"The Knights of Aurora" 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 to all my readers with regard to posting and then reposting this Prologue. I am afraid I let the tail get ahead of the dog and made some glaring errors in characterization. Mea Culpa.
The Knights of Aurora
Prologue
The valley of the Ottawa River winds westward from the national capital, passing through small towns and smaller villages, the white-lanes slashing the broad fields in between. Where the city dwindles from great monuments to cookie-cutter sub-divisions the farmland has reduced the once almost limitless, great northern forests to isolated copses and groves of lonely maple and scrub. In the summer the fields are filled with emerald green stands of corn interspersed with pastures where Holsteins and Guernseys graze lazily. In the fall the trees change colour and fill the eye with shades of red and yellow. Winter blankets the landscape with a colourless pall.
The fertile fields are now barren, covered with snow and spotted with the wreckage of the storms that have raged up and down the valley. Animals cower in the lee of the barns and stables, away from the wind, waiting until it was time to return to the warmth of their byres, and always, on the western and northern horizons the dark storm clouds gather, glowering and threatening, bringing the snow that blankets the lands.
The car, an ancient right-hand drive Daimler with a discreet crest painted on the rear passenger doors, kept to the speed limit. Snow squalls whirled and howled across the uncompromising straightness of the highway and there was black ice everywhere. In the back seat of the car, a warm carriage rug across his knees, the dark-haired, dark-eyed man gazed out at the nothingness of the valley fields. Sighing, he smiled weakly at the young man who shared the back seat with him.
"We should be there before too long," assured the young man. He glanced at his watch, a battered Timex. "I expect you are looking forward to meeting old friends."
Jeremie Larouche, Knight of Honour of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre smiled nostalgically. "Old friends," he thought as he smiled at the thin, sharp-featured young man. "You have no idea," he murmured. "No idea at all."
The bustling, crowded expressways of the capital had given way to a dual roadway, little travelled now, for their were few winter tourists along the Trans-Canada Highway and the bedroom communities that housed the clerks and drones of bureaucratic Ottawa were far behind. Reaching the town of Arnprior, the chauffeur left the highway and slowed as he navigated the narrower streets of the small town. It was a pretty little town, except in winter, when the snow and ice obscured the landscape and lawns, dulling the edges of the historic churches, the "English" Church, St. Andrew's Presbyterian, St. John Chrystostom, and the others, their tall spires jutting into the leading sky, and turning the fast flowing Ottawa and Madawaska Rivers into ice-clogged hazards.
Although today was Boxing Day, the end of the Christmas Holiday Season, the sidewalks of the little town seemed bare, with few citizens taking advantage of the holiday sales by Zellers and Home Depot and the smaller stores that lined the streets of the business district. The Christmas Decorations in every shop window looked ragged, and the wreaths that hung on the lampposts that lined the town's main streets, were battered from the effects of the wind and snow.
The car proceeded past the old Canadian Emergency Preparedness College, which had been housed in the barracks, Officers Mess and a hangar of a disused RCAF training base. The college was gone, moved to Ottawa, and the buildings, their white paint scabrous and peeling, were boarded and closed. The fields around the college appeared bleaker and more barren, being devoid of trees and scrubs. As they passed the derelict buildings of the former college the young man leaned forward and said to the chauffer, "The blue light now, I think, Malachi."
The chauffer nodded and reached forward to depress a small, pearl button set into the polished hardwood of the dash. "Yes, Mr. Kenyon."
The small, deep blue dome light fixed to the roof of the Daimler began to twirl, a signal to the security officers at the hospital gate that a Knight of the Order was on board.
Jeremie raised an eyebrow. He was being treated royally and he felt uncomfortable. "Security light?" he asked.
The young man pursed his thin lips and nodded tightly. "Yes. We have very tight security, even more so since 9/11. And there have been threats and letters." His lips grew tighter. "There are some in the town who object to the school. Also, not all of the boys are foundlings and orphans. We have an excellent program and reputation and we board the sons of some very important people."
"The finest public school in Upper Canada, eh, Mr. Kenyon?" interjected Malachi. He had been a fixture at the school since the first day, chauffeured the Grand Master and the more important guests, and was considered the schools Reprobate Character in Residence.
Jeremie smiled at Malachi's use of the proper, English term for a very private school of the Anglican tradition. The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre was "public" in the sense that it took in boys of all walks of life, many on scholarship. Other boys were accepted, of course, but their parents paid hefty fees.
Malachi glanced in the rear view mirror. "And will Mr. Kenyon be your page during the Collar Ceremony?"
Jeremie glanced at the young man and wondered if he were entitled to a page at all. Today was a day of great ceremony, when many of the Knights gathered for a formal procession, each wearing his jewelled collar, and attended by a Page of Honour. Today was the Order's feast day, in the Calendar of Saints of the Latin Church the day honouring Saint John the Divine, also called Saint John of the Cross. After the service in the hospital chapel there would be a banquet and the glory of the Order celebrated with wine and reminiscences.
"I am a mere Honourary Knight, and my decision to attend was really spur of the moment," replied Jeremie with diffidence. "But, yes, if I am to have a page, why not Mr. Kenyon?"
"He's a good lad, he is," returned Malachi with a grin. "I've known him since he was a mere babe. I changed his diapers the first night that prune-faced witch from the welfare dropped him off at the creche. Squalled like a cat, he did!" Then he added, "And you'll not find better, among the other boys."
"Mr." Kenyon blushed and pursed his thin lips. "I wish he wouldn't do that," he grumbled quietly. "He's incorrigible!"
Malachi, as became a true character, ignored the gibe and concentrated on his driving.
Jeremie Cher stifled a snicker and smiled at the young man. James Kenyon was all of twenty, if he was that. He was also nervous, greeting a visiting knight for the first time. He naturally wanted to make no mistakes.
"At least he didn't call you 'Jimmy'," said Jeremie kindly.
For the first time since picking Jeremie up at his in-laws' sprawling old house in Hull, Quebec, across from Ottawa, James Kenyon smiled and seemed to relax. "I just don't want to make a mistake!"
"You haven't," replied Jeremie Cher. "And if you did, I wouldn't tell." He then laughed out loud. "And not to worry. It took me years to get used to being called 'Sir Jeremie' and having people bow every time I took a step!"
James sat quiet for a moment and then asked, "You were one of the originals?"
Nodding, Jeremie replied, "Yes, I was one of the Boys of Aurora." He leaned forward a bit and said, almost conspiratorially, "And the stories are greatly exaggerated."
James gave the knight a strange look. "But . . . but you were there?" he asked. "At the beginning?"
Jeremie did not reply. He nodded and turned to look out of the window of the car as the massive gates of Saint John's Academy came into view.
"Yes, I was there," he thought. "I found love, and walked away from it. I saw courage, and I saw death. I saw greatness and I saw evil defeated. I was there."
"I was there, from the beginning," Jeremie told the young James. He looked through the windscreen as the car approached the tall, stone gates and noticed that except for a small brass plaque bearing the Arms of the Order on each post, there was no mention that what lay behind the high stone walls was a school in accordance with ancient tradition, a "hospital" for boys.
