Aurora Tapestry

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

I apologize for the length of time it has taken to publish this chapter. The pressures of work, and I admit, a major funk, set me back a little.

I wish to thank all those who wrote inquiring after my health. I am doing well and am gaining more weight than I want to. I am now old, grumpy and fat!

My thanks, as always, to Peter who, as always, edits my scribbling and makes it better than it was.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 35

The young man engaged to play the piano at the Investiture entered the ballroom, gaped and took a step back. The hotel manager had not told him exactly what was happening in the ornate room and he had expected, from the few hints dropped, that it might be a wedding of sorts, and the room had been set up for a religious ceremony, or so the young man thought.

At the far end, on a raised dais, was an altar, or what looked like an altar. The young man did not know that the heavy chest was actually a huge, 16th Century Belgian wedding chest, a huge wooden box, every inch carved with saints and angels, cherubs and symbols of fecundity and fertility, various renditions of fruit and whatever the carver could think of to prove to a prospective bridegroom's family that the bride came from a family of position, and that the linens and clothes, lace and silks filling the chest would reflect her father's wealth. Until this morning the chest had seen duty as a storage cabinet for the Catering Manager's liquor supply.

On the makeshift altar were two items, a small, bare, slightly battered chest, uncarved and unadorned, and a neatly folded piece of blue and white striped tasselled cloth, the tassels slightly frayed.

At right angles to the altar were set dainty, gilt ballroom chairs, six to either side. The chairs, like the wedding chest, were antique, and had once adorned the gold and mirrored ballroom of a Hapsburg Princeling.

Set perhaps six feet from the altar was a small kneeling bench. A single kneeling bench, which did not seem in keeping with any wedding ceremony the young pianist had ever heard of.

Ranged down the room were more ballroom chairs, arranged on either side of what was obviously a wide, centre aisle. The aisle suggested a procession of some sort, just what the young man did not know. Had it been part of a wedding the chairs lining the aisle would be adorned with flowers, or swags of coloured cloth, even garlands of flowers in the brides "colour", usually and unfortunately a particularly taxing shade of pink!

Scratching his head, the pianist was considering which pieces in his repertoire would be suitable - he normally played for afternoon tea and in the evenings in the hotel bar, show tunes for the most part, and lots of Sinatra - when he heard the squeal of a service cart being wheel into the ballroom.

Turning, the young pianist almost strained a muscle trying not to break into hysterical laughter at the apparition standing before him. The man, while obviously of military background by his posture, demeanour and haircut, was dressed in the most outlandish costume the pianist had seen this side of "The Pirates of Penzance". Or was it "Iolanthe"? The young man had never been able to get his Gilbert & Sullivan right, even at the Royal Conservatory.

The man was dressed in black silk, white lace and medals. At his side hung a gold court sword and in hand he held a sheaf of papers, which he promptly waved at the pianist. "Were you not told to dress?" bellowed the apparition, in a voice that brooked no nonsense and set the pianist to quaking.

"I . . . I . . . thought I had," exclaimed the young man. He looked down at his tuxedo. It was what he always wore and until now no one had ever questioned him. He was also somewhat miffed at having his attire questioned by a man dressed in black knickers and lace!

The Major glanced pointedly at the two men accompanying him. One, a handsome Chinese male, was dressed in full evening dress. The other, a military type and if anything even more handsome than the Chinese, was wearing a deep blue, silver-buttoned uniform. The pianist took the Major's point. "Perhaps I could change."

"I wish you would," replied the Major in an offhand manner, then he added, "and you've been told that you shan't be needed during the ceremony itself?"

The young pianist nodded. A short, rather handsome, and very earnest young man - some sort of security official it seemed - had emphasized that not only was the pianist to "retire" immediately he finished playing, he was not, under any circumstances to linger in the corridor or anywhere near the ballroom. "I've been told," the pianist said flatly.

"Good, and you know that you will be required afterwards?" asked the Major as he motioned for Patrick and Laurence to continue. The wheels of the service cart, which was piled with large, square boxes, squealed and rumbled on the polished wood floor as it was wheeled down the aisle.

The Major returned to the pianist, handing him one of the printed programs. "The service is somewhat long, and you needn't worry too much about the music. Something grand for the processional, and something for the recessional afterward. Perhaps some light classics while the lads are waiting?"

The pianist opened the program, glanced at it, and paled slightly. There would be a procession and he had no idea what music to play! He probed his musical memory for something, and realized that his repertoire of show tunes and semi-classical "mood" music, which he played from memory, would never do. Then he remembered that in his trunk, which he had stored in the Left Luggage Room, contained his sheet music from his days as a student at the Conservatory. As he hurried off to find something appropriate to play, and to change, the pianist did not hear the Major bellowing for the manager, complaining that another table was needed!

The doors leading from the corridor opened and at a nod from the Major the pianist, now "properly" dressed for an Investiture, wearing as he was a barrister's waistcoat, plain neck tabs and a white bow tie, and an academic gown hastily borrowed from the hotel's Lost Items closet, began the majestic, almost regal introduction to "God of the Prophets, Bless the Prophet's Sons", which was usually reserved for ordinations and would have sounded much better on an organ, with all stops pulled out. However, the pianist made do with what he had and pressed the bass pedal with his foot.

Led by Logan and Patrick, the procession made its way down the aisle. Surgeon-Lieutenant Bradley Smith, as Prelate, followed the two ushers. The Major, his ebony and gold-tipped Staff of Office resting on his right shoulder, followed the young doctor. Behind Major Meinertzhagen, Laurence led the candidate knights and soon to be Companions.

First came the new Companions, Sandro, Peter, Nate and Eion. Behind them, in keeping with the old Naval tradition of "last in first out", came the youngest in age and rank of the new knights: Randy and Joey. The Leading Cadets, then the Petty Officers and finally, the Chiefs followed them. Directly behind them were the officers, Commander Stockman, Andy, and Kyle.

As the procession passed, the pianist glanced over at the young men and smiled inwardly. You could always tell the boys whom the sisters had schooled. They all seemed to have a serious look on their faces and for some reason assumed a prayerful position with their hands, their thumbs always position according to dogma, the right thumb firmly over the left, their orthodoxy no doubt instilled through the efficacy of a good, wooden ruler!

As the first rank of cadets reached the first row of chairs, Logan and Patrick directed traffic, indicating where the boys were to sit. When the last of the long line of candidates had taken his seat, and the last chord of the hymn played, the pianist flipped a page in his binder and began to play the unfamiliar, to him, notes of a march, the music for which had been thrust into his hands by a huge, black-haired cadet who had growled, "Play this when Phantom comes in, or else!"

What significance the music held for the cadets, the pianist did not know. Obviously, given the vehemence of the cadet, who was now wearing a black, gold-embroidered Drum Major's sash, the music meant something. The pianist's eyes quickly scanned the notes before them and his fingers moved to the ivory keys and the first notes of "Garb of Old Gaul" filled the silence of the ballroom.

Feeling very much the odd man out, The Phantom tried to keep a straight face as he followed Bertie Arundel and Joe Hobbes, who were walking backwards, into the ballroom. Bertie and Joe had only the line of chairs to guide their passage down the room and while both tried to keep pace with the music, it was apparent that Joe had a longer step.

"Steady up," The Phantom whispered to Joe when they were halfway down the aisle, "you're ahead by a nose!"

Snickering at The Phantom's horsy comment, Joe shortened his step.

Behind The Phantom, and accompanied by Gabe and Pete Sheppard, both looking uncomfortable in morning coats and striped trousers, was Colin, his starched, white uniform gleaming in the light from the chandeliers, his peaches and cream complexioned face beaming brighter than the chandeliers, a splendid, magnificent specimen of Canadian male.

As The Phantom approached the altar Bertie and Joe broke off and led him toward the row of seats set to the left of the altar. As he took his seat The Phantom saw that behind the chairs was a table on which were laid in glowing sparkling panoply collars, of gold and silver and set with jewels and wondered what significance they had.

When the candidates were seated there was a lengthy pause and then alone and attended by his fellow knights, Michael Chan, Sovereign Grand Master of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre began his slow walk to what he hoped would be the resurrection of his Order.

As the last notes of the anthem still lingered in the quiet of the ballroom, the Major thumped his Staff three times against the carpet. "Extra Omnes," he declared loudly.

Logan Hartsfield, Patrick Tsang and Pete Sheppard walked in front of the Major, bowed, and then returned down the aisle. As he passed the pianist, who was somewhat in awe of what he had just witnessed, Patrick gave a slight jerk of his head. Rising, the pianist followed the "Extras" through tall doors adorned with carved wood and gilded trophies.

In the long, quiet corridor outside the ballroom two of Pete Sheppard's men, dressed in dark suits waited until the four men had passed and then slowly closed the doors.

" . . . To All Lords Spiritual and Temporal and All Other Our Subjects whatsoever to whom these Presents shall come Greeting. Know ye that We, Michael the Fifth Alexander, Grand Master and Count Palatine, having determined the need for an Investiture of Knights and Companions, now calls all candidates to present themselves for Our Scrutiny."

