty squabbles of the English nobility. He saw in Charles’s call a chance for genuine valour and a return to a simpler, more honourable code.

Master Abraham joined their ranks, a physician whose skills were as renowned as his quiet devotion. He had ministered to the royal family for years but felt a growing unease with the court’s intrigues. The crusade offered him a chance to use his healing arts for a cause he believed in, tending to the sick and wounded in a land far from the grasping hands of England’s elite. He also carried a hidden knowledge of herbs and remedies gleaned from his travels, a valuable asset for the arduous journey ahead.

Rounding out their small company were three guardsmen, each chosen for their unwavering loyalty to Charles and their discreet nature. Gareth, a hulking man with a quiet strength; Rhys, nimble and quick-witted; and young Thomas, whose earnestness and unwavering faith made up for his lack of experience. They were men who asked few questions, their devotion to the prince their guiding principle.

Étienne, of course, was an integral part of this clandestine exodus. He moved with a quiet efficiency, assisting Charles in the delicate preparations. He helped gather supplies, secure passage, and ensured their departure would raise minimal suspicion. His presence was a silent testament to the bond he shared with the prince, a connection that transcended the rigid hierarchies of the court.

Under the guise of a religious pilgrimage to the Holy Land, they made their way to the bustling port of Bristol. Charles, shedding the ostentatious finery of the court, dressed in simpler, more practical attire. The change seemed to lift a weight from his shoulders, a tangible shedding of his royal burden.

The ship they had chartered, the Peregrine, was a sturdy merchant vessel, its hull weathered by countless voyages. Captain Abraham, a grizzled seaman with eyes that held the wisdom of the tides, had been discreetly approached and handsomely compensated. They would take westward course, which would eventually veer south and east.

The night of their departure was cloaked in secrecy. Under the cover of darkness, their small group boarded the Peregrine, their belongings packed in sturdy chests. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and a palpable sense of anticipation, tinged with a hint of trepidation.

As the Peregrine slipped its moorings and glided silently out of the harbour, Étienne stood at the railing beside Charles. The lights of Bristol receded in the distance, fading into the inky blackness. Above them, the stars shone with a clarity rarely seen in the cloud covered skies of England.

Charles turned to Étienne, a rare smile gracing his lips. “We are free, Étienne,” he said, his voice barely a whisper above the creak of the ship and the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. “Free from the vipers’ nest, free to forge our own path.”

Étienne met his gaze, a sense of shared purpose uniting them. The fear of the unknown was still there, a bump in his stomach, but it was overshadowed by a sense of liberation and the unwavering presence of the man he had come to love.

There in Charles' cabin to the rhythm of the rolling sea the Prince found a new force. As he pulled the svelte form of the boy who lay next to him into a vigorous embrace, he turned him over and with a lustful abandon plunged his lance home, hammering his way to an ecstatic climax. Étienne too, for his part found a release which echoed that of the prince's.

The Peregrine sailed into the vast expanse of the Atlantic, its sails catching the wind, carrying its small band of pilgrims – a prince seeking redemption, a knight seeking honour, a physician seeking purpose, loyal guardsmen, and a young man bound by love and loyalty – towards the distant shores of Constantinople and the unfolding drama of the crusade against the Ottoman Empire. The intrigues of the English court were now a distant memory, replaced by the uncertain but potentially transformative journey into the heart of a holy war.

After what felt like an eternity of rolling waves and the endless horizon, the Peregrine finally navigated the narrow straits of Gibraltar, the ancient Pillars of Hercules standing sentinel on either side. The familiar scent of the sea was now mingled with the aromas of the Mediterranean – spices, citrus, and the earthy smell of foreign soil. Captain Abraham steered them into a bustling port on the Iberian Peninsula, its whitewashed buildings clinging to the hillside, a vibrant tapestry against the azure sky.

