AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.
My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have a different opinion or outlook. Others are so Liberal in their thinking that they make Hillary Clinton look like Attila the Hen! And then there are those that are into "causes". Please, do not write me hooting and hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be warned.
IN 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976 influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.
As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces, cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of erotica, please move on.
My thanks as always to Peter, my intrepid editor, who puts up with my tantrums.
Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 6
A late night summer storm blew in from the Pacific and thunder crashed over Heron Spit. In the Gunroom The Phantom awoke with a start. A combination of a strange bed and the crashing thunder had made for a restless night. Below him Harry was snorting and growling in his sleep. In the next bunk Greg, who had been missing most of the evening, ostensibly working in the Ship's Office, lay in drunken stupor. The Phantom stared at the slim, unmoving Writer and shook his head. Greg's fear of discovery, his fear that his latent homosexual tendencies, which had flared, briefly, with Stephen Tyler Perkins, a young Able Cadet, and with Harry, would become known, had driven him to paranoia, desperation, and the bottle. Vodka, The Phantom thought. Little Big Man's treachery was a legacy that would live on in Greg.
Beside Greg's bunk was Nicholas'. The tall, dark-haired Yeoman of Signals slept on his side, deep in sleep. Another roll of thunder crashed through the Gunroom and Nicholas stirred slightly. He was dreaming of Andre, his French-Canadian lover, and a smile dominated his face.
Todd lay in the next bunk, awake, although The Phantom did not know this. Todd had been on duty most of the day and while tired, sleep would not come. He had tossed and turned after crawling into his bunk, trying to focus on his life. At the far end of the Gunroom lay Harry, who had been his lover. Next door, in the Petty Officers Mess lay Matt, who had wanted to be Todd's lover. Todd had discouraged Matt, refusing to be a party to what he thought was nothing more than a schoolboy infatuation. He now realized how wrong he had been. Matt had loved him without reservation, as Harry had not. Todd's life was a shambles, the only constants now being his brother, and The Phantom. Rolling on his back, Todd stared into the darkness, wondering just how he had managed to fuck up so much.
Cory's bunk was empty. He had quickly changed after going off duty and hurried down to the Dockyard to meet Sean. He had stopped by the Mess Hall after lunch looking for The Phantom and Joey had told him that The Phantom had gone sailing . . . with Sean. Cory wanted a full report!
The double bunk across from Cory's was empty. Nathan and Fred had waited until the Duty Hand had made Rounds and then slipped away to Mark's behemoth. They were in the back seat of the black Imperial, locked in passion. As the thunderstorm raged Nathan made slow, passionate love to Fred.
The storm did not waken Chris or Jon. They had spent time together after Lights Out, not making love, not having sex, content with just being together.
Thumper's bunk was empty, as was Two Strokes'. They were on Watch, sitting close together in the Guardhouse, hoping that they could sneak away, using the pretext of doing a walk about as an excuse to rekindle the flames they had lit in Boatswain Stores. Two Strokes sent the Duty Quartermaster over to the Mess Hall for coffee and as the door slammed behind the YAG crewman, he reached out and caressed Thumper's crotch. Soon they would find the few moments they needed to be together.
In the Chiefs Mess Tyler slept soundly with Val at his side. There was not all that much room for the both of them in the bunk, but they had managed to sleep close. Across the small cabin Tony and Mark were also sleeping together in Val's bunk, behind a blanket that they had draped from the bunk Tony was supposed to be sleeping in. They had not made love. Just being in each other's arms was enough.
In the Petty Officers Mess, two of the bunks were empty. Mike, the Chief PTI and Phillip, called the Assistant had, like Thumper and Two Strokes, waited until the Roundsman had gone through, and then hurried off to the their small office in the Drill Shed. There they had reaffirmed their love for each other.
Steve and Stuart were sound asleep. They had spent most of the evening in the locked Boatswain Stores where, after carefully draping a blanket over the window in the door, each boy had offered the other his virginity. Neither had known what to expect and both were so enraptured that they could barely speak, unable to express their joy at finally expressing what they had both felt for so long. Now they slept, satisfied, and more in love than ever before.
