Age of Edward Contest

Title: L’est de Calais

Your pen name: starfish422

Type of Edward: 16th-Century Spanish Soldier Edward

If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this contest visit: The Age of Edward C2 Community:
http://www(DOT)fanfiction(DOT)net/community/The_Age_of_Edward_Contest/70125/

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The day I left España, I kissed the soil goodbye, wondering if I would ever see my beloved country again.

As a loyal subject of King Filipe II, I became a soldier in his army when I was not yet fully grown. Though many of my friends dreamed to sail in the Armada, and others to join the arquebusiers, my pride came from my ability with a sword. My father, who had been a swordsman before my birth, had taught me to wield the long blade as soon as I was able to hoist it. The day I donned a white tunic with a red cross, signifying that I belonged to His Majesty’s Army, was the proudest day of my parents’ lives.

I was proud too, but deeply saddened, knowing that I would spend much of my life away from my home. I would miss my parents and my brothers and sisters; I would miss the rising sun throwing sparkles across the Mediterranean; I would even miss the Merino sheep that my family raised, providing some of the finest wool in Spain.

I was also worried by the tales of the long and arduous journey north on the Spanish Road. My mother was worried too, despite her pride in me. She’d always said I was her sensitive boy; though she never made me feel small for it, as my brothers did when they teased me. She was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to handle the emotional stress of war.

Though I was intimidated by the thought of war, I hoped Mami’s worries were exaggerated. My tercio, under the command of the Duke of Parma, would travel the Spanish Road north to Brussells. We would continue to Dunkirk, France, meeting the Spanish Armada there. Led by the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Armada would carry us across the English Channel – La Manche, the French called it. We would invade Queen Elizabeth, who had been excommunicated from our beloved Catholic church; who persecuted those who wished to attend Catholic mass; and in the final disgraceful act, executed the faithful Mary, Queen of Scots.

The invincible Spanish Armada couldn’t fail; and we, the tercio soldiers, would be carried across the Channel to destroy our Heavenly Father’s enemies.

Assuming we arrived in France alive.

I will not dwell on that journey, except to say that travelling the Spanish Road was nearly as awful as the stories made it out to be. We marched twelve miles every day, through every kind of weather; with little food and very poor sleep. Officers were sometimes able to find lodging along the way; but we soldiers were left to sleep along the roadside, under bushes or any makeshift shelter we could construct ourselves. The camp followers – the women who came along, carrying much of our food and supplies on their backs, tending to the sick, and servicing the healthy – as disgusting as many of them were, I sometimes wonder whether I would have survived the trip, without their presence. Many soldiers were struck by the black plague; our numbers were greatly reduced by their deaths.

It was many weeks later that my tercio finally arrived at Dunkirk. When we joined the large encampment where the other soldiers had already gathered, we went from constant movement, to almost none. For weeks we were left mostly to our own devices, aside from our daily drills.

Some of the soldiers took to travelling into Dunkirk on a daily basis. The town was busy, always busy, as ships came and went from the port. There were merchants and taverns to serve the citizens, the seamen and soldiers. The friends I’d made in my tercio – Rafael, Antonio and Cruz – took me to the taverns. They were a bit older than me, more experienced; they were from the larger cities – Barcelona, Madrid – and they knew things. Things a young boy from a good family in the country wouldn’t have heard discussed before.

I knew the differences between a man and a woman, of course; the obvious ones and the not as obvious. I had younger sisters, after all, whom I had occasionally helped care for when they were babies. But because I wasn’t married, nor even betrothed, I was unenlightened as to the ways of a man with a maid. My friends didn’t talk about what they knew – until they started to drink wine or ale. And then I thought they wouldn’t stop talking about it. As they described the sheer delight of congress, I was intrigued; but at the same time I was a bit disturbed that I didn’t have a desire to experience what they spoke of.

It was a shame, for I had ample opportunities to experiment. The camp followers, the tavern-maids, even some of the seemingly-innocent women in the town expressed an interest in me. I knew I wasn’t unpleasant to look at – there had been girls in my village in España who hid their faces behind their fans, fluttering their eyelashes at me when I passed. I had once overheard one telling her friend that she had once seen a bronze statue of Apollo, and that the resemblance was striking, down to the color of my hair. After hearing this, I had studied my reflection in the looking-glass in my mother’s room. My hair could be called bronze, certainly; the color of my eyes matched the emerald brooch my mother wore to mass on Sundays. I’d shrugged, doubting the validity of the silly girl’s memory. Besides, I wasn’t interested in their giggles and coquetry.

I was not completely immune to feelings of desire, however. While driving our sheep through the countryside one day, I came upon my older brother’s friend Armando. He was loading hay onto a wagon, a sheen of sweat glistening as the muscles rippled under his bare, tanned back. That night, when I was sure my brothers were asleep, I closed my eyes and thought of that image. I remembered the times I’d gone swimming with my brothers and a group of their friends – we had all stripped bare without a second thought. I thought of Armando unclothed, the water streaming down his body as he climbed up a rock to jump into the water…my hands roamed the sensitive area between my legs, feeling my phallus become long, hard; responsive to every soft touch and stroke. I didn’t understand why doing so would bring me pleasure so intense that my toes would curl and my heart would beat fast; only that it did happen, each time. And when my pleasure found me, from my throbbing length would be released a white fluid – like milk, only thicker.

When I was travelling from España to France, I didn’t bring myself pleasure for many weeks. Each night when I laid down, I would fall immediately to sleep, from sheer exhaustion; and often I had no shelter in which to sleep, so the privacy I needed was not afforded me.

Once we arrived in Dunkirk, however, I had nothing but time in the encampment. It was mid-June when we arrived there, pleasant for sleeping; food was reasonably plentiful; and young men had nothing to do but wait for word that the Armada awaited, to carry us across La Manche.

One night, my second week at the encampment, I went with Antonio into Dunkirk. Cruz and Rafael stayed behind to play rentoy with some of the other soldiers. It was a warm night, despite the breeze from the water; and we went to Le Chat Gris, a tavern where Antonio had spent several evenings making eyes at the barmaid. He said Cruz and Rafael teased him so relentlessly that he was unable to pursue her properly; but since they were not with us, he was free to unleash his charms upon her.

I sat and watched as he complimented her. I had had the opportunity to observe their conversations before, and I did not think she was the kind of girl who would provide extra services to the patrons. Antonio, however, was very good at what he did; and the barmaid – Olivie, we learned – was soon responding to his advances.

This meant, of course, that I was left to travel back to the encampment on my own. I did not mind; opportunities to be truly alone were nearly impossible, and sometimes I felt as though I could not hear my own thoughts over the voices of the rough men who surrounded me. I got lost in my thoughts as I journeyed back through the city; somewhere, I took a wrong turn, and by the time I realized it I was completely lost amid the side streets. The shops, by that time, were long closed; and knocking at the door of a home late at night would certainly see me staring down an angry Frenchman’s musket.