The Major's booming voice filled the ballroom as he read the formal proclamation making Patent the Letters issued by the Grand Master calling for the Investiture. "In Witness whereof We have caused these Our Letters to be made Patent. Witness Ourself at Our Court at Comox this 26th Day of August in the first year of Our Reign."

The proclamation read, the Major bowed first to Michael, and then to Daniel, who turned to the assembled cadets and opened the small book he held in his hand, "Divine Service Book For The Armed Forces". He had given much thought as to what he should say, and how he should say it. He was aware of the Order's reluctance toward religion and had decided to keep his part of the ceremony as simple as possible.

Clearing his throat, Daniel intoned, "We ask God's blessings on these deliberations and ceremonies. May He bless all here, and keep you safe in the Service, which today you enter. May He keep you ever mindful of the Oath, which you will today swear before Him and your brothers, and ever mindful of the Duty and Honour that is given unto you."

Opening the prayer book, Daniel then asked, "Please rise and join me in the prayer for our fallen brothers and all who gave their lives for Queen and Country, and for all who continue go in harm's way on the oceans."

With graceful, measured tones, Surgeon-Lieutenant Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith, de facto Prelate of the Order, led the assembly in the time-honoured prayer for sailors,

"O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rules the raging of the sea; who has compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end; Be pleased to receive into that almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants, and the Fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of the enemy; that we may be a safeguard unto our most gracious Sovereign Lady, Queen Elizabeth and her Dominions, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions; that the inhabitants of our Commonwealth and Empire may in peace and quietness serve thee our God; and that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land, with the fruits of our labours, and with a thankful remembrance of thy mercies to praise and glorify thy holy name; through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen."

Then he added, "Baruch atah Adonoi elohenu. Blessed are You our God, Creator of the Universe, who has brought us together as brothers."

With a nod to the Grand Master, Daniel turned and walked to take his seat to the right of the altar, with the Knights.

The Major consulted a hastily typed piece of paper and tapped his Staff of Office sharply on the highly polished floor of the ballroom. "I call all those who would be Companions of Honour to come forward."

As there were no precedents, the candidates for Companions, had drawn high-low on a battered deck of cards to see who would go first. Sandro, much to his delight and surprise, had drawn an ace. He stood and walked to the small kneeling bench. On the bench was a small, framed, form, which Sandro would read.

As Sandro knelt, Major Meinertzhagen saw that the younger man had a white kippa hiding his dark, curly hair. As Sandro looked up at him the Major felt a small tremor pass through his body. He was looking down at hope, at expectation and at determination. It was a feeling that the Major had not felt in many years, not since he was a young Subaltern in the faraway days when the world was ordered, and structured and filled with honour and thoughts of duty.

Richard Meinertzhagen had seen the look that filled the young Russian boy's eyes before, in the jungles of Malaya, on the training grounds of Lympstone, where fresh-faced, pink-cheeked young boys, English boys from Suffolk, or Norfolk and Devon and the Midlands, learned their trade, and in the doing learned that the freedoms they knew could never be taken for granted, that life and liberty must be defended. They learned that men must stand tall and fight when the time came, to stand foursquare and say, "Hold - enough!"

A new generation, far removed from the training grounds of England had gathered in this ornate room, young men sure of themselves and sure of their abilities and sure of what they were and wanted to be.

They were, in many ways, innocents but in their eyes burned a brightness that could never be dimmed. Michael, the Major now knew, had been right in suspending the ancient, archaic Rule. These young men were more than the future. They were the Order resurgent and militant. In the eyes of each and every boy and man there was the spark that would ignite the future. In their eyes was the truth and honesty, and determination that would take them, and their new Order, into the world with a clarity that had not been seen since the days when three battle weary men knelt before a battered altar and found God.

As a Companion of Honour, Sandro was not required to profess, which made the Major's job all that much easier. He had expressed his doubts about having the candidates admit, publicly and without reservation, that they were homosexual. The Major had a wealth of experience when it came to dealing with the doubts and secret fears of young men. As a leader of a Royal Marine Commando he had seen those fears and doubts every time a new boy appeared for training. They were wracked with self-doubt, most of them, and afraid of failure and its attendant, to them, shame. Some of them hid their fears with boasts and braggadocio, others simply walked away, unable to come to grips with themselves or their fears.

The Major had also learned over the years that men were beset with outside influences, influences that told them that certain things, certain modes of conduct, were good, and acceptable to their peers. They were also told, coldly, bluntly, profanely or in the most sanctimonious of clerical terms, that other things, dark things that set a boy's soul to writhing in agony, were condemned, abominations before God and man, to be reviled and denigrated without reservation. The young men the Major had known had kept their fears and secrets hidden from the world and, understandably, went to great lengths to keep their secrets, secret. Smugly, the Major thought that he knew the measure of the young man kneeling before him.

Sandro was about to shatter all of the Major's illusions. He had given much thought to what was about to happen. Sandro, although thankful that a very great exception had been made for him, was under no illusions. As a Jew, he expected that there would be some reluctance, some hesitation, to his being a part of a Christian Order. That, he thought, was to be expected. He also thought that as a member of the Order he would be asked to pledge his life, and his honour as a man, to the betterment of mankind, specifically, gay mankind.

The Vigil, at least according to what he had been told, had been an opportunity for Sandro to think about what he was doing. The Order had never forced itself on anyone, and well understood the need that some of its candidates felt for secrecy. Sandro had considered that if a candidate knight was required to profess, that is, declare before witnesses, that he was homosexual, why then would not a Companion? Their goals were the same, after all, were they not?

The more he thought about it, the more Sandro determined that if a man were gay, and if a man were being asked to help rebuild the Order, he might as well be on an equal footing with his brothers. Sandro knew how he felt, and knew that when he was with Nathan, his first boy, he had never felt anything but wonderful contentment. He had felt more than contentment with Chad, whom Sandro had also had sex with, and their time together had been different. Nathan had been sex on the hoof, raw, emotionless, gratuitous sex! Chad, however, had been something Sandro had always thought would be denied him. He was a "Golden Boy", and Golden Boys never knew true love. Or so he had thought and now he knew differently and he was not ashamed of being madly in love with the stocky Canadian.

Sandro also wanted to be sure that there would be no discrimination. He was a Companion in name, but a Knight in spirit and he had decided that he would make everyone, including the Grand Master, know exactly how he felt.

Before Major Meinertzhagen could ask Sandro if he would make his oath, Sandro spoke loudly. "I wish to profess."

Taken aback, the Major stared at the young Russian and then muttered, "It is not necessary." He tried to stare down Sandro, failed, and repeated, "It is not necessary."

Sandro was not to be deterred. "Is for me," he announced coldly. "I profess."

Michael, who was sitting barely three feet away, heard every word. He glanced at Bertie Arundel and Charlie Hazleton, who were sitting next to Doc Reynolds. Bertie shrugged slightly, smiled a small smile, and raised an eyebrow. Charlie shot a glance at Michael who, as the Grand Master could intervene or not - his choice.

Frowning slightly, Michael was about to just let the Major handle the obstinate Russian when he thought, "Well, why not?" After all, they were really winging the whole ceremony. Nobody knew what was right and proper, and there were no manuals or instructions, at least none that Bertie Arundel had managed to find, and who knew, perhaps what happened today might become the basis, no, what happened today would be the basis for all Investitures that Michael was sure were in the Order's future.

Rising slowly, Michael walked the few short steps to the kneeling bench. He looked down at Sandro, taking in the calm, serene face and dark, intense eyes of the Russian. In Sandro's eyes Michael saw what the Major could never see, the intensity of Russia, and the faith of a Ghetto Jew. This intensity and faith had caused men to rise against the Nazis in Warsaw, and turn back the tidal wave of Arab bigotry in Palestine. Sandro would never back down, would never turn and run, and would stand at the gates and growl, "They shall not pass!"

Michael gently moved the Major to one side and then held out his hands. When Sandro reached out and clasped the Grand Master's hands he smiled. "I profess, yes?" he asked.

Nodding, and leaning down, Michael murmured, "In you, Alexandr, son of Effim, rests the spirit of your Fathers, and the courage of all your brothers who have gone before. You may profess, as your manhood and your heritage demand you to profess. There are no words, no formula for you to speak."

"I speak from heart," responded Sandro. He gently squeezed Michael's hands. "I know what I do."

"As you wish it, Alexandr, son of Effim," replied Michael. "Deus Vult."

Sandro suddenly realized that he had not a clue what to say. On the arm of the kneeling bench was the small, framed copy of the Oath that he would take. He had declared that he would speak from his heart, so he did.

"I Alexandr, son of Effim, declare to you, my Sovereign Lord, Grand Master of the Order, that I am of the universal brotherhood that knows no strangers. I say that I am what man says is 'homosexual'." Here Sandro stumbled a little, and then he squared his shoulders and continued. "I am lover of my brothers, who are brothers of my flesh, and of my spirit. They are of my heart, as I am of their heart. I am not ashamed of what I am. Please, accept me as brother."