The stop was intended for resupply, a crucial juncture before their long voyage east. Charles, eager to stretch his legs and observe the local customs, granted his companions leave to explore the town in small groups. Étienne, however, was entrusted with the vital task of overseeing the acquisition of provisions. His meticulous nature and newfound confidence made him a reliable choice for this important duty.

Accompanied by Gareth, Étienne spent the better part of a day haggling with local merchants, his French proving surprisingly useful in the lively marketplace. They secured barrels of salted meat, sacks of dried beans and lentils, casks of fresh water, and bolts of sturdy canvas for repairs. The task was nearing completion, the hold of the Peregrine gradually filling with the necessities for their journey.

However, a crucial item remained elusive: rum. The sailors, accustomed to their daily ration, would not be happy about the prospect of a dry voyage. Étienne, understanding the importance of morale on a long sea journey, set off to locate the rum supplier mentioned by Captain Abraham.

The address led him away from the main thoroughfare, down a network of narrow, winding alleyways, the air growing thick with the smells of fish and unwashed refuse. He found the dimly lit warehouse, its sign barely legible, tucked away in a less reputable part of the port. The owner whom he sought was to be found in the tavern along the quayside. It was there, over a bottle of deep red wine that Étienne secured the important missing rum supply.

As Étienne emerged from the tavern after confirming a substantial stock of potent rum, he was suddenly surrounded. A group of rough-looking men, their faces scarred and their eyes glinting with menace, blocked his path. They spoke in a guttural dialect Étienne didn’t understand, but their intentions were clear. They were after the coins he carried, the remaining funds for the ship’s provisions.

Fear clenched Étienne’s gut, but he stood his ground, clutching the small pouch of coins tightly. He tried to speak in French, then English, but his pleas were met with sneers and rough shoves. One of the men lunged for the pouch, and Étienne instinctively recoiled.

A scuffle ensued, Étienne agile but outnumbered. He felt a sharp blow to his head, and stars exploded behind his eyes. He stumbled, his grip on the coins weakening. Just as the villains were about to overpower him, a familiar figure burst into the narrow alleyway.

It was Thomas. The young guardsman, having grown restless in the boisterous tavern where the others had gathered, had decided to return to the Peregrine to ensure everything was in order for their continued voyage. He had taken a shortcut through the back alleys and had stumbled upon Étienne’s desperate struggle. He didn't know it, but both Gareth and Rhys had also left a few minutes later, following along behind their fellow guardsmen.

Without hesitation, Thomas roared a challenge, drawing the short sword he carried at his hip. Though younger and smaller than some of the ruffians, his loyalty and fierce protectiveness of Étienne lent him a surprising ferocity.

The sudden appearance of an armed man startled the gang. They hesitated, their greed momentarily checked by the unexpected intervention. Thomas pressed his advantage, his movements quick and surprisingly skilled. He feinted and lunged, forcing the nearest thugs to back away.

Hearing the commotion, Gareth and Rhys arrived at the mouth of the alleyway, their imposing figures further intimidating the villains. With a final snarl, the gang scattered into the labyrinthine streets, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.

Étienne leaned against the wall, his head throbbing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Thomas rushed to his side, his young face etched with concern.

“Étienne! Are you alright?” he asked, his voice filled with worry.

Étienne nodded weakly, touching the bump forming on his head. “Yes… thanks to you, Thomas. They… they wanted the coin I had in the purse.”

Gareth and Rhys surveyed the empty alleyway, their hands still resting on the hilts of their swords. “Fools to try and rob one under the Prince’s protection,” Gareth grumbled.

Charles was concerned when he learned about what had happened. His expression a mixture of relief and anger as he examined Étienne’s injury. “Étienne, you should not have gone to such a place alone.”

“I… I thought it would be quicker, Your Highness,” Étienne mumbled, shamefaced. “The rum was vital for the crew.”

Charles sighed, placing a hand on Étienne’s shoulder. “Your diligence is commendable, but your safety is paramount. We are a small company, and we must look out for one another. Thomas, your quick thinking and bravery saved Étienne from a nasty situation. I am in your debt.”