I tried to retrace my steps back in the direction I’d come from; but soon realized that it was pointless. Every street looked the same. Unsure of what to do, and growing tired, I sat down on the uneven cobblestone in front of a shop, leaning back to rest against the wall under the darkened windows. I hoped that if I stayed here until dawn broke, I would at least be able to use the growing light to tell me in which direction I was headed, and hopefully find my way out of the maze of streets. I also hoped that I wouldn’t fall asleep and be woken by a shopkeeper, angry at finding me asleep in front of his store. Spanish soldiers were, by most French, distrusted at best; despised at worst.

My eyelids grew heavy despite the growing breeze from the sea, which turned the night air chilly. Several times I heard footfalls through the intersection at the end of the street, but no one came near me.

Until he stood before me.

Against my will, I had dozed off. I dreamt that my youngest sister, Maria, was trying to wake me, nudging my feet. Suddenly a sharp voice beside my head startled me into consciousness.

“Monsieur!”

I jumped, reaching automatically for my sword, when a strong hand caught my wrist before I could draw it.

“Arrêtez! Je ne veux pas mourir ce soir,” the voice said. A man’s voice. My bleary eyes finally opened, and I squinted into the darkness, trying to see the face of the man who had found me; but the street was much too dark, and I could see only outlines.

He, on the other hand, could apparently see enough to know what I was wearing. “L’espagnol,” he said with a hint of disgust. “Parlez-vous français?”

I spoke very little French, having learned the words to ask for ale in a tavern or a bit of mutton at the shops; but could not hope to hold a conversation. I shook my head.

“How about English?” he asked in a heavily-accented voice. I nodded slightly. “What are you doing in front of my shop?” he demanded.

“I got lost,” I said weakly.

“If I open my door now, are you going to jump me? Have you any friends lying in wait nearby?”

“My friend left me at the tavern,” I said honestly, realizing I was at this man’s mercy. “I am alone.”

He was silent a moment, looking up and down the street. Apparently deciding I wasn’t a threat, he unlocked the door to the shop and drew my sword from its sheath before nudging me inside. “Go,” he said unceremoniously. I stumbled into the pitch-black shop, bumping into a counter as I did. He closed and bolted the door behind us.

“Wait here,” he said, and I obeyed as there was nothing else I could do. He left the room, returning a moment later with a lit candle. Walking the length of the counter at which I stood, he stopped opposite me and set the candle between us, giving me my first look at his face.

My mother’s bedroom at home had a painting of the angel Gabriel when he came to tell Mary that she would be blessed to carry God’s son. In the painting, Gabriel had golden hair that fell in ringlets to his shoulders; eyes as blue as the sky; and red lips like the poppies that grew outside our door. I had been fascinated by the painting all my life, and as a young man realized that what fascinated me was Gabriel himself. I had never seen a man so beautiful.

Until now.

The man who stood before me was Gabriel, come to life; and the reality was far superior to the art. His blonde hair was pulled back somewhat, but numerous unruly curls had escaped the tie and fell around his face. Even in the candlelight, his eyes were as blue and sparkling as the Mediterranean Sea; and his mouth, delicate and perfect, was as red as the most brilliant ruby. I gasped at the angelic figure before me, at the same time that his eyes widened in surprise.

“Mon dieu,” he swore, “you’re a child!”

“I am not!” I replied immediately, indignant at the affront. “I am a soldier of Spain.”

“How old are you, soldier of Spain?” he asked.

“I was eighteen last month,” I answered gravely.

“And have you a name?”

“I am Eduardo,” I replied with all the importance I could muster.

“Well, Eduardo,” he said, “I am Gaspard, and this is my shop.”

“You don’t look old enough to own a shop,” I countered honestly.

“I see I have wounded your pride,” he replied, ignoring my comment. “I couldn’t see you very well when we were outside; I didn’t realize how young…” He stopped short, and then said simply, “Please accept my apology for the affront.”

“I accept your apology,” I answered stiffly.

“In return for that, I will admit that this is not my shop,” he continued. “It belongs to my maman. My papa died two years ago, and she was given the right to continue his business. It will be my shop, though, when I become old enough to own the business.”

“How old are you?” I asked, because I honestly couldn’t tell. Like the angel in the painting, he had both the cherubic face of an infant and the wise look of an ancient.

“I will be twenty-two when the summer has passed,” he replied. “How is it that I found you, a soldier of Spain, sleeping on the street outside my door?”

“I told you, my friend left me at the tavern,” I answered. “He found a girl and once he was sure of her, he left me to travel back to the camp myself. I didn’t pay close attention to where I was going, and I got lost.”

He murmured under his breath, “Thank you, Father, that the soldiers of France have better sense.”

I bristled again, and muttered an oath at him. I was turning to leave when he reached across the counter to catch my sleeve. “I have offended you again; how clumsy I am. Please, once more, forgive my terrible lack of manners.” I remained facing the door, not looking at him. “I still have your sword,” he reminded me. I sighed and relented, turning back towards him; but casting a glare at him.

“Come,” he said, “let us be friends. I will take you back to your camp.” He extended one hand across the counter to me. I looked at it for a moment before finally deciding that I really did want to get back before my commander awoke; and this seemed like my best option, or rather the only one. I reached for his hand, intending a quick, business-like shake; but the moment my palm slid into his, a magnetic pull coursed between us. I was frozen, rooted to the floor, my eyes locked on his. I gasped as though I had accidentally taken hold of a hot pan. At the same moment, Gaspard’s eyes widened and his mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound emerged.

I do not know how long we stood, staring across the counter, our hands joined. It was seconds, and it was millennia. Finally he blinked, and looked down at our hands. Immediately I dropped his hand, looking away as I felt my face grow hot. “Your sword,” he said quietly, holding it out to me. I took it without meeting his eyes and sheathed it. He stepped to the door and unbolted it, waited for me to step past him, then closed and locked it behind us.

On the streets, we walked mostly in silence. I tried to take note of the way we went; but it impossible in the dark, in the unfamiliar city. “I didn’t ask what you sell,” I eventually remarked, as we left the city’s boundaries.

“Fabric,” he replied, and said no more. We continued our journey and I began to worry that I had offended him. He had been so confident and outgoing until I shook his hand. Had I trespassed against a local custom?

Finally he spoke again. “How often do you come into Dunkirk?” he asked quietly.

“Three or four evenings a week,” I replied. “I come in with my friends.”

“Your friends who abandoned you in a tavern?” he asked. In his voice I sensed a hardness, as though he sneered at me. “Which tavern were you at?”

“Le Chat Gris,” I answered, not liking the way he spoke of my friends.

“A fine establishment,” he muttered. “I suppose Olivie was your friend’s conquest. She likes to play hard to get.”

I stopped, and he continued for a few steps; then stopped and turned when he realized I was no longer in step with him. “Olivie is...a woman of ill repute?”

He threw his head back, his laugh splitting the night. “Did you think she was the Virgin Mary? You must be from the country, child.”