In his bunk, Matt lay half-awake, listening to the thunder, his blue eyes half closed as his hand rubbed the front of his underpants gently. He was remembering the night that he had spent in Cabin 5 with The Phantom and he could feel the tingling sensation building deep within his groin as his hand rubbed faster and faster. Matt imagined once again The Phantom's warm, gentle kisses as they made love, imagined once again the silky smooth skin that disguised the inner hardness of The Phantom's penis, felt once again the warm lips as they slowly caressed the head of his dick, and . . . Matt arched his body and felt his orgasm explode, flooding his tighty-whiteys with his semen. Gasping, he jerked and bucked until, drained, he fell back against the mattress. He lay there until his breathing slowed and then he slowly pushed down his underpants. As he dropped the soiled briefs to the deck Matt suddenly remembered Todd. Then he rolled on his side and hugged his pillow. Todd was in the past. He'd had his chance and now Matt would move on.
n the Cooks Barracks, Sandro stood in the washplace, naked, admiring his erection. He could do this because except for him, the barracks was empty. Joey and Randy were in the Mess Hall lounge, cuddled against their love, Phil Thornton. All three were naked, and all three were flushed from the sex they'd had. Now the two younger boys, half asleep, listened inattentively as Phil whispered their names over and over again and told them how much he loved them. As Phil's words penetrated, Randy reached down and cupped Phil's large testicles, while Joey's hand enveloped the broad, arrow-shaped head of Phil's soft penis. Phil sighed happily and kissed the top of each boy's head in turn, knowing that he would not be returning to the Dockyard any time soon.
In Chef's office, at the opposite end of the building from the lounge, Ray stirred as a clap of thunder set the windows to rattling, and hugged Kevin closer.
Sandro knew where his fellow cooks were, and envied them all. The young Russian stood before the mirror in the washplace, slowly retracting his foreskin, wondering what Chad was doing this morning. Sandro had found love at last, and all too soon it had been snatched away. Sighing, he looked down at his semi-hard penis and laughed quietly. With the skin pulled back his dick resembled Chad's, which Sandro thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. With his free hand he reached around and gently rubbed his puckered entry. He felt his cock stiffening. Chad had done that to him as he sucked him, his finger rubbing slowly and gently back and forth across his anus. Just thinking of what Chad and he had done together caused Sandro's body to tremble and before he knew it he was wracked with a massive orgasm, his dick spurting three huge streams of spunk into the sink. He thrust his hips involuntarily with each ejaculation, his breathing shallow and hoarse until his discharge was reduced to a mere trickle. "Fuck your mother," he declared harshly, in Russian. Fuck your mother!
Across the Parade Square the Officers' Mess was dark and silent. All the cabins, save one, were empty. In their cabin, Andy and Kyle slept in Andy's bed. They had made love, and then drifted off, happier than they had ever been before, lovers destined never to be apart.
The Phantom was in that nether world between sleep and wakefulness when he heard the creak of the door leading to the outside. He snuffled a bit and rolled on his side, hugging his pillow and was just about to slip into relaxed sleep when he felt his shoulder being roughly shaken. He struggled and rolled, growling "What the . . ."
"What did you do to him?" came an angry hiss. "You did it! You did it!"
The Phantom shook off the shaking hand and opened his eyes. He shook the sleep-induced fog from his brain and saw Cory staring back at him. "What did I do?" he whispered as he rubbed his eyes. "And do you know what time it is?"
"You turned my Sean into a Tiger!" came Cory's retort. "This morning he was Casper Milquetoast, and tonight, Holy Jesus!" He shook his head and grinned at The Phantom. "Talk about fireworks! Hell, it was like the Aurora Borealis had gone off!"
The Phantom leaned forward and looked into Cory's blue eyes. Because it was dark he couldn't see much. Still, he asked with a grin, "Do I detect a twinkle in those blue eyes of yours?"
Cory began to twitch and all but exploded with enthusiasm. "Twinkle! Twinkle does not begin to describe it!" he declared. "Phantom, you dog! You did it and Sean was so . . . Harry, stop that!"
