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You were a prince. The crown prince of one of the greatest kingdoms in the world. Your birth was celebrated hundreds of leagues away. Your name was blessed by travellers from all around. You were showered in gifts and adorned by praise before you could even speak or walk. Suitors were flocking to your doorstep when you were barely a boy. You were the treasure of the realm.
And I was a baker’s boy. Orphaned, before I turned eight. I was nothing.
Yet somehow, fate found you in my arms.
My father passed some weeks before our first meeting. You were travelling the city in your golden carriage, guards everywhere. There had been talk of the young prince visiting our streets for many days. Crowds gathered to see you. They cheered your name, and your father’s name, and your brother’s name.
We were but children, but when I first saw you, you were more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. Clothed in pure white, with eyes like golden stars. But it was your smile that melted my soul. I was a mere beggar, starving and dirty, yet you saw me. And you smiled. And from that moment, my life became a dream.
When you returned the second time, I saw you again. And you saw me. Had you not, I may have died that very day, for I had not eaten in weeks. As it was, you were as kind as you were fair. When your father was occupied, you slipped from the carriage, a loaf of bread in hand. It was of the finest kitchens in the city – I could tell. You said nothing as you handed it to me, but your smile said everything. By your grace, I lived another night.
The third time you returned, you were alone. Dressed in rags to slip past the guards, yet I knew it was you when you smiled. The gold you gave me was almost as bright as your eyes. ‘For your bakery,’ you told me. I did not ask how you knew of my father’s trade, yet your smile sparkled with mischief.
You asked me my name, and I told you. ‘Edge, my prince.’
You laughed. ‘What a strange name for a baker’s boy.’ I told you I was no longer a baker’s boy, but a baker. You laughed again. I loved it when you laughed.
After that you visited me again. And again. And again. You bought my sweets and cakes every week. When your guards were present, you would smile at me. When they were not, you would whisper to me. ‘How much for the strawberry tarts, baker’s boy?’ ‘Your cakes are wonderful, baker’s boy.’ ‘You are looking very handsome today, baker’s boy.’
As we grew older, your smiles became sweeter, and your touches more frequent. A brush of your fingers against my arm. A touch of our shoulders when we sat together on the cobblestone. A press of your teeth to the back of my hand.
You were a prince, and I was but a baker’s boy, yet fate decided that you would be mine, and I yours.
I bet you three of my shortbread cakes you would never kiss a baker. You leaned in and whispered, ‘But you are no baker. Merely a baker’s boy.’ I could not tell whether it was your stubbornness or your sweet-tooth, but you proved me wrong.
I had never been kissed before then, and I don’t think I will ever forget it. Your mouth was so warm, and you felt so smooth beneath my hands. And I was afraid. What of, I still cannot say. Perhaps I was afraid of being caught. Punishment for kissing the crown prince, the gods’ gift to the realm, would be more than severe. Perhaps I was afraid of your father, the king of all the lands. His wrath would be inconceivable should he learn I had even touched you.
Or perhaps I was simply afraid you would not enjoy me as much as I enjoyed you. And I enjoyed you very much.
But you made those fears go away. And for just a moment, everything was perfect.
I saw you almost weekly after that kiss. And it proved not to be our last. We were so young, and I was so in love with you. Kissing you was like living in a dream, and I never wanted to wake up. To this day, I can still recall every kiss we’ve ever shared.
The first time we made love was on the night of your brother’s coronation. You left the party early. You had never quite picked up the art of fraternising with the high lords and ladies. You found me in the kitchens, where you had convinced your father to give me work. You looked exquisite, still wearing your golden robes from your brother’s coronation ceremony. It felt wrong just being in your presence. I was but a beggar, turned baker only by your mercy.
But you made it feel right.
You led me to your chambers, sneaking us past the guards as you always did. And there, I made love to you on the silken sheets of your bed. To this day, I cannot find the words to describe that night. You were mine, and I was yours. Nothing could ever compare to the feeling of you in my arms – and I daresay, nothing ever will.
As the years went by, my visits became more frequent. You would smuggle me into your chambers, we would make love, and I would be gone before your servants woke you at dawn. And for a time, everything was perfect.
But the castle was small, and the walls had ears, and soon people began to talk. By this time, I was one of the head chefs in the castle’s kitchens. Yet nothing could change my past. I was a baker’s boy—a beggar from the streets—and I always would be. I would never be fit for a prince.
The rumours were cruel, yet you cared not for gossip. But alas, your brother did. Your reputation was his reputation after all, and the King could not be known for allowing beggars or bakers into his brother’s bed.
The best way to dispel a rumour of course, is with a better one. You were to marry the great king from the Far East, it was said. He would bring you mountains of gold and conquer cities in your name. And while I still cannot say whether it was your brother’s intention to bring any truth to these rumours, they soon came to pass. The stories of your beauty and your charm spread, and the Eastern King quickly took a liking to you. Even now, I cannot blame him for that.
I have thought about that night – that first night when I held you in my arms – every day since you were betrothed. And now as I write this, you walk the aisle towards your new King. I only pray that he is benevolent. You deserve no less.
I received your invitation to the wedding. I am truly sorry I was not there to see you. You always looked ever so lovely in white.
By the time you read this, I will be gone. I have booked passage across the sea to the south. I only wish I’d had the opportunity to say a proper farewell, my prince. I don’t believe we shall ever meet again, but I will always be yours. And I will never stop loving you, Stretch.
Sincerely
Edge, your baker’s boy.
Stretch read the letter once. Then twice. The paper felt dry in his hands. His fingers trembled. He felt cold despite the roaring fire before him.
He flinched at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. “What is that, my love?” asked his new husband.
Stretch smiled – smiled as he had the entire evening. Empty. Desolate. Detached. “Nothing—your grace.” Stretch’s voice quavered with the falsity of his words. He shook his head, willing his smile to widen. “Nothing of importance.” He turned to the fire, watching as the flames flickered and cast shadows across the room. His soul was numb.
He dropped the letter into the flames, gazing as they licked at the parchment, quickly reducing it to ash. He anticipated himself for pain, regret. But he felt nothing.
Stretch lay awake in his new husband’s arms for hours before he finally began to cry. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend they were Edge’s arms, and not those of a stranger. He could almost pretend he still belonged to the baker’s boy.