I scowled, finally fed up with his condescension; the way he made fun and then pretended to apologize. My hand balled into a fist at my side, and while he was still laughing, I swung my fist at his face, hitting his jaw.

He staggered backward; then regaining his balance, he looked incredulously at me for a moment, and launched himself into me. His arms wrapped around my waist as he reached me, pulling me to the grass with him. We rolled, tangled in each other, throwing blows which sometimes hit their mark; the dark made it difficult to inflict much real damage.

Eventually Gaspard pinned me on the ground on my back; he straddled my stomach, holding my arms to the ground. Both of us panted as he said, “Enough, Eduardo! I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You are French,” I spat. “You don’t care who you hurt.”

“I said enough!” he repeated, ignoring my insult. “I’m going to let you go; will you try to strike me again?” I didn’t answer, twisting against the hands that held my arms to the ground. “Eduardo!” he said again. “Please don’t struggle. I don’t want to hurt you.”

After a few moments, the fire left my spirit; the desire to inflict pain upon him subsided. I stopped resisting. He kept his hands on my arms, but loosened his grip somewhat. His face was above mine; I could smell his skin and his sweet breath as we both panted. Slowly he let go of one of my arms, and brought his free hand to my face. He gently drew his fingertips across my cheekbone. Softly he asked, “Did I hurt your face?”

Not trusting myself to speak, I shook my head. He had landed one sharp blow on my chin; but I would not admit it.

“Good,” he whispered. “This face should be handled gently.” Then slowly, painfully slowly, his face drew nearer to mine; his breath quickening although we no longer struggled. “Like this,” he said, and softly pressed his lips to mine. He held them for a long moment; then released me, keeping his face close to mine. “Gently,” he breathed.

For a moment I was frozen, unable to believe what had happened. First the angel Gabriel had come to life from a painting in Spain; then he found me sleeping against his door in Dunkirk, and now he was kissing me in a field. My hand still lay on the ground where Gaspard had released it; I reached up to run my fingers through those curls that tempted me. As I did, Gaspard closed his eyes and sighed with a soft hum.

It was at this time, however, that I realized that the sky to the east was starting to lighten from black to dark blue. I knew that if I didn’t return to camp soon, I would be missed. And Antonio would be wondering—

Antonio!

His face flashed before my eyes, and I sat up quickly, throwing the unsuspecting Gaspard to the side. What would Antonio say if he knew I was kissing a man? What would Cruz and Rafael say?

Suddenly terrified, I jumped to my feet. Gaspard, appearing stunned by my sudden change, remained on the ground. “I have to go!” I said, panicking.

My words spurred him into action. “Eduardo, wait!” he cried, scrambling to stand. I had already started to run in the direction of the camp, but he easily caught me and grabbed my hand, tugging on it to slow me down. “I’m sorry I hit you!”

“I don’t care that you hit me,” I spat. “At least hitting is something a man does to another man!”

He slowed to a stop, taking my left hand in both of his. He was taller and heavier than I, and I could do little to resist his physical strength; so I was slowed as well, to all but a stop. “Please, Eduardo,” he begged, as I tried to tug my hand free. “I don’t know what I was thinking...”

“I don’t care,” I replied coldly. “Just let me go, Gaspard. I must return to the camp. Either let me go, or I will pull you with me the entire way.”

“Wait,” he pleaded again, “please, just wait a moment. Let me speak, and then I promise I will let you go.”

I stopped resisting him; but he held his double-fisted grasp on my hand, afraid I would bolt again. “I’m listening,” I said.

“Will you...” he started and then stopped. In the faint light, I saw him bite his lip and look to the ground.

“Is that all?” I asked. I knew I was being unkind; I didn’t care.

“Eduardo,” he said, “will you come back? Will you come to Dunkirk again and see me?”

“I will come to Dunkirk,” I answered. “I will come with my friends, and we go to Le Chat Gris, and we will drink ale, and we will make love to lusty French women. And then we will go to England to slay the enemies of our Heavenly Father. And I will not think of you again. I will not come to see you, Gaspard.”

His face, which at the beginning of my speech had been full of hope, was now a picture of misery. I felt the slightest twinge of conscience for being cruel to him; but it was all but lost in the mortification I felt at what had happened.

True to his word, he quietly said, “God bless you, Eduardo,” and released my hand. Without a word, I turned and fled.

Antonio was awake when I slipped into our tent. Very quietly, he asked me where I’d been, and I hissed at him for abandoning me in the bar. It was his fault I’d become lost in Dunkirk and been discovered by...him.

That day, after only a few hours of sleep, I performed our drills like a man dead on his feet. I went to bed early that night. I had little energy to let my mind wander to unwholesome things that day.

The next day, I was completely rested, and performed our drills with a dedication unparalleled in all of His Majesty’s army. I reminded myself that I was a soldier of España, preparing to fight against the enemies of my country, my king and my god. I had no trouble keeping my mind focused.

That night I had a dream that I was in my mother’s room back home in España, looking at the painting; when suddenly Gabriel whispered, “God bless you, Eduardo.” But it was not the angel Gabriel who spoke; the voice belonged to Gaspard.

The next day, my mind wasn’t on my drills. It wasn’t with my country, my king or my god. My mind kept straying to memories of how honey-colored ringlets had felt in my hand (like spools of spun gold); what another person’s lips felt like when pressed to mine (much softer than I would have imagined); and that soft whispered blessing, given without reservation to me who had treated him with such cruelty.

That afternoon when our drills were complete, I told Antonio that I wished to go in to Dunkirk. He, too, planned to go, and suggested Le Chat Gris, though he was quick to offer to go anywhere I wanted. He had been very apologetic since his actions had left me stranded the other night. I told him I would travel as far as the city with him, but that he should make his own way after that. He was curious as to my plans, but I told him only that I wished to look at some wool; to compare the quality to what our Merinos produced.

We traveled to the city together, and I saw him to the door of the tavern. He asked me whether I would not reconsider, and join him; dismissively I told him I didn’t have long before the shops closed. As soon as he was in the door, I asked the first Frenchman I saw if he could direct me to the wool shop in question. It was difficult as I knew neither Gaspard’s last name nor his mother’s name; fortunately the man I spoke to knew the place I was attempting to describe, and was gracious enough to take me there halfway, as he was headed in that direction himself.

Ten minutes later I stood a few feet from the entrance to the shop, staring at the door. I could turn around now and make my way back to Antonio; or I could walk to the door and go into the shop. I very nearly let my fear get the better of me; but after a few moments I took a deep breath and opened the door, holding it for a woman who was exiting the shop, before I stepped in.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust after stepping into the dark shop from the brilliant sunshine. When they did, I saw that Gaspard was standing behind the counter over which we had gazed at each other a few nights earlier. His back was to me as he lifted bolts of fabric to the shelf. A woman, almost certainly his mother, stood beside him, facing me. Her face was pleasant, though I sensed some distrust in her eyes. She didn’t speak to me, though; she turned instead to Gaspard and spoke to him. “Un soldat espagnol. Il ne comprend pas le français probablement.”