"What's he doing?" asked The Phantom, wondering just what was going on below him.
"Damn it, Harry," growled Cory. He shuddered and snarled. "The fool is pulling down my shorts! Now he's . . . AWK!"
The Phantom leaned over the edge of his bunk and saw that Cory's was all but naked from the waist down. His shorts were around his knees and Harry's tongue was circling the perfect head of Cory's rapidly inflating penis. "Harry, have you no shame?" demanded The Phantom in a hoarse whisper.
Harry let Cory's now hard penis fall from his mouth. "Nope." Then he went back to sucking gently.
The Phantom lay back and sniggered. "Well, you do have to admit, Cory, that it's a hell of a lot more pleasant than having your bum bitten!"
Cory ignored The Phantom and tried to pull away. Harry's broad hands reached around his waist and pulled him closer. "Harry . . ." Cory grunted as Harry's hands slid down and began to knead his firm buttocks.
The Phantom tried to maintain a studied indifference to what was happening to Cory and failed miserably. He could feel the bunk shaking and bumping against the bulkhead as Cory's hips began to thrust rhythmically and his head rolled back. Suddenly, and much quicker than The Phantom thought it would be, Cory suddenly stiffened and a long, low moan escaped his lips. He gasped twice more and then pulled roughly away. "Damn you, Harry, you know how sensitive I get!" he growled through pants of harsh breathing.
Harry smacked his lips, belched loudly and as he settled back he laughed softly and sniped good naturedly, "Sean can't be that great a Tiger, seeing as how he didn't empty the tank!"
Petey Rice heard the whistling long before the figure stepped from the shadows and into the light. He looked at his watchmate, Lenny Winston and asked, "Is that who I think it is?"
Lenny looked down the long wooden jetty and nodded. "I see it, I hear it, but I don't believe it!" He snickered as the whistling grew louder, recognizing the tune. Lenny's mother was the mainstay of the local Community Theatre back home and he'd been dragged to every amateur musical and play for as long as he could remember. His home was often filled with the sounds of recorded show tunes. Lenny shook his head. Sean Anders, Iron Ass Anders, was coming home, and he was whistling "Tonight", from "West Side Story"!
Petey and Lenny watched, wide-eyed, as Sean all but skipped up the gangway. They could not understand at all this new Sean, who was not only violating a long-standing tradition by whistling - only the cooks were allowed that privilege - he was positively dishevelled! His hair was awry, his shorts were wrinkled and his gunshirt was not tucked into his shorts! Not only that, Sean had the goofiest smile on his face!
"Good evening, gentlemen," Sean said as he braced to attention before stepping onto the deck. "A wonderful night, isn't it?" He gave a winning smile to both cadets.
Neither Petey nor Lenny thought it was a wonderful night at all. It was thundering, and a light rain was beginning to fall. Lenny gave Petey a look that asked, "And what has he been smoking?"
Petey suppressed a giggle and replied, "Uh, it's raining, Chief."
For the first time Sean seemed to notice his surroundings. "Ah, yes, so it is. I hadn't noticed." The he did a most uncharacteristic thing. He pointed to the wheelhouse settee and said, "It's a quiet night. Make sure that you get some kip. Take turns."
Petey was astonished. The Sean Anders he knew would have raised holy hell if he caught either of the watchmen taking a nap on duty. "Uh, you sure, Chief?" he asked tentatively.
"Certainly," exclaimed Sean. "There's no point in both of you sitting up waiting for something to happen. Take a nap!" He turned and was about to go down the hatch leading to the berthing deck when he turned. "Even money says that the Duty Officer is snoring away in the Guardhouse. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander!" With that he gave the two cadets a cheery wave and disappeared below.
"Talk about the world turned upside down!" gasped Petey as the Squadron Chief disappeared from sight.