As the tears welled in his eyes Michael released Sandro's hands and gently caused him to rise. "With all my heart."

Beaming, Sandro asked, "We do kiss of peace, now?"

Before Michael could respond to Sandro's question the Russian boy soundly bussed the started Chinese man on both cheeks and then, in the Russian manner, kissed him on the lips! Blushing slightly, Michael gasped quietly, "It would seem that we will!"

As a titter of laughter rippled through the assembled candidates, the Major, his eyes dancing with laughter, coughed delicately. "Will you make your oath?"

Nodding happily, Sandro replied. "I make Oath." He turned and saw Gabe Izard standing behind him. Gabe gave a small neck bow and with his left hand indicated the Altar.

Wordlessly, Sandro walked to the ornate chest and saw the neatly folded Tallit resting on the highly polished wood. As Gabe approached with the framed oath, Sandro placed his hand on the rough, historic cloth. He glanced down at the glass-protected words and declared in a loud, firm voice,

"I, Alexandr Effimovitch Signaransky, do solemnly swear, upon my Oath and upon this symbol of my Faith, that I will bear true allegiance to my Brothers, that I will defend all our Brotherhood, and that I will in all things conduct myself in a chaste manner so that no dishonour will I bring upon the Order. I swear to succour the ill and destitute and I vow to love my life according to the precepts of duty and honour. This I swear before God and my brothers."

Gabe then led Sandro back to the kneeling bench where Michael was waiting, a long, crimson sash in his hands. As Sandro bent his head, Michael draped the sash over his right shoulder and arranged it across the Russian's chest so that the small, decorative medal attached to the end hung against Sandro's left hip.

"Welcome, dear brother, as a Companion of Honour, to the Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre. Receive this insignia of your rank and position," said Michael formally. "Deus Vult!"

Smiling, Sandro took Michael's outstretched hand. "Baruch atah Adonoi Elohaynu!" he declared, true to his Faith.

Michael returned Sandro's smile and leaned forward. "I think you have just started a new tradition, dear brother. Go now in peace."

When Sandro returned to his seat, Peter Race stood and walked to the kneeling bench. Michael saw the uncertainty in Peter's eyes and whispered, "One day you will learn the truth, dear brother. At the moment you wonder what the truth is, and if you are worthy to return to the Faith of your Fathers. Do what is in your heart, Peter with no middle name. You are loved as a brother." Relieved, for he was not certain that he was either Jewish or gay, Peter smiled shyly. "One day, when I am sure, may I return?"

"As God wills," replied Michael. "Make your oath, Peter, and welcome." He took a step back. "Deus Vult!"

Peter made his oath and returned to his seat. Jérémie Cher rose slowly and looked into the Grand Master's eyes. "I do not wish to profess," he whispered.

"Nor shall you," replied Michael. He regarded Jérémie a moment and then continued. "In you, Jérémie Stephane, of the house of Larouche, I see a warmth and kindness that few men possess. Your heart is full with the love you feel for your brothers, and full with the decency of your character. You are much loved, and in you resides the true spirit of brotherhood."

Somewhat awed at the Grand Master's words, Jérémie Cher took his oath, his body was draped with the insignia of his new dignity, and he returned to his seat, where he silently prayed that he would be worthy of the praise heaped upon him, and that he would never give the lie to such praise.

Eion came forward. Like many young men he was filled with questions, questions about himself. He had never been with another boy, although he admitted to checking out his messmates, and admiring their attributes, such as they were. He also admitted that sometimes, when he was masturbating, his thoughts turned to boys from time to time. He often imagined what it would be like to have another boy's hand on his erection, stroking and fondling his balls until he exploded with rapture. Eion had heard that few, if any girls, could give a proper blowjob. He reasoned that he was a case in point there, having been the recipient of a blow job from a girl, whom he now knew was named Amy. While the end result had not been all that bad, the getting there had been somewhat painful as the girl more often than not failed to cover her teeth and he had the fading scars to prove it!

That having been said, Eion reasoned that he was not gay. He had no real desire to bed anyone, well, maybe Jérémie, who had a dick to die for although Jérémie's skin-covered dickhead was a little off-putting to Eion's way of thinking. And only once, just to see what it would be like. Or Peter. Peter was a nice guy, very slim, and had a killer smile. Peter's dick matched the rest of him, and he would never win first prize for size. His dick ended in a wrinkled tube of flesh, again off-putting to Eion, but what the hell, Peter was cute. And only once, just to see what it was like!

Eion, after much thought, decided he would not profess and as he had heard the Major say it was not necessary for him to do so, Eion knelt and held out his hands. Michael took Eion's hands in his and spoke softly.

"You are beset, I think, with doubts. One day, when you are ready, you will put your doubts aside. Until that day, know that your brothers will stand by you, and be with you always." Michael smiled. "It is not a bad thing to be, Eion Patrick, of the house of Reilly. In your veins runs the blood of Hibernia. You are the scion of Eire, and the son of brave and courageous men. Welcome, dear brother."

Eion did not know if the Grand Master was referring to his doubts and fantasies, or to joining the Order. He took his oath and returned to his seat, more confused than ever.

After swearing his oath, and adding, as Sandro had done, the Hebrew blessing, Nate approached the kneeling bench without reservation. He would not profess because he was not in any way homosexual. He had seen his brothers naked, he had seen his classmates naked, the members of his basketball and baseball teams naked, and not once had he felt a twinge of desire, or a hint of lust. He could, and did, admire the naked male, and saw nothing wrong in complimenting his peers on the beauty, length and girth of their fittings. Nate was returning the favours, so to speak, for he possessed a classic set of parts, neat, clean and streamlined.

Secure in his sexuality, Nate was not beset with the doubts and fears of adolescence. He was a Jew, no more, no less. Jews before him had waged war, and he would do the same if called upon. What Nate could not understand was his strongly felt need to be a part of this Order. He could not shake the nagging feeling of rightness that had crept into his soul, the feeling of acceptance by the boy cadets of Aurora, and more importantly, the strange, inspiring awe he felt whenever the boy everyone called "The Phantom" looked at him, or spoke to him in the warm, firm tones that now seemed so comforting and familiar.

Nate had no desire to be anything more than a friend, or at least he was halfway convinced that was all he wanted. It was all so strange, these feelings that coursed through him. He could not understand . . .

Michael leaned forward and smiled kindly. "They will pass, the doubts you feel."

"They will?" came Nate's whispered return, the boy awed that the Grand Master might know what he was thinking.

"You are about to begin a small journey," replied Michael. "It is a voyage of discovery and perhaps maturation. Some of the things you will find on that journey will seem strange to you, and you will, at times, meet those who do not understand the true being that is Nethanyu. Do not be afraid, and do not pause. Remember the rallying cry of your people: 'Next year in Jerusalem'." Michael nodded. "You will soon make your oath and say, 'Never Again!' Remember that, Nethanyu. Always remember that cry."

Somewhat unsteadily, Nate returned to his seat, his eyes brighter now with a strange feeling of hope.

The Major, miffed at Michael's chattering, when he should have been lending the dignity of his office to the affairs, stood before the Altar and read another proclamation, which called for those candidates for knighthood to come forward. He looked balefully at Randy, the first of the candidates, and tried to keep his discomfiture from his voice. The boy was very young and the doubts that he had expressed to Michael about the ages of the candidates, returned. Could this handsome, red headed young boy truly know what he was about to do? Still, Michael had decreed that all the candidates would be accepted and the Major, ever conscious of his role and duty, had no choice in the matter.

Any further doubts the Major might have had were dispelled when Randy said, in a loud, firm voice, "I wish to profess."

"You do?" croaked the Major, taken aback by Randy's tone.

Looking at Joey, who was blushing furiously, Randy nodded his head; he was not at all intimidated by the blustering Major. "I profess that I am what I am, that I love another boy with all my heart," he declared without hesitation. "I further profess that I am what man calls 'homosexual'." He frowned slightly, even at his young age not caring for the labels attached to him, or his friends. He recalled the Gospel as related by Cory and added, "What man calls me is unimportant! It is what God thinks that matters."

"And that is?" asked the Major dryly, frankly taken by the fiery redhead.

"That I am a man!"

A smile broke on the Major's face and he indicated the Altar as he spoke loudly, "Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes, Candidate, come forward and make oath!"

Randy, a little embarrassed at hearing the pretentiousness of the names he had been given at his christening, grinned impishly as he walked to the Altar. He placed his hand on the box containing the piece of the True Cross, and made his oath:

"I, Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes, do solemnly swear, upon my Oath, and upon the symbol of my faith, that I will bear true allegiance to my Brothers in Knighthood; that I will defend all those of our Brotherhood, and that I will in all things conduct myself in a chaste manner, so that no dishonour will I bring upon the Order. I swear to succour the ill and destitute and I vow to live my life according to the precepts of duty and honour."