Soldat espagnol – that, I understood. Gaspard dropped the bolt of fabric he held before she finished speaking, whirling around to face me, his eyes wide. His mother, startled, chided him, “Quel garçon maladroit!”

“Je suis désolé, Maman,” he said quickly as he gathered up the fabric from the floor. She sniffed, turning on her heel, and left the room through a door at the back of the shop. When she was gone, he turned back to me. Even the dim light in the shop was much brighter than the candle that had illuminated him before; and I could see that neither my eyes nor my memory had done him justice. His golden hair, his sparkling eyes, the peaks of his lip...all were more vivid, more beautiful than I remembered.

“Eduardo,” he whispered, “you came to my shop.” He looked like he was too surprised to be truly happy yet.

“I had to see you,” I whispered back, fearful that his mother would overhear us, not knowing if she spoke English. “I could not stay away.”

Out loud, he said, “I have some wool that will rival Spain’s finest Merino.” Then quietly he said, “The shop will close in a few minutes; but I will be expected to have dinner with Maman. I can leave later; will you wait for me?”

As I preferred to wait until darkness had fallen, this suited me well. “I will wait,” I whispered. “Where will we meet?”

He gave me the details of an intersection where I should meet him. Since I had told Antonio I would be going to the shops, I decided to return to Le Chat Gris to spend the time with him. If I was gone for too long after the shops closed, he would become suspicious; whereas if I waited until he was well-oiled with ale, he would barely notice I was gone.

The hours seemed to creep more slowly than ever before; but finally the sun dropped below the horizon and by nine o’clock, dusk had settled out of doors. Antonio was once again in the grips of ale, and making eyes at his paramour; I told him quietly that I was going to go back to camp. He said he would be along closer to morning. Praying that he was being truthful, I left.

A few moments later, as I hurriedly made my way along Rue de La Manche, I spied Gaspard standing at the corner in the nearly-faded light. He saw me at the same time, and took several quick steps toward me closing the distance more quickly. When we reached each other, we stopped, still a few feet between us; both of us out of breath, not from the exertion but from the anticipation of seeing each other again.

“Why did you come back?” he asked quietly.

“I had to see you,” I said, repeating what I had told him earlier. “I was so rude to you the other night when I left you on the road.”

“Is that why you came? To apologize?” I could not be sure, but it seemed that the look on his face was disappointment. “Fine, I accept.” He started to turn to walk away, but I caught his arm. The same feeling that had engulfed me before when I took his hand, came over me again when I touched him.

“That was not the reason I came,” I said, my voice a bit louder than I intended, and a man walking on the other side of the street looked over at us as he passed. I lowered my voice when I continued, “Would I wait all this time just to apologize to you?”

Gaspard’s face softened, and he looked around at the other few people on the street before he said, “Come with me.”

We walked in the near-dark along several streets and passageways. I followed him silently, unquestioningly. I didn’t know where he was leading me; but I knew I could not walk away from him.

Finally we turned down a short street, its cobblestones ending at a small garden. The garden had tall trees and well-kept lawns; benches and a few small flower beds. Gaspard led me into the garden, and when we were well-hidden by the trees that surrounded the green space, he reached out to take my hand and led me to one of the benches.

We sat beside each other, our hands clasped – simply being together for long moments, before he spoke.

“You said you would not think of me,” he said quietly.

“I believed it to be true when I said it,” I replied.

“Was it not?”

“I thought of nothing but you,” I tell him. “Even in my dreams, you were there.”

“Eduardo,” he sighed, and slid closer to me, releasing my hand and putting his arm around my shoulder. “You were with me too. I thought I would only ever see you again in my sweetest memories.”

“Gaspard,” I whispered, laying my head on his shoulder, “I don’t know what’s happening. It is...unnatural, is it not? For men to feel this way about each other?”

He shook his head. “I felt this way once before, when I was younger – your age. The man I was...with...he said, how can it be unnatural if we both feel it? I think he was right.”

I was still unsure, but even amidst my confusion, I felt that I had no option. I had to be here with Gaspard. I lifted my face to his, hoping he would kiss me again. To my joy he leaned towards me, as though he too was powerless to stop the force that pulled us together. His soft red lips touched mine, and I felt that I would die of bliss.

That first night we spent in the garden, we talked a bit; we kissed often; but mostly we just sat together, drinking each other in. I told him that I didn’t know how much longer I’d be here – that soon we would carry out our orders to invade England. He became very quiet at this; and I wondered whether he was afraid for me. Finally his arms tightened around me, and he asked, “You have to go to war?”

“They are my orders,” I replied. “Many men will go, Gaspard. All are needed; I can’t ask someone to fight in my place.”

“No,” he replied, and didn’t bring it up again that night.

---

Many nights we met, always in our garden after dusk. I took to staying behind at camp when Antonio, Rafael or Cruz went to Dunkirk; and then would be careful not to let anyone I knew see me as I left camp in the late evening.

We would sit on the bench and hold each other close as we talked, our conversation peppered with kisses. As we spent more time together, our passion grew; sometimes I felt as though my body would burst into flames when Gaspard’s tongue slid past my lips.

One night, I asked Gaspard something that I’d been wondering about since that first night. I was curious; but embarrassed to let him know how truly naive I was. It took me a week before I found the courage to ask him.

“Gaspard?” I asked, as my head rested on his shoulder, his arm around me.

“Yes, my Eduardo?” he murmured as his fingers stroked my hair.

“You said you were with another man...”

“Yes.”

“In what way...were you with him?” My face flamed; I hoped he would understand what I was asking, that he wouldn’t need me to elaborate.

There was a long silence as he considered his answer. Finally he said, “We were lovers.”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t; because I couldn’t decide what I was feeling. I was at once jealous, relieved, aroused, and afraid; and I didn’t know which was foremost. I was jealous to think of Gaspard receiving pleasure from another man; relieved that he had experience where I had none; aroused at the thought that if I wished for the same, he would likely reciprocate; and afraid of what would happen if he did reciprocate.

“Are you upset, my Eduardo?” he asked, after we were silent for some time.

“I am feeling...many things,” I replied slowly – and truthfully.

“Please tell me,” he softly pleaded.

I thought for a long time of how to express myself. “I am not experienced; I have never been with a man or a woman,” I began. “But I understand...how it is done...”

“Yes?” he encouraged.

“Do you think...you and I...?”

He inhaled sharply, holding the air and then blowing it out slowly. “I want to, Eduardo,” he said quietly. “But not here. This—” he gestured at the garden around us “—it is too dangerous. If we were discovered...” He shook his head. “I will not put you in that danger. It is enough that you go to war soon.”

“Maybe...we could go away...” I thought out loud, desperate to find the answer.

“Where would we go?” he asked, his voice tinged by frustration. “And for how long? You are a soldier of Spain, Eduardo. If you leave, it is desertion. Are you willing to do that?”

“It wouldn’t be desertion if it was for only a day,” I protested.