Sean heard Petey's remark and smiled as he entered his small, cramped cabin. He sat on his bunk, kicked off his sneakers, and then slowly stripped off his gunshirt. His mind drifted back to the small clearing just inside the tree line at the far end of the Spit as he ran his hands down his smooth, taut torso. He pushed down his shorts and giggled. He wasn't wearing any underwear! He reached down and lifted his sex-flushed penis and his giggle turned into soft, rolling laughter. He'd left his tighty-whiteys back where he and Cory had set metaphorical fireworks to exploding in the wet night sky.
He continued to laugh and fondle himself as he crawled into his bunk. Sean smiled happily and thought that Petey had been quite right. After tonight, after his wonderful time with Cory, the world had indeed been turned upside down!
What Sean did not know, what none of the Boys of Aurora knew, was that in Vancouver a decision was about to be made, a decision that would impact on their lives and change forever their perception of life.
As the line of thunderstorms moved east and The Phantom settled back to sleep, across the Strait of Georgia Michael Chan strolled through the dark gardens of his estate. Trailing at a distance was Major Meinertzhagen and Laurence. Near the house, ready to spring into action if necessary, Patrick Tsang stood watch.
Presently there came a low, muted rumble and the Major turned to Laurence. "There is a storm approaching," he said, more to make conversation than anything else.
"In more ways than one," replied Laurence quietly. He nodded with his chin at the dimly seen Grand Master of the Order, who had stopped before a dark bush.
The Major nodded but said nothing. The full impact of Chef's telephone calls - he had called twice more - and the revelation that members of the Order were involved in pedophilia and the buying and selling of children had finally struck home and Meinertzhagen knew that it was taking every ounce of Michael's self control not to explode in a killing rage. He waited impatiently for Michael to make his decisions.
A bolt of lightning rent the blackness of the sky and Michael looked up. Hs mind was racing and he felt ill. He had placed so much hope in the Order, had trusted the men he had come to consider as his brothers and now everything seemed to have turned to dust. How could he turn to the vast population of gay men and ask them to trust him when the very men he had relied upon to help him in his crusade had betrayed his trust? Behind him stood two men whom he knew he could trust implicitly. In Toronto was another man, two if he counted Acton Grimes. There were the Arundels, and Gabriel Izard, and Joe Hobbes. There were Rick Maslen and his lover, Glenn Britnell, in Ottawa.
"Too few," Michael muttered under his breath. He began to walk again, considering his resources. He had the Tsangs, whose loyalty was beyond reproach. But they were Chinese, and he needed men who would blend in, not drawing attention to themselves. There were the cousins of course, although they would not take kindly to being involved with something they did not understand. He knew that he could rely on Joel, and Tommy Chan had proven his loyalty on more than one occasion.
A shadow crossed Michael's path, startling him until he realized that it was one of the perimeter guards. More Chinese, and while dedicated to his person, they could not be used for anything other than service as bodyguards. There was the outside Staff, Brits and Americans, but their loyalty was based almost entirely on the amount of money in their pay packets. They were mercenaries, hired for their brains and brawn. All were ex-servicemen, and Michael could not trust that they would continue to serve him if they knew that he was homosexual, or that he was the Grand Master of an Order of homosexuals. Michael knew every armed service in the civilized, and not so civilized world, abhorred homosexuality. He could well imagine what his private soldiers might think about serving a homosexual master!
There was also the question of money. The Major had said that the Order was not without resources. This was true, and according to Chef the finances of the Order had been increased by $10.37, donations from two boys. Chef had insisted that it was a beginning and that the Order must act.
Michael agreed with Chef. The Order had to act, if only to rid itself of the rot that had invaded its very structure; but how to act? How to punish the Willoughbys, and the Hunters, the Simpsons? He could he supposed, turn to the law. Bertie Arundel could use his contacts and given the present moral climate, Simpson and his friends would feel the full force of outrage and indignation. But was that enough? Michael knew that Simpson had a firm of lawyers on retainer. Being lawyers they could tie a case up in the courts for years. Simpson would in all probability never see the inside of a jail, let alone a prison. Willoughby and Hunter were in this thing up to their necks and Michael had no doubt that they would use all their influence, all their contacts. Pressure, legal and political, would be brought to bear. Every scrap of evidence would be scrutinized and questioned, every action on the part of anyone remotely connected with this horror would be examined, weighed in the balances and the slightest doubt cast on one bit of information or evidence would cast a damning shadow on all the information and evidence.