After acknowledging the salute of the Security Guard who occupied the Gatehouse just inside the gates with a slight wave of his hand, Jeremie peered down what appeared to be a wide avenue, lined with trees - stripped of their leaves now in the winter - seeing a wide, huge, open field covered in snow and alive with dozens of . . . boys.
James saw the look on Sir Jeremie's face and chuckled. "We have a huge, and very modern sports complex, but they still prefer the outdoors."
A small nod of Jeremie's head acknowledged James' comment. Back home it was the same. Boys, in winter, preferred to be bundled up and out of doors. North Bay boasted at least a dozen enclosed sports arenas that offered ice time to anyone with the money to pay for it, and many did. Still, or at least so it seemed to Jeremie, the streets were filled with boys playing shinny, boys who played with one eye on the puck and the other on the road, always at the ready to shout the time-honoured, traditional warning of "Caaarrr".
The Daimler slowed to allow a trio of boys, bundled and all but unrecognizable in parkas and toques and laden with hockey sticks and a net, to shuffle across the road as only teenage boys could shuffle. As the car slowed all three boys turned to look and Jeremie gasped slightly. There was not a hint of a difference between the boys' faces.
"Timothy, Tristan and Theodore Lascelles-Arnott," said James. Then he added under his breath, "Little brats!"
Ignoring the epithet, Jeremie replied, "They seem so grown." He watched the trio walk across the snow-covered field where a small knot of boys seemed to be involved in the intricacies of choosing sides for a game of pickup hockey. "I haven't seen them since their mother's funeral," Jeremie said to James. "There are others, twins I think, and an older boy?"
James nodded. "I went to school with David, the oldest. He's in England, or rather, in Iraq with the Royal Marines. The other two, Dermot and Daniel, are probably off destroying something with Lord Arundel's sons."
Jeremie thought a moment. Then he remembered that there were now two Lord Arundels, the Twins, Todd and Cory Arundel, who had jointly inherited the title from their father. He also remembered that Todd had two sons, twins, which seemed to run in the Arundel family, and Cory had adopted the son of his long time companion, Sean Anders, which caused Jeremie to wonder which "Lord Arundel's" sons were destroying "something".
"They are guests of the Grand Master, at Flagstaff House," said James with a nod past Jeremie.
Out of the side window Jeremie could see the large, foursquare, Georgian-style white-stuccoed house occupied by the Grand Master.
The house, named after the headquarters building in many of the British cantonments in India, stood in a large, open park, rimmed with trees. It was a solid, four-storey, substantial house with a double porte-cochere and a bay window that stretched upward three floors. Set on the roof, in line with the bay window, was a flagpole, from which the personal standard of Philip Lascelles, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, snapped in the wind.
"Things have changed since I was here last," Jeremie said quietly. He looked and saw the imposing bulk of the main hospital building, a stern-facaded, multi-windowed, domed Edwardian building looming at the far end of the Mall.
The car travelled along the Mall and made the turn onto the forecourt of the hospital building, following a sloping ramp that rose toward the entrance. As the car stopped at the broad flight of steps that led into main entrance of the building Jeremie saw two young men, both dressed in the distinctive white caps and bell-bottoms of Sea Cadets, hurry from the alcove to the right of the steps. He watched as they walked quickly to the huge bell hung from a massive brass frame set before the Mast. Looking at his watch, Jeremie noted that the cadets were right on the second. As the ding-ding, ding-ding, ding, of the bell echoed over the forecourt he nodded, and smiled. Five bells of the Forenoon Watch, 1030 of the clock on a cold, winter's morning.
"God, I've missed that sound," murmured Jeremie as he left the car. He looked up and saw the White Ensign at the gaff, snapping in the cold wind that blew across the campus of the hospital. "And I miss seeing that wonderful flag," he thought. "Phantom has kept his promise." He turned to James. "Were you with the Cadets?"
"Oh yes," replied James with a nod. "I made Chief before I left."
Laughing, Jeremie shook his head. "I never managed anything better than Petty Officer."
As they mounted the steps, heading toward the tall, brass doors, James said, "And became a knight!" He said the word "knight" almost reverently.
"Alas, a very poor knight," responded Jeremie gravely. "This is the first time I've been able to visit in, oh, six years!"
And not without difficulty, mused Jeremie as he turned to watch the two cadets salute and walk away from the bell. His wife, a dark-eyed, dark-haired, achingly beautiful Quebecoise had only consented to leave their snug house in North Bay because she wanted to show off their baby son to her relatives, who had gathered for the holidays. She was no doubt at the moment basking in the adulation of her relatives, and plotting a raid on his credit cards!
Jeremie's musing about his wife's spending habits was rudely interrupted when the side doors off of the main entrance of the building banged open and a horde of little boys came bustling out. They all wore parkas over their school uniforms: grey trousers, short blue coats, and buff waistcoats, starched white shirts and patterned school ties. As they pulled on their toques and hats they chattered away as only boys could chatter away, not noticing Jeremie or James standing in the way. Behind the boys a muscular, blond-haired, bluff-faced Master appeared. He was formally dressed in a dark suit and academic gown.
"Straight back home, boys," the Master ordered. "And remember, the Choir Master wants you all in chapel an hour before the service!"
Barely acknowledging the Master's admonition, the boys giggled and carried on down the stairs. Shaking his head the Master stared after the youngsters and then started. He looked at the man before him, looked again, and then held out his arms. "Jeremie?"
Jeremie looked, and gasped. "Jergen?"
Before Jeremie could react, Jergen pulled the man into his arms and hugged him close. "Dear God, Jeremie!" whispered Jergen emotionally. "I had all but given up at ever seeing you again!"
After returning Jergen's hug, Jeremie pulled away. He was conscious of James Kenyon standing to one side, no doubt wondering what was going on. "It has been a long time," said Jeremie. "I thought you were back in Germany!"
"I was," replied Jergen. "But they needed a German master so I was called."
"Well, I am truly pleased to see you here!" responded Jeremie, barely able to conceal the joy he felt to find his old friend here. And barely able to mask the memories that the handsome German stirred in him. He asked abruptly, "How do you like being a teacher?"
Jergen laughed loudly. "Dear God! They drive me mad, these little boys of ours! They are so unpredictable."
"Tell me about it," responded Jeremie. "Wait until you have to work with the older boys. All my students are in heat half the time, and depressed the other half."
"But you enjoy teaching," said Jergen. He slipped his arm through Jeremie's. "Come, we'll have a drink and you can tell me all the horror stories about teaching high school."
Jeremie allowed the small gesture of affection. "The boys who almost ran over me, they're all Lower School?"
"Yes," replied Jergen, his English still accented with his native German. "I do teach a class or two with the older boys whenever Eugen - Eugen Arenberg? You remember him?"
Jeremie nodded, remembering the slim, bespectacled young man who been one of the first boys rescued so many years ago. "I remember him."
"He's Dean of Languages," said Jergen. "He is also a member of the Grand Council and travels quite a lot."
"The Order is growing, then?" asked Jeremie as he allowed Jergen to lead him down the steps.
"By leaps and bounds," responded Jergen. He nodded toward a row of small cottages that angled away from the main field. "Come, we'll go to my house and talk."
"You have a house?" asked Jeremie, his eyebrows rising.