“And during time of war, what would the punishment be for a soldier to disappear for a day?” he asked. The bitter tone of his voice stung me; I knew he was trying to make me see reason, but the way he spoke – as though there was no way we could work this out – brought sadness to the very depths of my soul.

“One day with you would be worth a lifetime of punishment afterward,” I answered, clearly and simply.

“Do not speak those words,” he implored, pulling me close to him, pressing his lips to mine as though to silence me. It worked, as for several moments the only sounds were made by our lips, our tongues, and our soft moans.

Leaving him in the garden was the most difficult part of my life during those days; when I could no longer put off the trip back to the camp. Each night I would promise him that I would return the next night. The truth was that I didn’t know this for sure, never knowing when the word might come that the Armada was arriving to meet us. Nevertheless, I made the promise, every night, before I kissed him goodbye and stole away into the darkness.

---

When the Armada came, it was not to Dunkirk. The Duke of Medina Sidonia, having being pursued up La Manche by the English, sent word to the Duke of Parma that he had, instead, anchored the Armada at Calais:

"I am anchored here two leagues from Calais with the enemy's fleet on my flank. They can cannonade me whenever they like, and I shall be unable to do them much harm in return."

The message, once it was received, threw the Duke of Parma and his officers into a state of confusion. Calais was over eight and a half leagues from Dunkirk. How were 16,000 soldiers to be moved so far? It was an utter impossibility.

That night, August 6, I did not go to see Gaspard in our garden. There was much unrest among my fellow soldiers, and I needed to stay at the camp. I knew Gaspard would have heard that the Armada was anchored at Calais, and he would realize what this entailed. The atmosphere in the camp was stressful, as we all wondered what the coming days would bring for the Armada and for our tercios. The difficult situation wore on me, and that night when I retired to my tent, I pictured Gaspard sitting alone on our bench, waiting fruitlessly in the dark; and I wept. I wept with fear, frustration, and loneliness; and with the belief that I may never see him again.

The next day was much as the day before – elevated tensions, short tempers. This had been planned for many months, and now the plans seemed to be in ruins. Again I went to bed without having seen Gaspard; and my despair grew.

That night I was woken from my sleep by enormous rumbles that echoed throughout the camp. The noise woke those of us who didn’t sleep deeply; we stood outside in the darkness, the occasional candle winking in the night air. There were murmurs from among the men, until finally I heard a shout, from a far away corner of the camp; like an army marching towards me, the cry grew louder and louder, being echoed from one man to the rest, until I understood what they said:

“Fire ships!!”

The words threw the camp into utter confusion; those who hadn’t been woken by the explosions were quickly roused by thousands of voices. I stood, watching the scene unfold around me as though I were looking through a pane of glass. The noise was deafening, I’m sure; yet I heard Antonio perfectly when he quietly said, “Nuestro Dios ha abandonado a sus hijos.”

I looked him in horror, shocked that he could say such a thing; he stood beside me, dressed as I was in breeches, a blouse and hastily-pulled-on boots. He simply looked back at me, and then went back into the tent. After a moment I followed him. He was lying on his back on his pallet on the hard ground. The candles being lit outside cast enough light that I could see his face. Tears ran down his temples, but he made no sound.

I didn’t know what to do, how I could comfort him; so I simply took his hand, saying nothing. We sat there for long moments in silence; until he broke it by saying, “I have not been with Olivie; not as a lover. I could not…I am in love with a girl in Madrid, Eduardo. I have been in love with her for many years. I wanted to tell her before I left, but my courage failed me…I did not tell her how I feel.”

“I am sorry, Antonio,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say.

He looked at me and squeezed my hand. “You should tell the one you love, while you have time.” Then, releasing my hand, he rolled over to face the tent wall, his back to me.

I didn’t have time to consider what his words implied – that he knew I was in love, maybe even that he knew my lover was a man. The implication was discarded, the implicit remained: I had to find Gaspard before the night was over.

Grabbing my jacket, I ran out of the tent and through the camp, running as fast as I could to get to the edge of the camp that faced Dunkirk. I passed through the camp outskirts, deserted at that time; all the soldiers having surged toward the middle of the camp where my tent was. Suddenly, I saw movement about 10 yards away, and I skidded to a stop.

Gaspard was there, waiting for me atop a horse, holding the reins of a second mount. “Eduardo, hurry!” he hissed. Without a second thought, I closed the distance to where he waited. I quickly mounted the second horse, and at Gaspard’s urgent insistence, his horse took off, headed west; mine following closely after.

For hours we rode, our horses cantering side by side in perfect rhythm, crossing the fields that lay next to the sandy beach. After we had passed Calais, the sun rose at our backs; and the small wisps of clouds that dotted the sky were drenched in pink and orange watercolours against the hazy blue.

Finally, pulling his horse up, Gaspard asked, “Are you hungry?”

I was famished, I realized; but asked, “What have we to eat?”

Gaspard smiled broadly, and lifted the flap of his saddlebag, pulling out wine, cheese, bread, and cherries. “Maman will never miss them,” he said and winked at me.

We dismounted and after cooling the horses, led them close to the border of the sand beach, tethering them where they could graze. In the pack behind my saddle I found a blanket and cured sausage. We carried our feast to the beach and I spread out the blanket, claiming a tiny square of that endless stretch of sand. Before we sat, Gaspard caught me around the waist and pulled me to him, claiming my mouth in a deep kiss.

Once we were seated, Gaspard opened the bottle of wine, and lifting it in my direction, said, “A votre santé.” Then he tipped it back and took a long draw from the bottle. After drinking, he held the bottle out to me.

I took it and, copying him, lifted the bottle and said, “Salud - dinero y amor.” With the last word – amor – his eyes snapped to mine. I took a swig from the bottle and when I held it back towards him, I felt a drop of the sweet liquid on my lower lip. His eyes were glued to my lips as I slid my tongue out to catch the drop. For a long moment, he continued to look at me as though mesmerized.

Finally, growing uncomfortable under his stare, I asked, “What?”

He blinked, and his eyes refocused from someplace very far away. Realizing how long he’d been staring at me, his eyes dropped to the blanket, his dark fringe of eyelashes fanning across his reddened cheeks. “Nothing,” he murmured. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

There on the beach, three miles from Cap Gris-Nez, we had a feast fit for the King and the Queen. The bread was the best I’d had since leaving España; nothing a soldier had could ever compare. The cheese was creamy and sharp, with a white rind that tasted like mushrooms. The cherries were warm and perfectly ripe; the juice from them ran down my chin and stained my blouse. I was too hungry to care. We decided to save the sausage and some of the bread for our afternoon meal.

As we ate, we talked about so many things we had never discussed in all our many evenings together – we compared our childhoods, talked about the differences in the weather through the seasons. We talked about our parents; I told him about my brother and sisters, since he had none. I told Gaspard how and why I had become a soldier, and about the long and arduous journey from España to Calais. Long after we had finished eating, we remained there on the blanket, looking out over La Manche, toward the dazzling white cliffs on the English side of the water; quietly sharing our thoughts and memories.