Ignoring the shocked little gasp that escaped Joey's lips when he had heard the words, "In a chaste manner," Randy knelt on the bench and looked up at Michael Chan, his eyes twinkling.

Michael, who could not help smiling at the fiery haired, pink-cheeked young man, took the court sword from Laurence and deftly tapped Randy on each shoulder. After returning the sword to Laurence, Michael gestured for Joey to rise and held out his hand. "Welcome, dear brother, to the Order."

Randy squirmed. "Uh, thanks. Am I really a knight?"

"Oh, yes," replied Michael. "You are also my brother." He winked at Randy. "I am told that your temper is as fiery as your hair."

Knowing where that came from, Randy looked villainously at Chef, who smiled sweetly in return. "Sometimes," admitted Randy.

"Good," returned Michael. "We need young men of temper!" He leaned down to give the young boy the "Kiss of Peace", actually just placing his cheek against either side of Randy's face.

Randy, who had seen Sandro's uninhibited bussing of the Grand Master, drew back and grinned. Then he leaned forward, "Watch out for Harry, sir. He really likes to kiss!" Randy cautioned in a fierce whisper. "On the lips!"

"I stand warned," deadpanned Michael.

Calvin Hobbes barely felt the sword as it touched his shoulders. His eyes were sparkling as he rose and took the Grand Master's hand. "Are you as tempestuous as your companion and fellow knight?" Michael asked as he looked at Calvin's red hair. Snickering, Calvin shook his head. "Only when it comes to Mikey," he blurted without thinking, and then blushed.

"Ah, yes, the middle of the Hobbes brothers," replied Michael with a knowing smile.

The colour drained from Calvin's face. "You . . . um . . . you know about Mikey?"

"I know that you defend your honour with great vigour," said Michael without any inflection. "Your brothers look upon you askance. I do not. I see in you, Calvin of Hobbes, a man struggling inwardly to attain the respect and love of his elders." He leaned forward and touched Calvin's cheek. "You already have it, Calvin. If you did not you would not be a part of the tapestry, nor would you have stood beside him who will be your Prince. Your destiny has been foretold."

Confused, Calvin released Michael's hand and was about to turn away when the Grand Master's voice stopped him.

"Soon you will come to me and ask a great favour. He whom you love waits for you, and together we will speak about him, and you."

"Simon," breathed Calvin as he walked slowly back to his seat. As he lowered his body to the chair he closed his eyes. "Simon."

Chef sat quietly, nodding from time to time as he listened to Michael's quiet voice. Chef was pleased that Michael had thrown away the Major's formal, structured program and was allowing the young men who were the hope of the new order to basically set their own ways. This, to Chef's thinking, was exactly what was needed. There would be formal ceremonies, when the Latin books would be brought out, when the organ would thunder, and the collars and chains of office would be draped over shoulders.

But not today.

Today informality with a hint of discipline and order was necessary. The boys, for that is what they were, would feel more comfortable, less intimidated by the goings on. And that is exactly what Chef had wanted. The old cook, for all his faults, was a student of mankind. He watched, he listened, and most often had the measure of a man long before anyone else realized it.

Very early on Chef had learned that a cook on board a naval vessel more often than not turned out to be mother, father confessor, mentor, and tyrant, all rolled into one. This was particularly true on the small ships, the corvettes, the frigates, and the wartime destroyers where the galley was on the upper deck, just at the break of the foc'sle, and every man and boy who inhabited the forward mess decks passed the duff locker and the galley every time they came up top. In the old days, before "General Messing" and cafeterias, the Cooks of the Mess would wander up, fannies in hand, and loiter about the cookhouse door, waiting for the rations to be ladled out. They would smoke, chat, and sometimes play grab ass and just be what they were: frightened boys far from home.

This was particularly true of the younger boys. They were strangers to a strange new world, not quite formed into men, and very lonely. They needed, from time to time, a shoulder to cry on, a warm voice to murmur that everything would be all right, and a father figure to confide in.

Usually they came some time toward the end of First Watch, the time for Kye. They were always young, the youngest and least experienced of the sailors who manned the ships. Chef always had a pan of sticky buns in the warming oven, or a loaf of fresh baked bread and a can of jam - strawberry, for it seemed to be the only type available at any given time - set out. They always started shyly, as they carved long, thin, lathes from the heavy, dark brown slabs of unsweetened chocolate with their clasp knife. They talked first of home. Always home. Then of how life was treating them, of what it was like living in a steel compartment where the sides and bulkheads wept condensation, of having to keep the scuttles closed lest the sea pour in and give you a cold bath unexpectedly, of the funk and rankness of sharing space with thirty or more other males, of having to sleep in a swaying hammock, and how the term "Swinging Dick" took on a new meaning when the Bosn piped "Wakey-Wakey".

They talked as they loaded the chocolate into the huge pot, added the evaporated milk and sugar and stirred and stirred the thick sludge into a smooth, soothing drink. Chef passed the buns, listened, and offered sympathy and advice. He learned the vagaries that beset man, and in time others came to him, the Master-At-Arms, the Buffer, the Chief, senior rates who knew that the lads trusted the hefty cook.

For Chef, the late night sessions in the warmth of the galley were a learning experience. In time he could tell who was shamming, who had their own self-interest in mind. He could tell who was lying, and not worth the space they occupied. And he could tell who was truly worth helping. Chef's quiet voice, spoken into the right ear, had helped more than one young lad to get ahead.

Chef had used his knowledge wisely. He looked upon his role as one who was there to help, not hinder, the careers of the sailors who confided in him. The old man had early decided that while yes, there were shirkers and barrack stanchions, their own conduct would betray them and he did not see any reason to go out of his way to hurry their predestined early departure from the Naval Service. He firmly believed in giving a man sufficient rope.

What changed Chef's perceptions was his promotion to Officers' Cook. He would stand at the serving hatch and absently listen to the chatter from the Wardroom. The officers never seemed to understand that the men serving them their dinners, cooking their dinners, washing their soiled bed linen, making their beds, had ears.

Thinking of his past service Chef snickered silently. The Phantom had learned, as Chef had learned, that all too often those who served were never seen. Just as the cadets ignored the presence of The Phantom as he bussed their tables, or Joey or Randy as they served out their food, and chattered and gossiped unconcernedly, so did the officers in their sanctum sanctorum.

Chef heard many things, learned many things, and honed his talents at assessing an officer's character to a razor edge. He could tell, just by listening, which officer was an arrogant twit, which a martinet, which would fail and which would succeed, if only because of his hitching his career to the "Book".

He learned which officer had no common sense at all, such as a Supply Officer who, after finding some potatoes that still had some skin on them boiling away, opined that the potato peeler needed cleaning. Chef, not in a good mood at the best of times, had retorted that while the potato peeler cleaned himself every day if the officer wanted to do it he could go ahead, although Chef did think that the potato peeler might squeal and giggle when his extended bits were washed!

Chef smiled at the memory, even thought he had been shopped for "Rude and Insolent Conduct". At the end of the day he'd only been given a warning (not to be recorded) and the Coxswain had offered "Gulpers" when their tots were issued.

Chef's mood changed abruptly, however and he frowned when he thought of the others, the self-serving, back-stabbing others, little men who thought nothing of the real reasons for their being where they were, men who thought more of their comfort and the cut of their hand tailored uniforms, men who would panic in any situation. He had learned which officer would cut and run, and Chef had learned whom never to trust. Chef could point out without hesitation those officers the hands would follow out of curiosity, and those officers the hands would follow without hesitation. Sadly, the former far outnumbered the latter.

Since Unification and the politicization of the Service, far too many officers became little more than highly paid clerks, shuffling paper from point A to point B. Knowing that they would never succeed in private life, many officers slavishly followed the "Green Machine" in Ottawa, never questioning, never drawing attention to themselves for fear of censure and frowns of disapproval. They would stab each other in the back without a backward thought, and the hands, well, they were there because they had to be there and who cared, really, about them. They were there to do a duty so let them get on with it and not bother their betters.

Chef's attitude toward officers had coloured his relationships with them. He ignored them when he could, and never failed to express his disdain for those whom he considered to be "Commissioned Idiots". Chef would go to the wall for a Lower Decker oppressed by some Wardroom Wally, using his connections when he felt it necessary. The old cook had no use for officers and while he could have used those same connections against the shallow, little men he had grown to despise, he had only done so once, and he slept the sleep of a babe at night after he had done it.

The officer, his name was not then, or now, important, had once made the mistake of expounding in the Wardroom how it was his "duty" to report "queers". Or suspected "fags". That the officer's actions and reports to the Commanding Officer might destroy the men he accused, bothered him not at all. It was, after all, an officer's "duty" to expose deviants.

Chef had seethed, but remained silent. He had raged in the privacy of his tiny cabin and then Chef had made notes. He recorded every instance of bigotry and hatred. And then he acted.

As he sat, watching his young cadets walk forward, their backs straight and their heads held high, Chef wondered if that officer ever questioned why he never rose above the rank of Lieutenant-Commander, and why, after being passed over twice, his career had been abruptly terminated.