Jergen shook his head. He knew what Jeremie was getting at. The school was based on the Anglican tradition and the students, all boys, were not housed in dormitories, but in large, comfortable houses, under the control of a Senior Master, assisted by a Prefect, always called the "Head Boy".
"No. They are all on the other side of the parade ground and playing fields, along the river. I live on Bachelors' Row'."
"Bachelors' Row?"
"The junior masters, and those who do not have a house, live in separate cottages. I am quite comfortable, really," replied Jergen as they turned down the small street. He stopped and turned to James Kenyon, who had followed them. "Sir Jeremie and I are going to spend some time remembering our youth, James," he said pointedly.
"I . . . uh . . . the Grand Master told me that I was to attend Sir Jeremie," began James.
"It's quite all right, James," said Jeremie softly. "Jergen . . . Mr. Leyen and I are very old friends." He reached out to give James' arm a friendly squeeze. "I'll make it right with The Phantom."
A strange, almost ethereal look came over James' face. Only the very oldest, and dearest of the knights referred to the Grand Master by this affectionate appellation.
Seeing the look on James' face, Jeremie smiled. "I knew him when, James. We were boys together, back in the dawn of time."
James, who knew a little of the early history of the resurgent Order, nodded. "The Boys of Aurora," he said.
"Jeremie was one of them, yes, he was," interjected Jergen with a huge grin. "And I was one of the Lost Boys!"
James' eyes widened. Mr. Leyen was new to the hospital, and very little was known about him. But then, very little was known about the "Lost Boys", as the small group of orphans who had formed the very first class were called.
"We have not seen each other for a very long time," said Jeremie.
Trying to understand that bond that existed between the two men, James replied, "Well, then, you should get to know one another again." He shrugged. "I live in Nicholson House. If you need me, just ring 3345." He turned and walked away.
"Nicholson House?" asked Jeremie as they resumed their walk toward Jergen's small cottage.
"And Arundel House, and Leveson House, and so on," responded Jergen. "The students all live in houses, as opposed to dormitories. The houses are named for the trustees who donated the money for their construction. James was Head Boy in Nicholson House and still stays there whenever he returns from university. Eugen Arenberg and Peter Race are quite fond of him. They've sponsored him for knighthood."
"Peter is . . .?"
"Very happy. He and Eugen seem made for each other."
Taking a deep breath, Jeremie asked carefully, "The boys understand their relationship?"
Jergen started and gave Jeremie a level look. "They understand, Jeremie Cher. Eugen and Peter are very discreet, as are Simon Keppel and Calvin Hobbes. They live in the Prelate's house, although they don't have any boys with them." Then he added, somewhat coldly, "You of all people should understand, Jeremie, what we are about."
"You called me 'Jeremie Cher'," whispered Jeremie. "No one has called me that in years." Then he frowned. "I did not mean anything, Jergen. I merely asked."
"You are very dear to the Grand Master," said Jergen. "You are one of the 'Boys of Aurora'. You were one of the rescuers!"
"Please, Jergen," replied Jeremie, recognizing the coldness in Jergen's voice. "It is just, it is just too much to take in, to understand."
"Jeremie, this place was founded as a refuge for former whores, for boys who . . ."
"Don't say that!" flared Jeremie, "Don't you ever say that! You were never a whore!"
Jergen stopped in front of a small, neat cottage surrounded by a low, metal fence. "Jeremie, we insist on truth here." He opened the small gate and gestured toward the door of the house. "And I was a whore!"
After removing his overcoat, Jeremie settled into a comfortable chair in Jergen's living room. Jergen lit the fire and then offered a drink. "Whisky?" he asked. "Or would you prefer I make some coffee."
"Whisky please," replied Jeremie, who needed something stronger than coffee to steady his rising nervousness over just being in the same room with Jergen. "And I wish you wouldn't . . ."
Sighing, Jergen sat opposite to his guest and shook his head. "We cannot change the past, we cannot rewrite history to conform to what we want history to be." He took a large swallow of his drink and looked at Jeremie. "When you and the others rescued me, I was a whore."
Grimacing, Jeremie stared at Jergen. "You had no choice! You were kidnapped and enslaved!"
Jergen shrugged, having long-since reconciled himself to his sordid past. "True. I was sold from man to man, and used by them." He raised an eyebrow and smiled wanly. "But Jeremie, from time to time I did enjoy what I was doing."
Jeremie blushed, knowing exactly what Jergen was alluding to. "That was a long time ago. I'm married, and I have a son."
Jergen hastened to reassure his guest. "I did not mean to recall unpleasant memories," he said calmly. He had no designs on this earnest man.
For a long while Jeremie remained silent, staring into the fire. "They weren't unpleasant!" he blurted.
Chuckling, Jergen raised his glass. "But you never relived them, did you?"
"I am an honourary knight," Jeremie returned, not wishing to pursue this conversation further.
"And this afternoon I shall be a professed knight," replied Jergen without emotion.
Surprised, Jeremie sank back into the comfortable chair. "You . . ."
"I am homosexual, I have been with the Order since I was sixteen. I have worked for the Order, I have done things for the Order that have skirted the law." He shrugged. "I am not ashamed of who I am, or what I am."
"Are you inferring that I am?" snapped Jeremie.
"Not at all," replied Jergen with a wave of his glass. "The Order has long recognized that some of its members are not, and never were, homosexual." He leaned forward in his chair. "Jeremie, I did not invite you into my home to take advantage of you! If I wanted 'companionship', believe me, I could drive over to Ottawa." He made a face. "I do not want that."
Jeremie felt like dirt. Jergen and he had been fast friends for a short while as boys. He still thought that the German was a wonderful man, and a friend. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Jergen finished his drink and poured another. He regarded Jeremie kindly. "We were boys. You were curious. I needed someone to hold me."
A stricken look crossed Jeremie's face. "I remember, Jergen. I remember how I felt. I remember . . ."
"Stop it," Jergen instructed. "It's over and done with. Why dwell on it?" He refilled Jeremie's glass. "You followed your own path. You married, you had a son. You are living your life the way you want to live it."
"And you?"
"Jeremie, I will not deny that along the way I made a few, shall we say, detours. I never found anyone I cared for enough to stay with." He laughed caustically. "When we shared that time together I was under no illusions."
"I didn't mean to look down on you," whispered Jeremie. "And I never wanted you to think that I was using you."
"I thought no such thing," responded Jergen. "You were young, and there you were surrounded by other boys who frankly enjoyed each other. As I have said, you were curious. You satisfied your curiosity. Then you moved on."
Rising, Jergen walked to the large window overlooking the street. "Here, at this place we call the Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, there are many boys. They are all curious, as you were. Some will follow my path. Others will follow yours. It is the nature of things."
"A very philosophical statement," observed Jeremie dryly.
"Hardly," drawled Jergen as he returned to his seat. He reached out and took Jeremie's hand. "In the school, where you teach, there are boys, yes?"
"Of course. And girls," responded Jeremie.
"You see them everyday, yes?"
"Of course."
"Then you know that some of them are, shall we say, close?"
Jeremie had to think about his answer. As a teacher he was discouraged from becoming too close with his students. Still, there were some who . . . "I teach at a Catholic high school. It is presumed that the students are all good Catholic boys and girls."