The day was very warm. By the time the sun was directly overhead, we were stifling, despite having discarded our jackets before we started eating. Gaspard looked out over the sparkling sea and suggested we go for a swim. We stripped down to our bare skin, leaving our clothes beside the blanket; and waded into the ocean. I felt like a young boy again as we played in the water, splashing, jumping over waves, shouting and laughing – without a care, and unabashed of our nakedness.

After a couple of hours we were exhausted, both from the water and from the early morning ride that had brought us here. We flopped onto our stomachs on the blanket, the sand shifting to cradle our tired bodies. The sun was still blazing, and it warmed us through. Beside me, Gaspard had already fallen asleep, his back rising and falling as his breaths became slow and deep. His curls looked to be bleached out even more by the salt water. His hair was pushed back away from his face, but one wet curl fell across his forehead. The last thing I did before I succumbed to my exhaustion, was reach out and tuck that curl behind his ear, patting it into place.

---

I was warm, cradled in a soft bed, and perfectly happy. My mother was rubbing my back softly and singing me a song. After a moment, though, I realized I didn’t recognize the song. Or the language in which it was sung. Or my mother’s voice.

Startling, I quickly raised my head, and looked directly into Gaspard’s eyes. He was laying close beside me, and his hand was gently gliding up my spine from my backside to my shoulders. The sun had dropped considerably toward the horizon behind Gaspard. His curls had dried in a wild array as he slept, and the sun shone through them, creating a halo around his head. When my startled eyes confronted his, he simply smiled and said, “Sshhhh, Eduardo.”

“Gaspard...?” I asked.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t resist. Your back...” His eyes left my face and followed his hand as he stroked across my shoulder blades.

I stretched out long on the blanket, luxuriating in the feel of his hand as it caressed me. As I stretched I rolled slightly onto my side, facing him. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bore into mine. His hand traveled as I rolled, sliding from my back to my hip, coming to rest there. I propped my head on my arm, mirroring his pose. With my other hand I reached out to trace a line from his shoulder, my eyes following my hand down across his chest, following the valley between the muscles there and through the small wisps of hair nestled between them. My fingers continued down, across the waves that rippled over his stomach. A small trail of dark hair started below his navel, beckoning my hand to continue down to where the hair thickened.

I hesitated, and looked at his face. His eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly. His face was a mix of rapture and anxious anticipation. His tongue gently came out to moisten his top lip, and my face gravitated towards that tongue; my nose was almost touching his when he opened his eyes. They held desire, longing, and wonder. I paused for just a moment to take in those eyes, and then I leaned in and pressed my lips to his.

As our lips held together, I heard his sharp intake of breath. I released his lips and captured them again, several times in succession; his responding each time I did. I felt his hand leave my hip and travel up my arm; when it reached my shoulder he grasped gently, pulling my body closer to his. The arm that was supporting his head, reached out to me, sliding under my neck. I shifted my body to lay flush with his; as I did, my engorged phallus touched his. His intimate skin touching mine sent a shock of pleasure throughout my groin; my hips thrust against my will and my hardness pushed into the smooth skin of his abdomen.

“Sorry,” I whispered, dropping my eyes away from his.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, pulling me closer still. I laid my head upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He smiled softly and began to kiss me again. His tongue emerged from between his lips, moistening the congress of our mouths. I pulled his lower lip into my mouth, sucking gently on it. This time he was the one to push his hips into mine; our erections, trapped between us, each pressed against the length of the other. He groaned and slid his tongue between my lips. I opened wider, encouraging him; wrapping my tongue around his, tasting, caressing.

One of my arms was trapped beneath my body; the other I slid around his waist, clasping him to me as tightly as I could. My desire for him was like a fire that threatened to consume me. Slowly I inched my hand further down his back: down, into the small hollow where the waist of his britches would sit. Down, where the rise of his backside began. Down, across two soft pillows of flesh that begged me to press my palm into them, grasp the pliable flesh and squeeze it like ripe fruit. Once I had kneaded the soft curves in my palm, I couldn’t stop. He moaned into my mouth as I caressed one smooth pillow and then the other. Our kisses became deeper, harder, more insistent. Our legs tangled together as we strove for our bodies to press against each other as much as possible. Our moans became louder, throatier.

Finally Gaspard pulled away from me, his eyes wild as his breath came in pants. He pulled on my shoulder, encouraging me to roll onto my stomach; when I did, he grasped my hips and pulled me up onto my knees. I shuddered, both in apprehension and in anticipation. I had heard enough vulgar talk amongst my fellow soldiers to know what men did when they were intimate with other men. I was afraid, even as I greatly desired it; and I tensed, whimpering, as his hands gently slid across my bottom.

“Eduardo,” he soothed with a low, soft breath. “It’s all right if you don’t want to. But please let me give you pleasure.”

I didn’t know exactly how he intended to give me pleasure. Still, his words calmed me, and my chest sunk lower to the blanket as I felt his cheek against my bottom. His whiskers had grown in just a bit since shaving yesterday, and the little bit of friction was delicious.

A moment later I felt his tongue against my opening; and I gasped at the shock of such an unexpected act. None of the soldiers had talked about this before. My shock, though, was quickly eclipsed by the sensation of what his tongue was doing to me - tracing a slow, torturous path around the delicate tissues. After several slow trips around the periphery, his tongue dipped into the centre, pressing into me. Again I gasped; but rather than shrinking away from him, now I pushed my hips back towards him, wordlessly begging for more – more on me, more in me. My phallus ached as it hung, rigid and untouched, between my legs.

His tongue left me briefly, and I whimpered. A moment later, I felt his finger gently caressing the same path on which his tongue had started. I began to tremble when he increased the pressure, pushing gently against the opening. After several moments his fingertip entered me, and a moan escaped my lips.

Without removing his finger from me, I felt him shifting his position below me, and soon he was on his back, his head sliding up between my legs. His tongue slid along the underside of my erection, and I groaned when he reached the hard knob at the end. His lips moistened, he took the knob into his mouth, and sucked my length deeply into his mouth. I cried out at the sensation, unparalleled in my very limited experience. This wasn’t the same as caressing myself with my hand; this was warmth and satin and soaking and glowing.

After just a moment, he released me, pulling away; with his hands he pushed on my hips, whispering that I should roll onto my back. When I was settled, he again descended onto to my length, lapping at it, sucking hungrily. My hands found their way into his hair, stroking his head and his temples and down the back of his neck as his mouth cast a spell over me. Very soon I felt a pressure building up at the root of my body, tensing, shuddering; I knew what this was, but never before had I done it in the presence of another person.

“Gas—Gaspaaaaard...” I wailed, as the pleasure consumed me. My body felt as though I had been lit on fire, a thousand sweet flames licking outwards from the location of Gaspard’s veneration, running through my veins and over my skin. My toes and fingers flexed in vain, seeking purchase in the sand but finding none. I knew that my body was producing the milky white fluid that accompanied this feeling; but Gaspard seemed to be containing it within his mouth.