Thomas flushed with pride.

The incident served as a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the relative safety of their ship. It also solidified the bonds within their small group, highlighting the loyalty and protectiveness that had formed amongst them. With the vital rum secured, thanks to Étienne’s dedication and Thomas’s timely intervention, the Peregrine prepared to make sail once more, its course firmly set towards the enigmatic East.

The brief respite ashore, though necessary, had created a subtle distance between Charles and Étienne. The shared purpose of procuring supplies and the ever-present awareness of potential danger in a foreign port had shifted their dynamic, a temporary return to the more formal roles of prince and attendant. But once the Peregrine was again swallowed by the vastness of the sea, the familiar rhythm of shipboard life reasserted itself, and with it, a resurgence of the deep longing Charles felt for Étienne.

The memory of Étienne’s vulnerability in the alley, the bump on his brow, had stirred a possessive protectiveness in Charles, a fierce need to reaffirm their bond, their intimacy. The weeks at sea had also been a period of enforced restraint, a simmering desire that now threatened to boil over.

Under the cloak of a star-dusted night, Charles penned a brief message, folding the small piece of parchment with deliberate care. He entrusted it to young Thomas, requesting the guardsman deliver it discreetly to Étienne. The message was simple, urgent: Midnight. My cabin. Secretly.

Étienne received the note with a flutter in his chest. The weeks of unspoken yearning had created a palpable tension between them, a magnetic pull that the confines of the ship only amplified. He slipped away from his shared sleeping quarters just before midnight, his footsteps light on the creaking wooden deck, the only sounds the gentle sway of the ship and the whisper of the wind in the rigging.

Charles awaited him in his cabin, the single lantern casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The air was thick with anticipation, the unspoken desire palpable between them. As Étienne entered, Charles’s gaze locked onto his, a raw hunger in his eyes.

There was no gentle preamble, no lingering caresses. The weeks of restraint, the underlying anxieties of their journey, seemed to fuel a more primal need. Charles reached for Étienne, his hands firm, pulling him close with an urgency that mirrored the tempest brewing within him.

Their kiss was immediate and demanding, a desperate claiming. Charles’s hands roamed Étienne’s body, his touch possessive, insistent. There was a wildness in his embrace, a departure from the tender intimacy they had shared in the relative safety of the English palace. Here, amidst the vast and unpredictable ocean, a different kind of passion took hold.

He pushed Étienne back against the cabin wall, his body pressing against the younger man’s, the hard planes of his chest and thighs leaving no room for doubt. Étienne responded in kind, his own desire, long suppressed, now rising to meet Charles’s fervent need.

Charles’s lovemaking that night was intense, driven by a potent cocktail of longing, protectiveness, and perhaps a subconscious need to reassert control in a world where so much felt uncertain. He took Étienne with a fierce possessiveness, his thrusts deep and demanding, a raw expression of the physical and emotional bond that bound them.

Étienne met his intensity with a mixture of yielding and fervent reciprocation. There was a vulnerability in his surrender, but also a deep trust and a passionate desire of his own. The rhythmic creaking of the ship became the soundtrack to their unrestrained intimacy, the vast ocean their silent witness.

Lost in their passionate embrace, neither of them noticed the fleeting shadow that passed by the slightly ajar cabin door. One of the crew, making his rounds, had glimpsed the two figures entwined within, the intensity of their encounter unmistakable. The sighting was brief, the crewman moving on quickly, but the image lingered, a seed of knowledge planted in the close confines of the ship.

As the night wore on, their passion eventually subsided, leaving them tangled together, breathless and sated. The earlier wildness softened into a tender embrace, a quiet understanding passing between them in the dim light. They had found solace and reaffirmation in each other’s arms, unaware that their secret, once confined to the walls of a palace, might now have a witness on the open sea.