"Bah!" snorted Jergen disdainfully. "That is no answer at all! Boys experiment, with each other, and with girls! I am a teacher, and I see sometimes the look that come into a boy's eyes when he looks at one of his classmates. You must see those same looks!"
"Yes," Jeremie admitted reluctantly.
"And you ignore them," returned Jergen. "You know what is happening outside of school hours. You also know what will happen should their little liaisons become public knowledge."
As Jeremie taught at a very orthodox school, he knew what Jergen was getting at. "I know, and yes," he admitted sheepishly, "I have ignored them."
"You ignore the natural events of life!" growled Jergen. "You are a Knight! You are supposed to help boys who come to you. Do you do that?" He leaned forward and stared into Jeremie's dark eyes. "Or do you simply turn your back and walk away?"
Jeremie had no immediate response. "It is not . . . they don't come to me, not about . . . that. It is not the same as here," he finally said weakly. "The priests, the community, would not understand."
"What do you mean, 'not the same as here'?" demanded Jergen. "What do you think we are doing here?" Without waiting for a reply Jergen stood and began to pace angrily. "Do you think this is a training school for queers?"
Appalled, Jeremie drew back. "I never meant that!" he protested, matching Jergen's tone. "I never at any time even thought that! We just do not talk about sexuality at our school."
Jergen stopped his pacing. "You asked me if the boys understood that some of the masters were in relationships?"
Jeremie nodded.
"They understand because we do not lie to them, ever. I am their teacher, yes. I am also their mentor. They know that they can come to my office, or knock on my door, at any time, and ask any question, and be told the truth. Many of our boys are gay. They come to us from parents who cannot accept that their son is 'queer'. We accept boys rejected by society because they do not 'fit in', boys who were abused by adults, physically, sexually, emotionally. We accept them and we try to help them understand who and what they are. We do not judge, we do not label. And we do not stand in judgement if they from time to time try to explore their emotions and discover the true meaning of the feelings that they harbour."
"You make it sound so simple," replied Jeremie.
"It isn't," said Jergen. "On the surface, we offer the boys our protection. We do everything we can do make them understand that they are safe and that no matter what happens, we, the Order, will ensure that never again will they suffer abuse. We accept boys of every race, every creed, and every religion, and we accept them without question or label. We give them what the social service agencies cannot give them. We give them love! Many of our boys are homosexual, true, but not all. We try to make them all understand who and what they are."
"You sound like The Phantom," observed Jeremie.
"And why should I not?" Jergen asked. "He has been an influence in my life for many years. He is the unique and commanding spirit of this school, of the Order."
"He is not a god, Jergen," Jeremie pointed out. "He has his faults." "Of course he does," returned Jergen sharply. "No one is putting him on a pedestal and the boys do not bow and scrape whenever he passes by. They love him, yes, but they also know that he is a man after all is said and done. You above all others, should know that."
"I do," said Jeremie with conviction. "In a way, I love him. I always have." He chuckled and continued, "When we were in Aurora I told him that I wouldn't mind letting him take Little Jeremie for a walk in the moonlight!" "Did you?" asked Jergen, surprised, for Jeremie had never, except for that one night so very long ago, admitted an interest in another male.
"No. But I would have, if he'd asked me."
"He wouldn't have," said Jergen. "He was never out to bed us. Quite the opposite."
"Phantom is a man of honour," Jeremie observed warmly, "and a man who believes strongly in what he sees as his role in life. He does not do what he does for himself. He does it for the boys, for all the boys here, for all the boys we do not know about. He was always that way."
"He was?"
Jeremie scratched his chin reflectively. "When we were in Aurora Phantom did something - and believe me when I tell you, to this day I do not know what he did - that removed a very real threat to Todd and Cory Arundel, and to others who were like them. He did what he did because he loved Todd, Cory, and all the Boys of Aurora. That his world might have come crashing down on him had his actions been discovered was of no consequence. His friends were in danger, he acted to remove the danger." Jeremie looked earnestly at Jergen. "Phantom has never wavered in his love for us, and has never wavered in his beliefs. He shines as a beacon to what a man can be when his spirit is indomitable and he loves not only his friends, but also himself. And that, Jergen, is why I understand Phantom. I know who he is, and what he is."
A strange look came over Jergen's face. "The boys here talk with him constantly. He has them to tea, and dinner almost every night he is in residence. They understand his message to them: a man must not allow the world to dictate who he is or should become. He delivers a message of hope for all of us, that no matter if we are gay or straight, a student, an athlete, a follower or a leader, we must be true to ourselves." Jergen paused and looked directly at Jeremie. "Which is the real reason that you are you here."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Jeremie, you haven't been near the hospital in years." Jergen pointed a finger at the ring Jeremie wore on his right hand. "You wear the ring of knight, yet you have not, really, done much to further the goals of the Order."
Sighing, Jeremie nodded slowly. "I told myself that I lived in a small town, taught in a high school that in reality is nothing more than an extension of the Roman Catholic Church. People would not understand my involvement with an Order dedicated to furthering social and cultural acceptance of homosexuality." He looked at Jergen, his face filled with sadness. "I married, I made a career for myself. I read, I watched, and I told myself that no matter what there was little I could do. My wife would never understand my involvement with the Order. Her family, my family, would never understand my involvement!"
Jergen rubbed his chin reflectively. "You recall what Chef used to say, that evil flourishes where good men remain silent?"
"I remember." A cloud of despair seemed to envelope Jeremie. "Phantom must be very disappointed in me." A wistful smile crossed his lips. "The other cadets, my shipmates, they would call me Jeremie Cher, which I accepted as one of those silly nicknames we always gave each other. And then . . ."
A strange, almost wonderful look came over Jeremie's face. "One night Phantom came down to the Dockyard, and he sat and talked with me and . . . damn, Jergen, I felt wonderful!" The wistful smile that intrigued Jergen returned to Jeremie's face as he said softly, "I know it sounds silly, but for some reason when Phantom called me Jeremie Cher it seemed to be . . . special."
"He calls you that still because you are special to him, and he will call you that until you join the others in the crypt below the chapel," responded Jergen. "Your shield is affixed to the ceiling of the chapel, and you have a place in the procession this afternoon. Phantom understands that in life our surroundings, our families, influence our decisions. Some are willing to risk anathema, others are not."
"But, damn it!" exploded Jeremie. "I should have been there. Phantom, Cory, and Matt faced down the United States Army! Then they told the Canadian Navy to get stuffed and went off and won the Victoria Cross! Peter Race, sweet, kind, Peter Race came home from the Gulf with a DSC and a DSO!" He stood and walked to the window of the small living room. "Out there a school was carved out of nothing! Look at it now, Jergen. Everywhere you look there are boys who can now live in peace, and just be boys, without fear. Harry has six sons and I'd bet my bottom dollar that they will be here for the Collar Ceremony."
"They are already here," said Jergen. "Todd's boys are here, Cory's son, Sean, is here."
"I have a son," said Jeremie softly, his eyes filling with love. "He looks like his mother."