There were no men of character left, thought Chef grimly, save the small group of men gathered in this ornate room. He could recall with relish the happy times when the Navy was the Navy, filled with men who fought hard and played hard, men who rolled from their bunks and hammocks and fought enemy E-Boats in their underwear and tin hats, men who had done handstands on the wardroom table and lowered their heads to drink from the punchbowl, and then had come crashing down to destroy the buffet lunch! He recalled the days when an officer went out of his way to find out what the lads were thinking, and understood that the men and boys who lived in the lower deck messes had wives, and children, and were people, not numbers or rates.

It was all gone now. And Chef realized that he had played his part in the destruction of the old ways. His failure to recognize that he should have helped the younger officers had been demonstrated when he had refused to help Dave Eddy become a better man and a better officer. Chef had allowed his prejudices to influence his thinking and a bitter sigh escaped his lips. Dave should be here, the old cook thought. But the young man was not. In time Chef knew that he would need to make amends.

One who did not need to be here, and would never be here, was Greg. Chef had listened, had watched, and had determined that Greg would never give of himself. In many ways Greg was a selfish man. He wanted sex with another boy, true, but refused to acknowledge in any way that what he wanted was a natural thing. Greg was torn between his natural feelings and desires and fears. Chef did not need photographs or tape recordings to know what had gone on in the Ship's Office between Greg and Jimmy Collyer. The difference between Jimmy and Greg, however, was that Jimmy, if confronted, would cheerfully acknowledge his preferences and predilections. Sex with another boy was as natural and necessary to Jimmy as breathing.

Greg, on the other hand, if confronted, would procrastinate, obfuscate and lie. He would never admit to anyone under any circumstances that he had had a relationship with Stephen Tyler, or that he had been with Jimmy Collyer. Greg's refusal to admit the reality of his homosexuality made him dangerous. To protect himself and his own reputation Greg would betray friends and family if he had to.

Shifting uneasily in his seat, Chef knew that he had to make The Phantom understand this. Chef knew that The Phantom was a kind and gentle young man who held friendship close and dear. The Phantom was too kind at times, and Chef was not about to let the young man learn the same bitter lessons he had learned. He would help The Phantom come to see common sense where Greg was concerned. Chef nodded to himself as he decided to retrieve the volume of notes that he had prepared for Michael to use during the Investiture.

The binder, each page written with black ink in Chef's flowing hand, held the secrets of the new knights of Saint John. Chef was meticulous in his snooping, and paid heed to the not so confidential nattering he overhead in the galley and the Mess Hall. Just as The Phantom was, so too was Chef privy to many secrets. Only two people other than himself would ever know what the binder contained: The Grand Master, and The Phantom. Both would put the contents of the binder to good use, the first to judge and plan for the future of his new knights, the second to better understand the uniqueness of each of his friends and, as Chef had not recorded, lovers.

The Gunner had started it. He had provided the names. As Proctor Chef had weighed each in the balances. The scales were level. It only remained to be seen if a small weight would be added to one brass paten or the other, to be seen who would stay the course, and who would fall by the wayside.

Michael's sword flashed in the light of the overhead chandeliers as he tapped first Ray's right shoulder, then his left. Ray stood and took Michael's proffered hand. Michael knew of Chef's great love for the thin, handsome young man standing before him. He smiled and nodded. "There will be a great pride in the humble cottages of Erin this night, I am thinking," said Michael softly, imitating Chef's habit of exaggeration.

Giggling, Ray nodded. "And all the Pipers of Monaghan shall raise a great noise!" he answered.

Trying, and failing, to keep the smile from his lips, Michael spoke quietly. "Raymond, you have the love of a father. You are blessed in many ways."

"I know," replied Ray. "I hope that I will always have that love."

Michael leaned and touched his cheek against Ray's. "I think you will, my brother. I think you will."

Again Michael's sword flashed. He held Stuart's hand firmly. "The great loyalty of Scotland flows within you, and you bear the name of a Royal House. God has removed the distance between you and one who loves you dearly. Cherish him, as he cherishes you, so that together you may walk the path of life as one."

Seeing the stunned look on Stuart's face when he returned to his seat, Steve asked in a heated whisper, "What happened? What did he say?"

"He knows about us!" declared Stuart, still awed at Michael's knowledge of his affair with Steve. "He said that I should cherish you as you cherish me, and that we'd walk together as one!"

Steve's jaw dropped, and then snapped closed. "Not a bad idea," he muttered with a snicker. He saw Gabe Izard gesturing for him to come forward and rose from his seat. Placing his hand on Stuart's shoulder he gave it a gentle squeeze. "Not a bad idea, at all!"

Phillip Adean, called the Assistant, sat with his face buried in his hands, weeping silently, as the Grand Master's words echoed. "Phillip, all that has gone before is as a Watch in the Night. It has passed, and the way lies open for you. Let the great strength of the hand that holds yours be your strength. Let him hold you close, and let your heart be filled with the love he feels for you."

Mike Sunderland could not hear Phillip's whispered question. He smiled serenely as he recalled Michael Chan's quiet words.

"For too long you paid service to external features. You made yourself a caricature, and suffered in consequence. You did not recognize the beauty that dwells within you, Michael of Sunderland. The mark of a man is not the façade he presents to the world, but the inner depth of his soul and the breadth of his character."

Mike glanced obliquely at The Phantom, who was sitting a few feet away and met his friend's steady gaze.

"You knew," Mike thought. "You knew when you came to me in the night and showed me that I was just as much a man as any of these sitting here. You knew when you stood at the side of the parade square and willed me to be myself, to make the others see me as I truly am! You knew!"

"The past is gone, and only the future lies ahead," said Michael to Brian. "You have lost much, but found more. You are fortunate."

When he returned to his seat, Brian thought of the calm, handsome face of Logan, and smiled confidently. He had lost Dylan, but he had found Logan, and he was content.

"Kevin Patrick, of the house of Berkeley, some might say that you have taken up a great burden." Michael glanced pointedly at Chef, who wondered what the man was up to. "In the coming days you will hear much bluster and thunder. You will walk with his son, I hope in the sunlight. Do not let the black clouds that will from time to time roll over the horizon deter you," Michael warned. "The fury will pass, the anathema of religious bigotry will be as nothing compared to the love of your brothers and of him who holds you dear."

Matt reached up to touch his cheek, feeling the warm skin, almost feeling the gentle heat of Michael's Chan's fingertips as they touched him. "Matthew, you have shown a bravery that belies belief. You have rejected the discredited, sadistic ravings of a maniac who would have been The Conqueror of Man, but ended a mere suicide, and determined to be your own man, in your own way. You have suffered for your bravery but with God's help, and the help of your brothers, your suffering has come to an end."

"You were the first to be chosen, Edward Tyler," murmured Michael. "You are destined to go down to the sea in ships, and occupy your business in great waters. I cannot promise that the stormy wind will not rise, and the waves be lifted. I can only promise that you are much beloved, and that a safe haven will always be yours."

Rob started when Michael said gently, "You are a man of great heart, Robin of Wemyss. Your heart led you, once, down the wrong path. Later your head caused you to lead a friend to the place where he should be. Your place is assured in the Tapestry that is Aurora, and while your heart will tell you one thing, your head will keep you true."

"How could he know about Ryan?" Rob asked himself as he resumed his seat. "And what did he mean by my head keeping me true?"

Michael held Fred's hand closely. "You have known hatred and rejection," he said quietly. "From this day forward, and for the balance of your years you will know the love of a family that will be constant and never change or judge. Welcome, dear brother, to the family of Knights."

"I am told that you would be a healer," Michael told Chris with a smile. "It is a noble calling. We must see to it that every opportunity is offered you."

Chris' eyes widened. For the life of him he did not know what to say. But then Michael did not give the young seaman an opportunity to say anything.

"For a service, a service is demanded. In your case, two," said Michael somewhat firmly.

"Two?" asked Chris, his eye's as round as two saucers.

Michael nodded. "First, you must study long and hard. Your marks will determine your eligibility. Only you can work for that which you desire." Michael pretended to sigh. "And even I cannot influence the Queen's University Board of Regents if the student presenting himself prefers a gentlemanly 'C' to a scholarly 'A'."

Chris gulped and nodded. "I'm getting 'Bs'." He grinned. "I can do better!"

"I know you can," replied Michael.

"And the other service?" asked Chris, agog that he no longer had to worry about gaining entry to medical school.

Michael rubbed the side of his nose and spoke, deadpan, "Christopher, it might be a good idea not to use the members of the Fort Henry Guard as lessons in practical anatomy!"

According to Chef's notes, the next to be knighted was an enigma. Jon, Thomas Jonathan Jackson according to his birth certificate was, according to Chef's snooping, quiet, dependable, and amenable. "Like a poodle," Michael thought snappishly.