When the shuddering fire finally subsided, Gaspard released my satin length, and pulled himself up to lay with me, half on top of me. He smiled and I wondered where he had done with the milk. He leaned in to kiss me; but I placed a hand on his face. I had to know.

“What did you do with the...the...white?” I asked, though my face flamed in mortification.

He tilted his head to the side, for a moment not understanding what I was asking him; then understanding dawned on his face and he smiled. “I swallowed it.”

I stared at him, aghast. “This is done?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “When one wants to carry his lover with him.”

“Gaspard,” I whispered, “Give me yours to carry with me.”

He leaned in to kiss me and this time my hand on his face drew him to me. My mouth opened and my tongue slid out to meet his as it swept between my lips. I could taste a saltiness that hadn’t been there before, and I assumed this was the taste of me, that he held inside him. For long moments we kissed, slowly, passionately; and then he started to slide up my body, positioning his hips so that they would hover above my face.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“You said you wanted me to...you wanted to carry me with you...” he said in confusion.

“Not here,” I said, grasping both of his hips and pushing them so his body moved back down mine, and his face hovered above mine. I lifted my knees, planting the soles of my feet on the blanket; and with a shaking hand, I reached down and took hold of his turgid, velvet length. “Here,” I whispered, positioning the knob at my opening where his mouth and fingers had previously been.

“Eduardo...” he murmured, stretching the syllables out in a long breath. “Are you sure?”

“Please, Gaspard,” I entreated him. “You are my...lover, yes?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I am your lover.”

“Be with me, then, as a lover does,” I averred.

“You must be prepared, Eduardo,” he warned gently, “or it will be painful for you.”

“I trust you to do this,” I answered, with complete confidence.

He kissed me again, and then slid down my body. Using his mouth and fingers, he moistened and probed and stretched my opening, my erection growing again as he did. Then he spit into his palm and spread it over his own hard length until it was slick.

“Are you ready?” he asked breathlessly when he was again positioned at my entrance, his hands grasping my hips.

And gently, slowly, he pushed his satin hardness into me. I cringed at first, the pain much more than I expected. He whispered words of encouragement to me, telling me to take a deep breath and let it go; pushing himself more deeply inside of me each time I exhaled.

Finally his thighs were pressed against my bottom, and he allowed his upper body to fall forward until he was supporting himself with his arms, his chest brushing against mine. He brought his face close, kissing my lips softly; and then rested his forehead against mine. “Are you all right?” he asked, his normally-smooth voice sounding strained.

“I am,” I answered. “Are you?”

He smiled, a wide smile that would make the sun weep with envy. “Very much,” he said, and gently pulled away from me, then pushed back in. The strain returned to his face; but I closed my eyes and let the feelings claim me. The hardness that stretched me; the silken feel of his tender skin, the way my length was trapped between us as he lowered his body onto mine. He thrust and retreated, again and again; the pressure that had already been released began to build in me again.

“Eduardo,” he whimpered. “My lover, you feel so good, so tight...I fear I cannot hold back.”

“Don’t hold back,” I urged him, knowing that his movements against me would bring me to my exquisite pleasure again very quickly. “Let your pleasure come, and mine will too.”

With those words he stiffened, his eyes closing, and his mouth dropped open as his face twisted into a visage of ecstasy. He cried, “Eduardo, mon dieu!” as he pushed into me over and over. With my hand making just a few strokes of my own length, I was soon with him. I felt more pleasure than I had dreamed was possible, knowing that he had given his milk to me.

Sweating, panting, he collapsed onto my chest, his lips coming immediately to mine and claiming them over and over again. When his hardness had subsided, he rolled off me; lying beside me, he pulled me into his arms so that we were facing each other, my head resting on his arm. He stroked my face gently with his fingertips.

“How do you say ‘I love you’ in French?” I asked in a whisper as I looked into his eyes.

“Je t’aime,” he whispered.

“Je t’aime, Gaspard,” I averred, attempting to mimic his inflection.

“Te amo, bello Eduardo,” he replied in my language, and kissed me again, deeply.

We remained that way for a long time, holding each other, whispering softly. He told me of the beauty of my green eyes, the coppery color of my hair, my soft lips; I told him that he was the angel from the painting, come to life. Between our soft words, we kissed each other, again and again.

As the sun sank below the horizon, my stomach rumbled. Gaspard suggested that we eat the sausage and the rest of the bread. When our physical hunger had been sated, he again wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, pulling the edges of the blanket up around us. We watched the stars appear one by one in the sky above us. I never wanted the moment to end.

But I knew it must, that we could not remain in this bubble forever.

When the night sky was a black velvet cushion littered with sparkling diamonds, I whispered to him, “I must go back, Gaspard.” He did not answer, pulling me tighter to his chest and kissing my cheek. “I must go,” I said again, quietly. “I may not have been missed today; but I must return to my tercio and find out what has happened.”

“I know,” he said, but his voice was not his own, and I realized he was weeping. “I fear I will never see you again, Eduardo.”

“You will see me again,” I promised. “I will still come to our garden each night, as I have done.”

“Yes,” he said simply, and kissed me deeply, passionately. When he pulled away, he said, “I will always love you, Eduardo. No matter what happens in the future – you will carry my heart with you.”

“And you mine,” I replied. “Forever.”

After another kiss, we withdrew from each other’s arms. We dressed silently and packed up the few things that were left from our feast. Mounting the horses, we made the long journey east, mostly in silence. We made our way past Calais and back to the encampment near Dunkirk.

Before we reached the outskirts of the camp, I dismounted, handing the reins back to Gaspard. “I will see you tomorrow night,” I promised.

He looked at me for a long moment, and then he shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “Do not come to the garden again, Eduardo.”

I stared, dumbfounded, at him. “What do you mean?”

He dismounted as well, and stood before me, his face unspeakably sad. “You must not come to see me anymore. We cannot…I cannot continue to see you.”

“But I promised you that I would return!” I cried.

“I am asking you not to keep the promise,” he replied. “I love you; but if you continue to come to me, the time will come when I will not be able to let you leave. And then when you do go to…war,” he choked on the word, “I will die of heartbreak. It would be better if we end this now.”

“Please,” I begged. “Gaspard, we are lovers…”

“I know,” he answered. “Eduardo…you are such a beautiful lover. I would love nothing more than to keep myself only to you for the rest of my life. But this is not the way…we both know it. I must marry someday…I must have a son who will continue my business. You will do the same.”

“I will never marry,” I contradicted him hotly. “I would rather die.”

His face twisted in pain. “Please do not say that to me, Eduardo; if you love me, do not speak of your death. I cannot bear it.”

The heartache in his voice broke me; all at once, I knew that I would relent and honor his wishes. I lunged into his arms, to absorb as much of him as I could before we said goodbye. This would be the last time I saw him, touched and kissed him, and felt his arms around me; and I didn’t want to let the moment end.