"I am sure that he is very handsome," replied Jergen diplomatically. He had never met Jeremie's wife, and had no idea what she looked like. Jeremie sank heavily into his chair, not having heard Jergen's remark. His eyes took on a faraway look. "When I hold him I sometimes wonder what will happen to him if he turns out to be gay. What will I say to him if he comes to me one day and tells me that he is gay?"
"Hopefully you will love him, and support him," replied Jergen. "One also hopes that you will tell him about this Order of ours, and tell him how you helped rebuild that Order. Do not ever belittle your role in what happened."
"I stood in a church basement and took a pee!" responded Jeremie with a laugh. "Never in my wildest imaginings would I have ever thought that taking a pee would lead to the destruction of a worldwide web of paedophiles!"
"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, or in your case, a pee," rejoined Jergen, joining in Jeremie's laughter. Then he sobered. "As for your boy, well, we will always be here, as we have been here since 1978. We will fight for him, and keep the hounds of bureaucracy, the bigots, and the haters, at bay. We've done it for many, many other boys. We've done it here in Canada, in England, in Germany. One day we will do it for the 'Lost Boys' of America."
"I should have been there every step of the way," snarled Jeremie in self-anger. "Cory and Todd Arundel risked their professional careers as naval officers when they argued before the Supreme Court against the military regulations against gays and lesbians. I read the newspaper editorials when Phantom and the Order took on the Children's Aid Society."
"A most over-rated organization whose less than qualified agents are only concerned with the power they exert over the poor souls entrusted to their care," sniped Jergen. "Or forcing truly religious folk to obey the Society's crackpot ideas on child rearing!"
"Still, Todd and Cory, and the others, won!" responded Jeremie flatly. "They risked their lives, their fortune and their honour." He leaned forward in his chair. "Admiral Lotbiniere is rampaging through the Admiralty in London, taking on the establishment and the House of Lords, demanding that Queen's Regulations, and the Royal Navy, recognize that every sailor, no matter if he is gay or straight, has a right to serve the Queen honourably."
"We have failed miserably in the United States," Jergen pointed out.
Jeremie's fist closed tightly around the squat, crystal glass he held. "Not at all surprising, is it?" he asked. "We are up against the Religious Right, Falwell, Swaggart, Robertson and every other whacked out televangelist, and George Walker Bush! Those clowns all think that the only good queer is a dead queer!"
"Still, we are trying," responded Jergen. "Andy Berg is Deputy Chief of Staff to the Commandant of the Marine Corps at the Pentagon, and Rumsfeld likes him."
"And Nathan's brother is working on the Democratic side of the Senate," said Jeremie. "That does not mean that suddenly the sky will open, the sun will shine and all will be well!"
"No," agreed Jergen. "But then, stranger things have happened." He looked slyly at Jeremie. "After all, you came here."
Jeremie returned Jergen's look. "Yes, I did. There are things that still need to be done, and I am damned well going to be there to help." He held up his hand to show Jergen the gold, enamelled ring set with a deep red, bevelled ruby. "Michael Chan placed this ring on my finger and Phantom kissed me. It is time I lived up to the promise I made to them. It is time I repaid my debt."
Reaching out, Jergen gently touched the gemstone set in Jeremie's ring. "And later today Phantom will place such a ring on my finger."
Jeremie nodded and said, "I had thought you'd done it years ago, as a Knight of Honour."
Shaking his head, Jergen replied, "No. I suppose one part of me wanted to, but I remember the words you said to me when we were together that night. The words you said today, that I was forced to do what I did." Then Jergen reached out and deliberately took Jeremie's hand in his. He kissed the back of Jeremie's hand and looked at the dark-haired man. "And then I remembered you."
"Me?" Jeremie all but squeaked.
Jergen's head bobbed briefly. "When you and I were together, you did not force me. I wanted to be with you. I knew that what we were doing was only a one off, that it would never happen again, but I wanted you to make love to me, and you did. No one ever made me feel so wanted, so loved, as you did, Jeremie Cher Larouche!"
Jeremie gazed into Jergen's eyes. "I've thought, I think about you, sometimes. I remember that night so well. But, Jergen . . ." His voice trailed off, for he was afraid to tell the German just how he felt.
"I did not ask you here, to my home, to seduce you," Jergen said earnestly. "I am very happy to see you, very happy to just be with you. I have never forgotten you." Then he added, "And I would like you to stand for me when I am called to the Altar."
With his free hand Jeremie reached out to stroke Jergen's warm, flushed face. "When I was in college my roommate and I, we, well we did it. We were both very drunk and in the morning we told each other it was just a drunken escapade. We never did it again, and we never, ever mentioned what had happened."
"Don't, Jeremie," said Jergen. "It means nothing."
"In the morning, when I woke up," continued Jeremie as if he had not heard Jergen's words, "and I was lying naked, in bed with another man, I felt so . . . defiled, so dirty."
"It meant nothing," repeated Jergen, his voice stronger, his tone firmer.
"But you know what?" asked Jeremie quietly.
"No."
"As I thought about what had happened what bothered me was not so much having had sex with my dimwit roommate, but that I had betrayed you."
It was Jergen's turn to squeak out, "Me?"
Jeremie's head nodded vigorously. "For some strange reason I felt that I had almost committed adultery!"
"Really, Jeremie, I was only 16 back then and you were what, 15, and had never been kissed?"
"Well, not by another boy," responded Jeremie lightly. "What we did that night has remained with me. I cannot for the life of me remember any of the details of that night with my roommate, but I remember everything about us, what we did, what it felt like when we did it, and how I felt afterward." He snickered, and then blushed. "I even remember how you looked!"
Jergen chuckled. "I've changed." He shrugged. "Rule 26, you know."
Not letting go of Jergen's hand, Jeremie stood up. "Show me your bedroom," he said huskily.
"Are you sure?" Jergen asked as he looked into Jeremie Cher's dark eyes. "I don't want you to think that you . . ."
"The bedroom?"
From somewhere in the distance the long toll of a bell striking the hour broke the quiet of the bedroom. The noon bell was calling the students and staff to lunch. Jeremie's lips brushed against Jergen's. "So, do you feel defiled?" asked Jergen with a grin.
"I feel wonderful, and I'm glad I came here." His arms snaked around Jergen's broad chest. "And now that I am back, I am not letting you get away again!"
"I hate to bring it up, but you do have a wife, and a son!" responded Jergen.
Sighing, Jeremie pulled away, lay back, and stared at the ceiling. "I love Cecile, and I adore Armand," he said quietly.
"But?"
"Cecile hates North Bay. Before we married she had a good job with the United Nations. She travelled, she was, as she puts it, 'her own woman'."
"Still, she married you," replied Jergen. "And bore you a son. You must mean something to her."
"Oh, she loves me, and I love her." Jeremie turned his head and looked at Jergen. "But she feels hemmed in, and if the truth were told, she's bored. She's a beautiful woman, she's intelligent, capable and bored spitless in North Bay!"
"Are you saying that your marriage is breaking down?" asked Jergen. "Are you here because you need a shoulder to cry on?" Jergen broke Jeremie's hold. "Because if you are . . ."
"I am here because I wanted to return to the happy times, Jergen. I wanted to renew what I had when I was a kid! I woke up one morning and realized that I needed to come here. I did not come here to sleep with you!" He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at Jergen. "But damn it, I sure am glad I did!"