But there was something about Jon, something in Jon's eyes that attracted Michael's attention. He recalled reading in Chef's notes Jon and Chris were partners, and that there had been an argument of sorts between them when the cadets had been in Victoria for the British Columbia Day Parade. Chef, firmly ensconced in the motel restaurant, had not heard what was said, but from the looks on the faces of the two young men, Jon had conveyed a firm, strong message to his lover. Jon Jackson was no pushover, and perhaps not quite so puppyish as Chef, or the other cadets, imagined.

"You are capable of great loyalty," Michael said suddenly. "You also know what you want, and demand what you want with firm conviction. You also demand total honesty from all with whom you come in contact, and all to whom you give your love and trust."

Jon blushed and ducked his head, knowing just what, and whom, the Grand Master was referring to.

"These attributes will serve you well in the future, dear Brother, for you know now to temper your convictions with the love that resides deep within you. Not a bad thing, I am thinking."

Michael stared into the almond-shaped, deep brown eyes of Roger Home, called, as Michael knew, "Two Strokes". The eyes that returned Michael's stare were clear, and unwavering. Chef's notes had made it plain that this young man had come from a community that condemned everything the Order stood for. Yet he was here, begging a boon, making his oath and, much to everyone's surprise, if the collective gasp that had escaped so many lips had been anything to go by, professing his homosexuality.

Of the cadets, only Cory and The Phantom knew of Two Strokes' relationship with Thumper. Two Strokes was, to many of the cadets, the same pain in the ass he had always been. Cory, because he lived with him, had seen the gentle side of Two Strokes slowly emerge. The Phantom, because he was The Phantom, had seen the subtle changes in the once red-necked, unforgiving Regulating Chief Petty Officer. Roger Home was changed, true, and no longer saw life in blacks and whites. Life was a kaleidoscope of colour, of ever-changing hues, each different from the other, and no longer a pastiche of incomprehensible nothing. Roger Home no longer stood in judgement of his fellow cadets.

"You have come a long way in a short time, Roger of Home," Michael said softly. "You now know that what you see is different from what others see. Your eyes have been opened to a new world. You have accepted a part of yourself that you once denied. Others will condemn you, for that is your heritage. You, however, will reject the condemnation for the bigotry and hatred that you now realize it to be. Take care, my brother, to always remember that each man is capable of change, as you were."

"I will," came Two Strokes' whispered reply. "I made a lot of mistakes, made a lot of bad judgment calls. I only hope the guys can forgive me."

"They already have," replied Michael. He reached out and gently touched Two Stroke's cheek. "You are a part of them, Roger, and they are a part of you. You have seen them in their true light, as they will see you in your true light. You are welcomed by them, and by me."

"Are you all right?" asked Thumper out of the corner of his mouth as Two Strokes, visibly moved by the Grand Master's words, resumed his seat.

Two Strokes, who could feel a tear slowly working its way down his flushed cheeks, nodded and gave his lover a winning smile. He could not form the words he needed to express his feelings. He could only grasp Thumper's outstretched hand and squeeze it gently, for the first time in his young life feeling truly accepted and loved.

Casting a quizzical glance at Two Strokes, Thumper pulled his hand away and walked purposefully to kneel before Michael Chan. The Major looked at Thumper and asked, "Will you profess?"

Thumper's body grew stiff. He knew that he would be asked the question, and he knew that he would have to answer truthfully. Yet . . . the question had been direct, was he or was he not willing to admit that he was homosexual?

Opening his mouth, Thumper hesitated. Then he remembered that night on the beach, when he had taken Two Strokes' into his mouth, when he had deliberately shown his friend and messmate what being with another boy was like, what pleasure it could bring, what delights awaited. Thumper could not deny that he had initiated the first act, or that he had with a clear conscience followed Two Strokes from the Gunroom when he asked.

Thomas Matthew Vernon, called Thumper by all who knew him, and loved him, nodded. "I will profess," he whispered.

"The gift of gold is as old as man," Michael Chan told Val. "Gold is constant, and never tarnishes. In many traditions it is a sign of true faith and honour." He smiled at Val. "You have kept the traditions of your people, and honoured the traditions of others. Such are the ways of a true knight."

"Nicholas, you live in a city with two cultures," began Michael. "Since 1759, over two hundred years, these cultures have existed side-by-side, in many ways merely tolerating each other. They share, in some ways, the same moral values, the same prejudices, the same bigotry. You, however, have made a bridge - a small bridge, to be sure - but a bridge nevertheless. This, dear brother, is one of the reasons the Order exists. We build bridges for we have no concerns that one is this, and one is that. Our founders made no barriers between the cultures of Acre, and the Order accepts all who come to it for succour and aid. Keep to this path, dear Nicholas, and strengthen the bridges."

Michael's beaming smile seemed to fill the small room. He leaned forward slightly and gently brushed his hand against Cory's pink cheek. "You are the son of a dear, sweet lady, Cory of Arundel. In you I see so much of her. I see her beauty of spirit, her love of others, her courage and her determination. You have faced adversity in many ways and yet you refused to allow the bigots, and the haters, to deter you. I see a thin line of unbreakable steel in you, Cory. You believe in the honesty and integrity, both attributes you have in abundance. I am proud to know you."

Cory blushed deep red, the colour accenting the blondness of his hair and the sparkle of his eyes. "You have returned us to hope, Grand Master," he whispered.

Shaking his head, Michael answered emotionally, "No, Cory, it is you, and those like you, who have begun the return. I will not see the end, the bright, golden sun. You will, with your brothers, keep to the Rule, and in you, and your brothers, lies the future."

"I have told your brother that in you, in him, in your brothers, is the future," Michael told Todd. "In the past you proved your love for your brother and your bravery. You have known adversity, and struggled to overcome prejudice. You have taken a stand more than once, with your friends and brothers, against the Antichrist. You will do so again, Todd of the House of Leveson-Arundel."

Then Michael did something that surprised the assembly. He pulled Todd to him and held him close. "There is one who cares for you more than life itself, my son," Michael whispered earnestly. "Beware that what you do does not cause you to lose him, forever."

Michael watched the visibly shaken Todd return unsteadily to his seat. "You will lose him, young Todd," he thought. He glanced at obliquely at Patrick and a rueful look came into his eyes. "As I have already lost."

Harry's booming voice as he took the oath broke Michael's reverie. He smiled fleetingly and then tried to look stern. He had not forgotten Randy's warning.

"There is great pride in you," said Michael. He immediately regretted his choice of words, given Harry's ownership of the Pride of the Fleet. The small ripple of snickering that past through the small gathering did not help at all.

Clearing his throat, Michael continued. "There is also a great honesty in you. You have declared your love and never wavered. Your bravery will become legend, I think."

All pretence of humour left Harry's face. "I was wrong . . . " he began tentatively. He knew that the Grand Master knew about Stefan.

Michael held up his hand. "This is not the time for recrimination, Harold of Hohenberg. What some might consider a great sin others call a moral lapse. You are young, and in many ways unable to control you emotions."

"I never hurt him," Harry whispered as he slowly sank to the bench. "I never . . ."

"And you never will," said Michael kindly. "You must put aside the feelings of guilt you still have. You committed no sin, my brother, and today is a time of renewal." He reached out and with his finger slowly wiped away the tears that coursed down Harry's ruddy cheek. "Accept, dear brother, the kiss of peace."

Despite his tears, the true Harry again came to the fore. Hurriedly, he wiped his eyes and smiled broadly at Michael Chan. "Yum, yum, yum!"

It was time for the Americans. This time it was Joe Hobbes who made his neck bow to Mark and with his hand extended indicated that it was time for the tall, blond cadet to make his oath.

The Major symbolically barred Mark's way. "Mark James van Beck," he proclaimed, "you come before us as a Candidate Knight. Will you profess?"

Mark glanced back at Tony and then regarded the Major, his eyes clear and level. "I profess before God and this company. I am of the universal brotherhood."

"Will you make Oath?"

Nodding, Mark walked to the altar and placed his hand on the ancient wooden box containing the remnant of the True Cross. "I Mark James van Beck, do solemnly swear, upon my Oath, and upon this symbol of my Faith . . ."

Michael Chan was very much aware of the blatant hypocrisy that was the United States Armed Services. On the one hand Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice proclaimed that "homosexuality is incompatible with military service" and that homosexuals would be "separated". On the other hand, as had happened in Viet Nam just recently, in Korea, and World War II, so long as the Army, or the Navy or the Marines or whatever needed dicks and balls, the powers in the Pentagon were prepared turn a blind eye. When the conflict and the crisis were over, it was off with their heads.

Michael was loath to encourage any young man to pursue a career in the military, most particularly as an officer. The so-called investigative services seemed to spend most of their waking hours pursuing "deviants" and "queers", who were much more amenable targets in that they normally didn't shoot back, as drug dealers and pimps did. And the agents seemed to take great delight in apprehending officers, the higher the rank, the better. While ratings and Non-Commissioned officers could, and normally were, simply given an Undesirable Discharge in the United States, or declared "Not Advantageously Employable" in Canada, and quickly shown the door, officers were subject to court martial, and prison time. Once again, the higher the rank of the officer, the more certain a court martial was looming on someone's horizon.

