TO DARE NOT SPEAK LOVES NAME

PROLOGUE

Lancashire, England.    November, 1876.

The watery winter sunlight skittered around the small patch of dirt that separated the two large run down buildings. In a corner, in the shadows, stood a small, dark skinned boy, in rags, and filthy.  He chewed on a piece of hard, stale bread, enjoying it like it was the best meal he had ever eaten, gulping down it's dryness.  Other children played in the dirt, just as filthy, and just as hungry.  The other children ignored the boy, he wasn't the same as them.  They were all orphans, but he was ... different.  He was black, and quiet, and ... beautiful.  His eyes shone like ebony pearls, his rosebud lips the perfect shade of pink, his nose, wide and noble.  The face of a young future Prince, a nobleman, a force to be reckoned with.  

He watched his young cohorts run, and dance, and play, something that was foreign to him.  He'd much rather lean against the rough, red brick wall and watch the other children.  Much could be learned from just watching, learning what they were telling him with their bodies, without them even realizing it, he observed, even at this young age.  Who might be his friend, who would not.  Who would start the fight, and who would finish it.  Who would tell on another, and who could keep a secret.  Who would let light into their souls, and who was incapable of it.  Their bodies and faces would talk to him, because no one actually spoke to him anyway.  

There was that man again.  He passed the play yard every day about this time, a large stout man with a balding head, and plump cheeks the colour of ripe cherries.  And a smile, always a smile for the dark skinned boy.  The man felt sorry for him, always stood shyly against the wall in the shadows, never in the sun.  The stout man could see that a few minutes in the sun would do the boy a world of good.  

"Hello, boy.  What's your name ?"  His northern accent was broad and warm.  The boy froze at the prospect of having to speak, to actually say something, even though he'd been punished severely for not speaking when he was spoken to.  His dark eyes widened, and his bottom lip trembled.

"What's wrong, cat got your tongue ?"  The man chuckled loudly, crouching down to the boys height.  He looked around at the austere buildings and the dirt yard.  No child should have to live like this, he thought.  No child of his ever would, he could tell you that.  He could also tell you that without this orphanage, run by the good sisters of the convent of Holy Mary, Mother of God, these children would stand no chance of a life at all.  They would be sold into prostitution, or left on the streets to beg or to die, or to be drowned at birth, like dogs.  Especially this one.  The beautiful dark skinned boy.  The boy still stood, eyes wide, clutching his dry bread like it was his last meal and the man was about to take it from him.  He wouldn't though, the boy knew, because the man was fat and full and happy.  The man's face softened.

"See you tomorrow ?"  The boy nodded at least.  He liked his daily visitor, he made him feel special, and wanted, and ... loved.  

"I'll bring you an apple.  Decent food."  He put his finger to his lips.  "You can't tell the others, though."  He gestured to the other children, still running and dancing and playing.  The boy smiled, for he was the chosen one.

"Still won't tell me your name ?"  The man waited a minute for an answer, standing up, the boy's eyes following the movement of his large, round body.  "OK.  Tomorrow .... "  The boy watched, slightly panicked that the man was leaving.  That he was taking the sun away, leaving him in darkness again.  

"Laurent ... " he called after the man.  "Name.  Laurent."  

The boy smiled.

////        ////        ////        ////

 London, England.    November, 1876.

The pain was excrutiating, blinding and white hot.  A not so dull ache, but a wrenching, gut twisting pain seared through the young girls body.  She swore like a French Matelot.