"Jeremie Cher, I must point out that you are not gay," said Jergen. "You wanted to relive what we had."
"Nope," replied Jeremie. "I asked you to show me your bedroom. This time I was not curious. I wanted to sleep with you. I wanted to have you in my arms. I wanted you to make love to me."
"You decided all this one sunny morning?" asked Jergen, incredulous. "You just don't wake up and decide to sleep with another man! And what about your wife?" He struggled into a sitting position. "I don't want to be 'the other woman' in some sordid divorce case, and I don't want you to do something you might regret later on down the road!"
Jeremie reached out and fondled Jergen. "You will never be accused of being a woman, not with this beast!" he declared with a snicker. "Nice refit, by the way. Who did it?"
"Leave my refit out of this, and if you must know, Doctor Reynolds. I believe it was the last procedure he performed before retiring as Surgeon-in-Ordinary." Jergen glanced down at his crotch. "The good doctor has a deft touch," he said with a snicker.
"A true artiste," agreed Jeremie. He glanced quickly at Jergen, looked away, and took a deep breath. He was nervous and although he was very sure of why he was here in Jergen's bed, he wanted to be very sure that Jergen understood his reason.
"Jergen, our ending up here, in your bed, has been a long time coming," began Jeremie slowly, his voice soft and wistful. Once again he glanced at Jergen. "From time to time I would take out the photographs that Nicholas took, you remember him?"
"Nicholas Rodney," replied Jergen immediately. "He and his partner, Andre Noailles are here, staying in Orient House with Mike Sunderland and Phillip Adean."
"Do they still call Phillip 'The Assistant'?" asked Jeremie, his smile widening. He was not about to force Jergen into anything, and if recalling the days of their youth helped achieve his goal, he would take a short trip down memory lane with the German.
"Yes. The boys are intrigued whenever they hear him called that," replied Jergen. "So am I."
"Perhaps I will one day tell you all about him, and the others," said Jeremie enigmatically. "How are they, Mike and Phillip?"
"You'll see them soon enough to ask them," responded Jergen. He listened to the bell and reached out to touch Jeremie's chest. "We have about three hours before we have to be at the Head Shed for the procession to the chapel."
"The Head Shed? They call the main building that?"
"Yes. The more things change, the more they stay the same. We are a very traditional school, after all."
"We used to call the Headquarters Building in Aurora that," said Jeremie. "And we called Phillip Adean 'The Assistant' because that's what he was, the Assistant Chief Physical Training Instructor." He giggled. "We were such horrible little bastards back then."
"What?"
Jeremie looked embarrassed, and guilty, at the same time. "Well, um, Mike Sunderland? He's not the biggest guy on the block." He glanced obliquely at Jergen's crotch. "Not like some people I could mention."
"Jeremie!"
"We used to call Mike 'Gerbil Dick'." Jeremie looked at Jergen, his eyes saddened. "I regret that, but we were boys, and boys can be such cruel little dickheads."
"Yes. So, the pictures?"
"You remember, before we left the hospital in Toronto, when Nicholas took a group picture?"
"Vaguely."
"Well, whenever I looked at the pictures, somehow I always looked at your face. And every time I saw your face I had these strange, stirrings?"
"I would have thought that the more recent experience in college might have been more familiar," observed Jergen. He shrugged when he saw the look on Jeremie's face. "I have a Masters in Psychology. I can't help it."
"I don't remember him at all, really," returned Jeremie. "I don't remember anything, really, about how he looked, although I do remember what we did. As I told you, we never spoke about what happened. Obviously he did not make too much of an impression."
"Obviously," responded Jergen dryly. "So, you looked at my picture."
"Yes. I also looked at the other pictures, some from Aurora, some from our little expedition. The memories came flooding back. I slowly came to the realization that I missed that part of my life; I missed being with the others. I came here to see the other boys, perhaps to relive my past." He reached out and took Jergen in his arms. "And then I saw you and I knew I needed to be with you."
"Are you telling me that you're suddenly in love with me?" asked Jergen, not quite believing, and not quite understanding, what he was hearing.
"When we were driving in from Ottawa, James Kenyon reminded me that I was one of 'The Originals'," replied Jeremie. "And you know, the first thing I thought was that I had found love, and walked away from it." He smiled at Jergen. It was time. "I have thought about today, and I have thought about everything that happened back then." He rubbed his hand across Jergen's chest. "This is no spur of the moment thing that I am doing."
"So what happens now?" asked Jergen, responding to Jeremie's touch. "Where do we go from here?"
"My marriage is crumbling," Jeremie confided. "I had hoped that a child would give our marriage new life." He looked pained. "I think it only made matters worse. A baby is wonderful, a son is wonderful, but babies demand a great deal of time." Jeremie's voice became colder, and blunter. "Cecile wants to return to her former life. I know it, and she's been sending signals." He laughed caustically. "As we speak I am certain that she is having a girly lunch with some of her former colleagues with the UN High Commission in Ottawa."
"I'm sorry," murmured Jergen.
"Don't be," replied Jeremie easily. "I married, I think, because I was expected to marry. I convinced myself that I was in love with Cecile, and I do care for her. But, and there is always a 'but', the spark, the magic, isn't there. She's grown tired of being a stay-at-home wife, and the allure of childbearing has lost its lustre."
Jergen did not know how to reply, so he said nothing.
"Cecile is a nurse, actually an epidemiological nurse. She's worked in Africa and wants to go back. She's been dropping hints all over the house, brochures, pamphlets, little remarks every time there is a news program about the continent." Jeremie looked pointedly down at Jergen's circumcised penis. "I should have twigged when she insisted that Armand be circumcised." "She did?" asked Jergen. The procedure was almost never done in the French-Canadian culture, and the anti-circumcision lobbies had seduced the mainstream of both American and Canadian cultures into stupidly all but discontinuing the practice.
"She did," replied Jeremie. "She told me that it lessens the chance by six or seven percent of boys contracting AIDS. She showed me several clinical studies. She insisted and it was done."
"At least it didn't cost you an emerald and diamond parure," Jergen said with a snicker.
"A what?"
"A matched set of jewellery," explained Jergen. "Usually a necklace, earrings, bracelets and a broach. Todd told me that when his sons were born his wife was opposed to having them circumcised. The dippy bitch had been reading too much of the new age bull rot that passes for paediatrics, and she was influenced by her neo-Nazi, anti-Semitic, waste of space brother!"
"Jergen!" exclaimed Jeremie. "The poor woman is dead!"
"She was a sly, manipulative, paranoid dip!" retorted Jergen. "I never cared for her and I am not about to deny it! She took Todd for a ride. She forbade Cory entry to her house! She called him every vile name she could think of when she found out that he and Sean Anders were lovers!"
"Well, Cory did refuse to go to the wedding," temporized Jeremie.
"Because Cory had known her all her life! He always said that she was a Bowles and they never looked out for anyone but themselves." Jergen moved impatiently. "In the event, when Todd wanted to continue the family tradition she said fine, but it would cost him." He glowered at Jeremie. "Todd paid the price . . . then, and later."
"How so?" Jeremie asked, surprised at Jergen's tone, and demeanour.