What galled was that the U.S. Navy had known, as far back as 1956 that in and of itself homosexuality was no deterrent to good order and discipline. In fact the report had stressed that homosexuals had served honourably and well, and recommended that discharges no longer be mandated for gay personnel and that the Navy in particular should keep abreast of social attitudes and bring its policies in line with prevailing social mores. The "Crittenden Report" was promptly marked "Top Secret" and never circulated.

Sighing, Michael regarded Tony Valpone, who smiled winningly back. Michael felt that his position demanded that he exercise one of his rights. He had the right to be consulted, the right to encourage, and the right to warn. Should he warn this handsome, curly-haired, dark eyed young man that he was sailing in harm's way? One false step, one wrong move, and Tony would be on his way to Leavenworth.

The Order was non-existent in the United States. Michael had contacts, very high contacts in government, and he would use them if and when he had to. Would his power be enough, he wondered? Tony was now one of them, one of his brothers.

Another sigh escaped Michael's lips but before he could speak Tony held up his hand. Tony was no fool and he had worked too long and too hard to gain appointment to Annapolis to risk everything on a misstep. "I'll be careful," he said confidently. He glanced at Mark. "I owe it to him."

Michael smiled softly. "We will be at your side. No matter what, we will be at your side," he said, wondering if he would have to one day make good on his promise.

Michael sighed inwardly as Nathan knelt slowly onto to the bench. He had no idea what to say to the young American. What troubled Michael were Chef's notes. The old man had devoted one or, at the most, two pages to each candidate, listing in his perspicacious and frankly suspicious way, the pros and cons of each young man. For Nathan, however, Chef had written page after page and while it was never put in writing, Chef's opinion of Nathan Michael Berman was clear: he was not trusted!

Chef's muted warnings set off a jangle of alarm in Michael. Could it be that Chef had allowed his feelings for Cory, whom Nathan had, in Chef's words, "betrayed", to influence his opinion of the handsome young American? That would not be in character and Michael had read in Chef's own report that Cory had decided that his affair with Nathan would end. That Nathan had promptly taken up with Sandro, and then with Fred, could be dismissed as teenage promiscuity. Michael had only to look at the conduct of his cousin Joel when they were in school, surrounded by randy teenagers. Joel had cut a wide swathe through the mildewed halls of St. George's College, leaving a trail of happy, half-naked boys behind and never given them, or what he did to them, a second thought.

Michael could not dismiss Chef's misgivings out of hand. Michael relied on his Proctor to provide concise, careful reports, and to never allow his personal prejudices to cloud his judgement. Chef, as an astute observer, had been influential in refusing several candidates - none of the boys of Aurora - and Michael had never regretted following Chef's pithy observations.

Chef's report had caused Michael to delve just a little deeper into the background of one Nathan Michael Berman, and his family. What he found was, really, an American success story. Nathan's forebear had appeared in Seattle penniless. A German Jew, he had denied his heritage and become an ardent Lutheran. This in itself was hardly earth shaking. Many had done so before and after, and risen thereby. It was so much easier to be a German Protestant than a German Jew.

Michael was not troubled by Nathan's apostasy. The boy more than likely knew of his roots, but hardly knew them. Unlike Peter Race, who needed to find out about his past, and his heritage, Nathan was quite content in his present status, although, as Chef pointed out somewhat snidely, Nathan did seem to go to extremes in denying his Jewish past.

The Bermans were wealthy, thanks to the fur trade, and later to astute and clever manipulation of the stock market. Banking was their forte now, and they had ties to the great merchant banks in London. As Chef put it, the Bermans did not have to worry about where their next meal was coming from.

Successful in business, the Bermans were even more successful in the rough and tumble of Democratic politics. And this intrigued Michael. Nathan's people were no fools, and recognized lying, conniving, hypocritical Lace-Curtain Irish adventurers when they saw them, as the brothers Kennedy and their scheming father had learned to their regret. The Bermans had supported Kennedy - gently - and gained a measure of power. Their connections in Washington were impeccable, and reached into the White House.

The Bermans were seasoned pols that knew how to manipulate and this, Michael realized, was the basis for Chef's objections to Nathan. Chef prized honesty above every other virtue. Michael doubted that the old cook had told a lie in his life. Chef might exaggerate, he might stretch the truth until it sang with protest, but Chef would never lie. Chef might also plot and scheme to gain what he considered to be just ends, but he would never turn on a friend, or betray a brother.

Michael realized that he should not have been surprised at Chef's viewpoint. He recalled, vividly, the evening when he and The Gunner had spoken about the rise of the Order. The Gunner had railed at the wheeling and dealing, the political giving and taking, the mutual back scratching that had ended, fortunately, in the strengthening of the Order. Chef was very much like The Gunner in many respects. They both despised politicians, as did Michael, and they both refused to participate in something they considered dishonourable. Michael was not quite so innocent.

As his eyes drifted toward the King's ransom of jewels and gold that rested on the side tables Michael smiled inwardly. Dealing with priests and politicians had brought the Order much wealth, and much authority. Just as the Bermans had never trusted their so-called political allies in Washington, or Seattle, or wherever their tentacles had reached, so too had past Grand Masters taken the measure of their opponents, and acted. The Order had never involved itself in the intrigue of European or Papal politics. It had kept a low profile, never, as the Saint had decreed, "raising great temples". Indeed, the priories of the Order in Europe were usually nondescript compounds in unfashionable neighbourhoods. Chapels were bare, and devoid of gold statues and silver vessels. The old Grand Masters had realized that the true wealth of the Order lay not in tangible things, but in the discretion and honour of its knights.

Smiling, Michael told himself that there was more than one way to kill a cat, and the Order had long found that butter did the job just as well as poisoned meat. The Order had used its influence, yes, and given much. It had also gained much keeping to the shadows. It had not lent money to kings or popes, had not paraded through the streets of Berlin, or London, or Vienna on High Holy Days, had not advertised its presence. That the Order was there everyone who counted knew. That the Order had influence everyone also knew. Few knew that the Order had wealth, and the Grand Masters had gone to great lengths to ensure that their secret remained secret. That the Order had no political ambitions, did not desire great power, or even greater wealth, had been understood and while the Order never lost in any of its dealings with Emperor or Satrap, neither had the Order trumpeted its successes.

Discretion in all things, Michael thought, or to put it another way: when you are shearing a sheep, take great care to ensure that the lamb never sees the shears!

Michael's eyes looked across the assembled candidates, stopping first at Tony, and then at Andy. The Order had influence in the United States, but not much. Michael glanced down at Nathan. Here was a young man who could be led down the proper path, a young man whose family had influence and power and a young man who would, Michael suspected, not be afraid to use that influence.

As he thought Michael felt a strange, warm feeling creep across the back of his neck, setting the close-cropped hair to rising. He looked out and saw The Phantom's green eyes boring into him and nodded. Chef might have his misgivings, but the eyes of the young man who would lead the Order into the future told Michael something different. He looked down at Nathan and smiled.

"Welcome, dear brother," he murmured, "to the Order."

As Nathan received the kiss of peace, many of the watchers assumed that The Phantom would be next. They were mildly surprised when the Major called for Commander Stockman to come forward and be welcomed into the brotherhood of the Order.

"For Valour". The small phrase seemed to echo through Michael's mind as he looked at the array of enamel and gold and silver arranged in a single line across the dark blue uniform jacket that Commander Stockman wore.

Hanging from multi-coloured ribbons was the military career and history of the man. Each star, circle and cross represented a turning point in Frank Stockman's career as a Naval Officer, each medal and decoration - arranged in strict Order of Precedence - a testimony to his personal bravery, or luck.

Unlike the Americans, who seem to send up a pretty little ribbon with the rations, the Brits were, as Michael knew, downright parsimonious when it came to recognizing personal valour of their serving men and women. To anyone who knew it was more than evident that Frank Stockman had served his Queen and country well.

On Commander Stockman's chest, suspended from a red, blue-bordered ribbon, was the gold, white enamelled, cross pattée convexed, of the Distinguished Service Order. Beside the DSO was suspended, from a Navy blue and white ribbon, a cross similar to the DSO, only in silver, the Distinguished Service Medal, which Michael knew was a uniquely Navy medal.

His courage established, there followed a short, concise heraldic display of where the Commander had served: battle stars, each the same except for the minute, all but indecipherable letters denoting the campaign. First in priority was the 1939-45 Star, its unwatered, equal dark blue, red and light blue stripes representing the RN, the Army, and the RAF. Next came the shaded and watered blue, white and sea-green ribbon of the Atlantic Star, which represented days and weeks and months of pounding seas and exploding ships as the corvettes and frigates of the RN and the RCN battled the seas and U-Boats and kept England's lifeline open. Affixed to the ribbon was a small silver bar. "France and Germany". Frank Stockman had been wounded as his destroyer dodged Luftwaffe Stukas and Kreigsmarine E-Boats, her guns bellowing defiance at the shore batteries of Normandy.