After many kisses and whispered endearments, he released me and stepped back. He waited, but I found I could not make myself turn and walk away from him. “You must be the one to leave,” I said quietly.

He said nothing, just gave me a very sad look; and then, picking up the reins of both horses again, swung himself up onto his mount and rode away. I could not tell if he looked back; but if he did there would have been nothing to see – it was too dark.

I turned numbly and walked the rest of the way back to the camp. I silently made my way between the tents until I found the one I shared with Antonio. There was no sound from his side of the tent as I flung myself onto my pallet, face down, and wept silently.

After a few moments, I felt Antonio’s hand on my back. I lifted my head to look at him. He lay beside my pallet on the ground, his face full of concern. I didn’t have to tell him what had happened – he knew enough to realize that my love was gone. “I’m sorry, Eduardo,” he whispered, and opened his arms to me. I sobbed and slid into them, glad for the comfort of the person who was, other than Gaspard, my best friend.

No other words were exchanged between Antonio and that night. After I was finished crying, he slid back to his own bed and we each tried to sleep. When we heard other soldiers waking up around us, he quietly told me of the battle that had taken place the day before at Gravelines; and that our invincible Armada was now being pursued up toward the North Sea. Our tercios, 16,000 soldiers, were left stranded here at Dunkirk.

---

I remained in France for six years after the failed invasion of England. Remaining under the Duke of Parma’s command, we were redirected to war against the French Huguenots. The battles were fruitless; and in 1594, I requested a discharge from His Majesty’s army. I returned home to España, in time to see my father before he died. My older brothers having married, I remained at my parents’ home, overseeing the farm operations. Over the period of six years, I tripled the number of sheep we owned, and our income increased substantially. By the time my beloved mother went to heaven, I employed many servants, and I was a kind master. But unlike many other men of my profession and social class, I did not marry.

In 1600, I had cause to travel to France on business. My travels took me near Dunkirk; and while I was there, I decided to take a day away from business, and rediscover the city where I had once fallen in love. Little had changed in Dunkirk in twelve years. Le Chat Gris was still in operation; I did not go in, but I wondered as I passed whether Olivie was still plying her trade there.

As I walked the streets, I was, of course, filled with thoughts of Gaspard. Twelve years had passed since the summer I spent with him; in that time, not a single day had gone by when I had not thought of him, had not prayed for him to be blessed and happy. So it was no surprise when I came out of a reverie to find myself standing in the same place I had stood, all those years ago, wondering whether or not to go into his shop.

This time, there was no wondering. I walked into the shop. A tall man with curly hair stood with his back to me, placing bolts of fabric a shelf. I smiled, happy to be reliving the memory I had carried with me for so long.

He turned to me and as he did, he said, “Oui, monsieur – peux je vous-aidez?” Then his eyes found my face, and he was momentarily dumbstruck. Then he gasped, “Eduardo?”

“Yes, Gaspard,” I smiled. “It is Eduardo.”

“It cannot be…” he breathed. “I have dreamed this so many times; this is another dream.”

“You are not dreaming, my friend,” I said, and, pulling off my glove, held out my hand to shake his. He reached out slowly to take it; and when he did, it was as if the ensuing years had never happened. The same magnetic pull was there; it was undeniable, irresistible.

We stood, our eyes locked and our hands still touching, until a small voice piped up from beside my elbow. “Papa?” it said.

I looked down, into the face of a young boy. He was perhaps five, with a mass of golden curls and clear blue eyes.

“Papa,” he said, “qui est-ce?

Releasing Gaspard’s hand, I kneeled beside the boy and looked into his eyes. “Je m’appelle Eduardo,” I said solemnly. “Comment vous appelez-vous?”

He did not answer, but instead looked back to Gaspard. “Nous avons le même nom, Papa,” he said.

My eyes flew to meet Gaspard’s, who was finally roused from his shock, and spoke to the little boy. “Oui, Edouard,” he said to his son. “Il s’appelle Edouard aussi. Il est mon ami.” To me he said, “You speak French.”

“Learning it has made my business easier,” I replied, standing. I gestured the boy. “You have a son.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling benevolently at the boy. “Edouard, joue avec votre chaton.”

The boy did as he was asked, and I watched him go to the corner of the room, where a kitten played with a ball of string. “He is beautiful,” I told Gaspard, and he smiled, still watching the boy. “His mother…?”

Gaspard’s face clouded immediately. “She died last year,” he said quietly.

“I am sorry,” I told him honestly. We were silent for a moment, watching his boy play.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, turning to meet his gaze. His eyes were bright. “I have never married.”

“Do you have plans for dinner?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I had planned to eat at the inn tonight.”

“Will you stay?” he whispered, and laid his hand on mine where it lay on the counter.

I looked at him, and then at the small boy on the floor who bore my name. And there, in a small fabric shop in Dunkirk, France, 350 leagues from where I was raised, I felt that I was home.

Looking back at Gaspard, I squeezed his hand tightly, and replied, “I will.”

---

Translations (all italicized words are in French, except where noted)

Monsieur! - Sir!

Arrêtez! Je ne veux pas mourir ce soir. - Stop! I don’t want to die tonight.

L’espagnol. Parlez-vous français? - Spanish. Do you speak French?

Mon dieu - My god!

Le Chat Gris - The Grey Cat

Un soldat espagnol. Il ne comprend pas le français probablement. - A Spanish soldier. He likely doesn't understand French.

Quel garçon maladroit! - What a clumsy boy!

Je suis désolé, Maman - I'm sorry, Mother.

Nuestro Dios ha abandonado a sus hijos. - Our God has abandoned his children. (Spanish)

A votre sante- To your health!

Salud – dinero y amor! - Health, wealth and love! (Spanish)

Te amo, bello Eduardo. - I love you, beautiful Eduardo. (Spanish)

Oui, Monsieur – peux je vous-aidez? - Yes, sir - may I help you?

Papa, qui est-ce? - Father, who is this?

Je m’appelle Eduardo. Comment vous appelez-vous? - My name is Eduardo. What is your name?

Nous avons le même nom, Papa- He has the same name as me, Father.

Oui, Edouard. Il s’appelle Edouard aussi. Il est mon ami. - Yes, Edouard. His name is Edouard also. He is my friend.

Edouard, joue avec votre chaton, s'il vous plait. - Edouard, play with your kitten, please.

Rentoy – a 16th-century Spanish card game

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I hope you enjoyed the story of Eduardo and Gaspard. This could not have happened without the help of four very important people:

Beth – EJ Santry - for her history expertise. Her research on my behalf led us into some interesting, sometimes scary, corners of these here interwebs.

Maria – Amanecer01 – for proofing and refining my Spanish dialogue and providing some historical context. FYI...Maria is also the reader who recently requested a certain sexy dream – perhaps you’ll remember what I mean.

Val – Touchstone67 – previewer extraordinaire and wonderful friend.

Shannon – mozzer0906 – Muse, head cheerleader and BFF.