"Todd was very busy at the time, very involved in the Order's business. He was rarely home, and when he was he did not fall on his knees and worship his wife!"
Jeremie all but snickered. "Come on, Jergen."
"It's true," replied Jergen calmly. "Dianne Bowles Arundel, as she insisted on being called, demanded total, complete, almost subservience to her, and her alone. She was the sun around which the planets revolved."
"You can't mean that! That's . . . sick!" exclaimed Jeremie.
"It is sadly the truth," replied Jergen without a hint of inflection in his voice. "She was grasping, I suppose you would say. She had to be the centre of attention, always. Todd was not allowed friends. She would take care of all his emotional needs, you see."
"A man needs to be with men, if only for a little while," opined Jeremie. "A ball game, a round of golf, maybe camping. Its just part of being male!"
"Madame Bowles Arundel would not have agreed. She literally drove away all of Todd's friends. Anyone who was, in her eyes, loyal to Todd, was an enemy. Todd tried to placate her, to make her happy, but nothing he did pleased her and unless he stayed home every day, made her a part of his life every waking hour, worshiped her, made love to her . . . He was very sad, very lonely. He could not go to Cory."
"Because Cory had been right!" interposed Jeremie. "He had told his brother what to expect, and had opposed the marriage."
"Yes," agreed Jergen. "There was also the fact that Madame hated Cory. Todd needed someone and that someone was Matt Greene."
Jeremie's eyes widened. "That . . . Todd and Matt were never lovers!" he exclaimed. "Not when we were boys. I was there, I know!"
"I am not suggesting that there was anything untoward going on. Todd needed to talk to someone. Matt was that someone and I believe Todd when he says that he remained faithful to his wife, and his marriage vows, until he discovered that she had taken a lover."
"If Todd says it was so, then it was so!" declared Jeremie. He had shared a barracks with Todd, once in Kingston and later when he was support staff on QUEST, and had shared danger with him. Todd never lied.
"Of course it was!" Jergen noted the determined loyalty in Jeremie's voice. "He and Matt were not, at that time, lovers. Dianne refused to believe it - Cory was queer, after all, and the fruit never falls far from the tree."
"That's ridiculous! I admit that there was a time when Todd was . . . well, Todd never denied his liaisons," Jeremie said carefully. "And I know for a fact that while Matt wanted to be with Todd, he refused. Hell, we all knew that Todd fooled around with Cory, but Matt? It never happened!"
"Well, it did, eventually, but that is not the point," responded Jergen smoothly. "Dianne decided that her marriage was over. Todd's frequent absences, his lack of affection, which she erroneously thought were being given to man, sent to her seeking comfort and consolation elsewhere."
"She took a lover," stated Jeremie flatly.
"She took lovers," replied Jergen emphatically. "Two weeks after the twins were born she attended some ball and met the first of at least six lovers that I know of. She was sleeping around with gusto. And, what you don't know is that she was with yet another of her string of studs when he drove his car into a rock coming back from the Naval Reserve base in Vancouver. The autopsy report showed a blood-alcohol ratio that was off the chart for both of them." He grimaced and fell silent.
"What are you not telling me?" asked Jeremie.
"They were driving through Stanley Park, all winding roads and sharp turns, huge trees and rocks, as you know."
"I know. In my last year of high school one of my friends - he was in the Militia and on course in Vancouver - was coming back from a mess party in Discovery. He was riding a motorcycle and missed a turn. He was not wearing a helmet and . . ." He repressed the painful memory. "Their car hit a rock?"
Nodding his head, Jergen spoke slowly. "A granite boulder as big as a house. Death, according to the pathologist was instantaneous."
"A blessing, I suppose," responded Jeremie. "At least she didn't suffer."
"Save your pity," snarled Jergen. "The woman was a tramp!" He began ticking off on his fingers a litany of conquests. "First there was the brother of one of her best friends. Not a bad looking chap as I recall, but as thick as a brick. Todd was in London and the 'good friend' was her 'escort' whenever she needed one." He laughed sarcastically. "He 'escorted' her to Aruba, twice, and Jamaica, once."
"How do you know?" asked Jeremie coldly. "Have you been keeping a score card?"
A strange, soft look came over Jergen's face as he replied, "Todd is very close to Phantom's heart. I sometimes wonder whom he cares for more, Todd or Cory."
"And?"
"After we were rescued we did not simply disappear into the woodwork. Those who wished it were returned to their home countries."
"I remember," said Jeremie with a slight nod. "There were two, Sepp? Gottfried?"
"Yes. They were committed to their, shall I call it their 'trade'? They wanted no part of what the Order offered so they were sent back to Germany. The others remained in the hospital in Toronto, and then, after the first house was built, we came here. After that we went on with our education. And after that those who wished it were invited to become members of the Order, as Companions."
"Did you accept the offer?"
"Yes," replied Jergen. "At the time I was, I suppose, still trying to come to grips with what I had been. After our night together I had no relationships of any kind. Chef understood what I was going through, what I was struggling with, and suggested that I become a Companion until I had made up my mind about who, and what, I was."
Jeremie could well understand Jergen's hesitation. He had been struggling with his inner self for months.