The wound had obviously not been serious for beside the Atlantic Star, its dark green, red-edged ribbon with a central stripe of yellow edged with dark and light blue (the green and yellow representing the forests and beaches of the Pacific, the other colours representing the Armed Services) was the Pacific Star. On the ribbon was a bar that said, simply, "Burma."

Somewhat indicative of the scarcity of men and ships, of losses that could not be replaced in time, was yet another Star, the five equal stripes of its ribbon, red, white, green, white, red, indicating service in the Mediterranean, in Italian waters. The Italy Star.

After the decorations came the medals: The Defence Medal, the War Medal, 1939-1945 with a small silver oak leaf affixed to it, which denoted a "Mention in Despatches", followed by the next phase of Commander Stockman's career: The Korea Medal, beside which hung a somewhat pathetic and bland United Nations Medal, the dull patina of the "Korea" bar giving witness to the base metal from which it had been cast, and finally, almost as an afterthought, a poor relation in comparison to the glitter and gilt of its companions, the silver-gilt decagon of the Canadian Forces Decoration, all too often dismissed as an award for "Twelve Years of Undetected Crime"!

"How do I honour this man?" Michael asked himself. "How do I welcome him, a man who every day for years stood by the Crown, offered his body in defence of what he believed in, faced terror and death and utter destruction with phlegmatic acceptance. How do I honour him?"

Weeping silently, Michael gently tapped his sword on Frank Stockman's shoulders and then reached out to hold him close.

Unlike the Commanding Officer's medals, which were court mounted, Andy's gongs were swivel mounted and clanked tinnily as he knelt before the Grand Master. Michael glanced down and saw that Andy had been equally as brave as the old Commander. He had suffered in the jungles of Vietnam and, as the heart-shaped medal hung from a deep purple ribbon attested, had been wounded. Andy's bravery was evident as well, the Purple Heart joined by a Bronze Star and a Silver Star.

What made Andy's medals even more important however, was what had happened after he had returned home. Commander Stockman had returned to a Victory Parade through London, his King and Queen on the Reviewing Stand alongside Winston Churchill, and memorial services on Portsmouth Parade. Andy had returned to blind ignorance and hatred, his service denigrated and spat upon by his peers and family.

Michael knew well the ignominy anyone who had service in that unfortunate Asian land called Vietnam faced when they came back. He recalled the television news clips, and the horrible name calling that the Peaceniks and cowards who had remained behind had heaped upon the returning veterans. Andy Berg had done an honourable thing, and been excoriated for it! Michael's heart seemed to beat faster. In his mind he felt that he owed Andy some peace, some appreciation of what he had done. Impulsively Michael reached down and gently placed his hand against Andy's embarrassed, flushed cheek, the words failing him, determined to use whatever means at his disposal to ensure that Andrew Frederick David Berg would never again know shame.

Kyle's face was serene as he knelt before the Grand Master. He had professed without hesitation. Deep within his soul Kyle knew what he was about to do. He had no doubts at all. He was deeply in love with Andy, and would go where the young Marine officer went. He would be a part of Andy's life, support him, love him and, no matter what happened, when Andy came home, Kyle knew that he would be there to welcome him.

"The Gieves man did a good job," thought Michael as he tapped Colin on each shoulder. "A very good job considering that the lad's uniform was off the peg." Colin's stocky, well-muscled body seemed to ripple as he rose slowly. He was a magnificent creature. His new uniform, sewn with the zigzag twin stripes of a "Wavy Navy" lieutenant glowed deep and lush in the overhead lighting. The double rows of four buttons sparkled. At his side the gilt head of his new sword was lush in his broad, firm hand.

"Colin Charles Edward Thomas of Arnott," began Michael slowly. "Welcome to the Order."

"It is a great honour," replied Colin emotionally. "Perhaps more than you realize."

Michael shook his head. "You are welcomed with great joy, my young friend. Your selection was no passing whim on the part of a cantankerous old man."

Colin glanced quickly at Chef, who was scowling at Michael. Cantankerous old man, indeed!

Colin tried, but failed, to stifle a snicker. He sobered as he said, "I will do my best. I realize the importance of the 'great gift' I am allowed to hold close."

"As you should," said Michael with a thin smile. "The gift was not entrusted to your care lightly." He leaned forward. "There dwells in you, dear brother, a gentleness of nature, together with a firmness of will. You are young, but you have a wisdom that belies your years. You are not afraid to speak your mind, and you are not afraid to stand up for your beliefs. A firm hand was, and will be, needed, for the gift is wilful, and at times more of a pestiferous brat than a Prince of the Order!"

Colin broke into a broad smile. He knew where "Pestiferous Brat" came from. "He can be . . . difficult at times," Colin admitted carefully.

Nodding his agreement, Michael continued. "Yet his stubbornness, which many consider to be firmness of purpose, has led you to walk with him, to risk the wrath of gods should you displease him."

"Or them," countered Colin. "And there will be times when I will displease him." He shrugged demonstratively. "I will never lead him. I will guide him, to the best of my ability."

"Which is why you were chosen," returned Michael. He reached out to give Colin the kiss of peace. "And also because you are just as stubborn as he is, and have an attribute beyond measure."

"Which is?" asked Colin, curious, as he drew back.

"The lip of a Belfast Tinker!"

"In Scripture we are told that from time to time God gives unto us a man who is 'a certain trumpet', a man whose message is firm and clear of purpose. You, Philip Andrew Thomas of the house of Lascelles, are a certain trumpet."

The Phantom's emerald green eyes never wavered as he stared at Michael Chan, who seemed to tower over him.

"The timbre of your clarion call is clear, dear brother," Michael continued. "Your courage cannot be disputed, and your firmness is legend. Unlike so many of your peers you, dear Phantom, refuse to accept without question the shibboleths that your culture attempts to inflict upon you. You also see, as so many do not, that the Tapestry of your life is woven of many threads and many colours, some bold, some muted, some of vivid hues and some so faint that they are barely seen."

Michael reached down to take The Phantom's hands in his. "In the great Tapestry of your life that is continuing to be woven some figures, now bold with purpose, will fade into obscurity, and others, pale and indistinct, will grow in colour and strength. You will give your love and trust to many who now form a part of your Tapestry, just as you will give your love and trust to others not yet a part of that Tapestry. You must also, dear brother, remember that some of the threads are broken, and cannot be repaired." Michael smiled warmly. "The loom cannot weave a broken thread, Phantom."

A look of great sadness came across The Phantom's face as he realized the import of Michael's words. The small thread that was Greg was gone, a frayed bit of wool that would never join the other threads of the Tapestry, turned to dust.

"In you, Phantom is a seriousness that few possess. This character is also tempered by the folly of youth. You are not, dear brother, infallible, nor are you without your faults. Yet you have the ability, given to so few, to inspire, and to lead. And for this reason we welcome you, dear brother, into the Order of Knights."

Michael's sword flashed and The Phantom felt a light tap on each of his shoulders. As Michael turned to hand the sword to Laurence, The Phantom began to rise, expecting to receive the kiss of peace. Michael stopped him. "We are not quite finished with you, dear brother," he said with a smile. His face took on an almost euphoric look.

"Dear Phantom, few have come to mankind such as you, for you epitomize the spirit of the words I hear echoing still, words spoken to schoolboys, but meant for men:

'Never give in - never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.'

"Another great man, a man who never gave in, no matter what the cost, spoke these words. Like you, he rallied his people and led them to victory," continued Michael. "He might have been speaking to school boys, but take heed of Winston Churchill's words, Phantom. Never forget them, and never give in."

Reaching out, Michael took The Phantom's hands, helping the youth to rise to his feet. "It is time, Phantom. Tomorrow you begin your journey. Remember, in you the Order places its future. We have given you, without hesitation, a heavy burden. At your side will be your brothers. I give you a motto: 'In Our Strength, There is Hope'."

The Phantom's green eyes sparkled as he swore a new oath: "I will never fail you. I will never fail my brothers."

And so it was done. A Tapestry of immeasurable strength had been woven. The threads were now joined.

The tall doors of the ballroom opened and, as Logan, Patrick and Pete walked toward the Altar, the pianist slipped onto his bench. He reached for his music and stopped. Something had changed. He could not understand it, but somehow the room had taken on an aura, a feeling of such wonder, and filled with . . . greatness?

The pianist glanced back at the shining faces of the boys who filled the room and suddenly he knew what needed to be played. His hands shook slightly as his slim, talented fingers touched the ivory keys and with a reverence and greater passion than he had ever felt before, began playing as he had never played before, not in the Conservatory, not in the cathedral church, the opening notes of the triumphant hymn.

The Boys of Aurora, now the Knights of Saint John of the Cross of Acre slowly began their walk into the future.

As they walked the soaring notes of "Jerusalem" rose high and The Phantom, who had heard the hymn many times in celebration and praise, hummed the haunting melody. As the words of the hymn swirled through his mind The Phantom resolved that his sword would not sleep until he, and those he walked with, had built a new Jerusalem, a city of golden domes and shining towers for all his brothers, no matter their station, in a green and pleasant land.