"And, as I wanted to be of help, I asked if I could be employed in the Order's business," Jergen continued. "I felt that I owed the Order, you see, and my request was granted. I was asked to assist Pete Sheppard, who was Chief of Security for Michael Chan." "You became a spy?" asked Jeremie with a grimace. "At first, no," replied Jergen blandly. "The work was very boring and I was basically the company clerk, keeping up the duty rosters of the guards, and so on. Later, much later, I went to work for Joe Hobbes, but that is another story." Jergen slowly rolled the glass of whisky he was holding in his hands. "Jeremie, I was never a part of your Band of Brothers. I wish I had been, but I was not. It took me a very long time to understand that love that exists between all of you." He laughed quietly. "It seemed to me, at times, that when one was hurting, all of the others felt his pain. The bond is especially strong between Phantom and the Twins. When the rumours started . . ." He shook his head. "Rumours?" "Jeremie, Todd lives in an insular world. Remember, his family is very prominent. He lives in a closed enclave of wealth and privilege. It is a very small world and everybody knows everybody's business! When Todd married Dianne Bowles eyebrows were raised but being proper ladies and gentlemen, nobody said anything." "Except for Cory!" reminded Jeremie. "Yes. Cory knew her well, as did Todd. Todd was determined to marry her. Cory tried to dissuade his brother, but to no avail. You know Cory as well as I. He is the most honest person I have ever known, and he hates obfuscation and pretence. He knew Dianne's reputation - she was not a virgin - and he loathed the Bowles. He thought Todd deserved better." "And in the end Cory failed," sighed Jeremie. "Yes, he failed. He refused to attend the wedding and for a long time Todd and he were estranged. Phantom was upset, of course, but kept silent. For a year or so everything was quiet. Then the twins were born and Todd's career seemed to take off. He travelled constantly, and then there were his duties with the Order. His wife complained and when he refused to bow to her constant demands on his time . . . you know now what happened." "You, or Pete Sheppard knew all this?" Jeremie wondered what Jergen knew about his own marriage. "How, I mean, if she was fooling around she would hardly send out a press release!" "People talk, servants talk," replied Jergen enigmatically. "And being socially prominent, there were the gossip columns and the photos in the social pages." "Still . . ." said Jeremie doubtfully. "Todd became, cold, distant. Phantom could get nothing out of him, and while he loves Cory very much, he knew that Cory was biased. He asked Pete to look into the matter." "And he, or rather you, found . . .?" "After the 'good friend', there was her riding master. He was a cad, and tried to blackmail Todd. Then there was a pool boy. After him . . ." Jergen shrugged. "The details are unimportant. Suffice it to say that Todd's wife enjoyed the company of many men." "Poor Todd," sympathised Jeremie. At least Cecile has kept her marriage vows, he told himself. "It gets worse," said Jergen. He looked at Jeremie and said, almost bitterly. "The rumours were so strong that at one time the paternity of Todd's sons was called into question. Fortunately they are the image of their father. Then there was the autopsy report." Jeremie raised an eyebrow. He knew that autopsies were required after any traumatic death. "She was pregnant?" he suggested. He could think of nothing else, other than the obvious cause of death that might give rise to Jergen's palpable disgust. "Not her autopsy report!" growled Jergen. "The driver's! There were unexplained wounds on his penis. Long, deep lacerations on both sides, lacerations that can only be explained in one way!" Jeremie's mouth dropped. When he recovered, he asked haltingly, "You mean that she was, at the time, uh, she was . . .?" He shuddered and unconsciously moved a hand to cover his genitals. "The pathologist made no determination," snapped Jergen, abruptly terminating the discussion. "Todd is well off without her!" "Is Todd happy now?" asked Jeremie, glad to change the subject, and not wishing to hear anything more about such a distasteful situation. Nodding, Jergen broke into a wide smile. "Very. The boys are growing like weeds, his law practice is booming, and of course with Matt in his life . . ." "Finally," interjected Jeremie, returning Jergen's wide smile. "Yes, finally." Jergen stirred and asked the question he needed to ask. "And what happens now, Jeremie? What about us? Is there an 'us'?" Jeremie regarded Jergen and slowly nodded his head. "I want there to be an us. I lost you once. I don't want to lose you again." Their lips met, and they kissed. "I want to make up for the years my figure faded from the Tapestry. I want to stand at Phantom's side again, and I want to do it with you." "Is it true that everything started with a dream?" asked Jergen. He kissed Jeremie gently. "I remember hearing the boys talking, after we were taken to the hospital in Toronto. Is it true?" "It's true," replied Jeremie. He looked at Jergen. "You don't know what happened?" he asked. "Jeremie, everything happened so fast! Everything was so confused. One minute I was being sodomized by a man who had purchased me, beat me, and raped me whenever he wanted, and the next minute the house was filled with grim-faced boys and then I was hustled off to a 'hospital' where I was poked and prodded by two doctors, fussed over by four old ladies, and put to bed!" He lowered his voice. "I've heard whispers, something about a 'Bar of Justice'. I've heard that some men disappeared, and one was executed." "He was hanged," replied Jeremie emotionlessly. "He did not die well." He did not mention, for no one knew that he knew of it, that there had been another execution. Jergen gasped. "You were . . . there?" "We were all there," said Jeremie. He rolled from the bed and gestured toward the chaise lounge that stood against the far wall of Jergen's bedroom. He sat down and patted the worn fabric. "We had decided, all of us, all of the boys, that we would follow the thing through to the end. We knew that a Bar of Justice had been called, and we knew that the punishment would be severe." After Jergen sat beside him, Jeremie continued. "Stephen Winslow, whom everyone called 'The Gunner', and Michael Chan, who was the Grand Master at the time, were both determined to restore the Order. They were men of honour, and men who had no pity for any knight who betrayed his oath. They had no pity for the men who abused boys such as you, no pity at all." "And you knew all this?" "We knew, we all knew, and we all agreed that what we were about to do was the right thing. I have never lost a wink of sleep over what I did, or what I saw." "Did you, um, did you kill anyone?" asked Jergen carefully. Jeremie considered his answer. "No, I did not place the noose around the neck of the man who stood before the Bar. But I did vote for his execution." "You did?" "The Gunner wanted us to understand that we, as knights, had responsibilities. Being a knight is not meeting once a year and having a banquet! There are responsibilities. The Gunner also wanted us to understand that professed or not, we would be targeted by bigots and zealots. You've seen it every day, Jergen. How many gay men have been beaten, killed, scarred for life, simply because they were gay? And how many of their persecutors spent minimal time in jail? In the United States the law protects every nut bar with a grudge, or a hate! They can say what they like, write what they like, demonstrate when they like, and there is not a damned thing anyone can do about it because they have 'freedom of speech'. When Matthew Sheppard was murdered the haters demonstrated at his funeral! Surely you saw the news on television!" "I did," replied Jergen, his disgust evident on his face. "I was physically ill when I heard the local Chief of Police say that he couldn't do anything because the demonstrators were protected by the First Amendment!" "Well, The Gunner always said that you fight fire with fire. We were knights, we had our duty, and by God we did it! When I saw justice being served, and heard the trap snap open, I felt satisfied, but not guilty! The creature we sent to the gallows had been responsible for the deaths of God only knew how many innocents. He sold boys, for Christ's sake, Jergen. He sold you! He brokered in boys!" "For someone who avoided the Order, and its members, you certainly became passionate!" observed Jergen with a slight smile. "Maybe that's also what has been bothering me!" snapped Jeremie. "I have been rusting away in a little town, happy as a clam with a wife, and a kid, teaching, mowing my lawn, and all the while my peers, my brothers, were working, trying to do what we all swore to do." He looked downcast. "I neglected my Oath, and I failed my brothers. I can only hope that when I face Phantom, as I must, that he will be kind, and forgive me." "He will," said Jergen as he wrapped his arms around Jeremie. "You were only a boy, and filled with the glamour of adventure. I can understand, and so does Phantom. But what is more important, no matter what has happened, you never betrayed your Oath, and you are still a part of the Tapestry. Your figure is faded, perhaps, but it can be restored. Phantom will hold you in his arms, and give you the kiss of peace. You are a part of him; he is a part of you. If nothing else, I understand the bond between you and Phantom, between you and all of the boys who left Aurora that morning and embarked on the crusade that saved me, and so many others." "It was quite a ride," said Jeremie with a laugh. "None of us knew, really, what was going to happen. Maybe, yes, we were filled with the sense of adventure, seduced by the glory we were going to find. None of us conceived that we would be driven to the limits, that we would be asked to do things that would make grown men quail!" "I thought all you did was take a pee!" said Jergen with a chuckle. "Well, yes, I did that too." Jeremie stood and held out his hand. "Come, let's go back to bed." "We only have a couple of hours," Jergen pointed out. "And I'm no longer sixteen!" "My butt is freezing," returned Jeremie. "If I have to tell you everything, I would prefer to do it in a warm bed!" He leered at Jergen. "Of course, if something else . . . comes up we might have to postpone the saga." Once they were in bed, and snuggled together in each other's arms, Jeremie said, "Where to start?" "The beginning is usually a good place," responded Jergen. "Well, first we went to Michael Chan's house, in Vancouver . . ." began Jeremie