As the first scattered raindrops of the summer storm began to fall and Michael wheeled and walked quickly back toward the house. No, he thought as he climbed the short flight of steps that led to the terrace, the legal system could not be trusted. He would speak with Bertie Arundel, but in the end Michael knew what must be done.
Once inside, Michael settled behind his desk. Laurence and the Major settled into the two chairs in front of the desk and Patrick Tsang moved to stand near the door. Michael wondered why the young Chinese seemed to be hovering about so much of late but decided not to pursue the matter. Patrick would not be on guard unless he had been told to do so by the Major. While it seemed that the Major was being over cautious, Michael let Patrick's presence pass. His eyes flickered over the young man's body and his heart skipped a beat as he thought that it was amazing that the Tsangs could produce such a handsome specimen.
Shaking himself and dismissing Patrick Tsang from his thoughts, Michael looked at the Major. They had neglected business far too much today. "The matter of Willoughby and Company we will put aside for the moment," he said quietly. "I should like to know what our financial situation is."
The Major gestured to Laurence who reached into the leather briefcase at his feet and extracted a thick file. He placed it carefully on the desk in front of Michael, cleared his throat, and said, "We have disposed of all our stock in Willoughby's bank. We managed to clear just under a million and a half, which in turn was invested in tax-free municipals. The bonds issued by Hunter's brokerage house were sold, strangely enough, to Simpson's bank. We believe he might be planning a takeover."
Michael considered this and nodded. "Or, the rats are panicking and Simpson is making certain that they have the wherewithal to bolt to whatever holes they've managed to find."
Nodding his agreement, The Major said, "They must know that something is going on. A sudden run on their stocks would certainly pique their curiosity."
"Or that of their Boards," replied Michael. "I believe that they know that I am behind their sudden financial debacle." He pushed the file folder away. "But, no matter. They are fools and will look upon our raid on their market holdings as revenge for their conduct at the Conclave, and as an attempt to recover some of the money they embezzled. They have no idea that we know about their other activities."
The Major grimaced. "Despicable creatures," he snarled angrily.
"Quite," returned Michael, his face blank. "And they will be treated as such."
The Major cast a sideways glance at Laurence, who remained stoic. Then he looked at Michael and asked quietly. "You will deal with them in your own way?"
Michael nodded. "I have given much thought to the problem. Our campaign to recover some of our lost monies is over. Now we will begin to sort out this mess of pedophiles." His face became flushed with anger. "Chef has told me that Chancellor Winslow's young man has said that something must be done." He squared his shoulders. "So we shall do something."
Laurence reached into his briefcase for a pad of writing paper. Behind him, Patrick Tsang stirred slightly. He had listened to the stories of his elders and knew that Michael's "something" would be terrible to behold.
"Philip Lascelles, who seems a very intelligent young man - and I would like to meet him, please, Major - has said that our first priority must be the poor boys who have been enslaved. He is quite right. We must save them, and quickly. The man, or men, who are the real 'bosses' in this trade will not hesitate to remove the boys from their masters, and eliminate them if they think the boys are a danger to them."
"We don't know how many boys there are," the Major pointed out. "We only know of three, and according to Chef two of them would not want to be 'rescued'."
"Then they will be set free, to follow their own path," replied Michael calmly. "Those who wish it will be given our protection."
"We will set up a safe house, then?" asked Laurence.
"We will." Michael rubbed the side of his nose, thinking. "We will need to gather information first. We must know just how many boys there are, and we must know who is behind this trade."
"We shall have to be very careful," reminded the Major needlessly. "We know how ruthless these men can be." He shook his head. "We also do not know just how many of our people are involved."
"Then we shall find out," returned Michael forcefully. He looked at Patrick and gestured for him to come closer. "You will contact Cousin Roy, in Montreal. He is to set up a surveillance of Willoughby's house and business. He is to contact his friends in Toronto and do the same at Simpson's residence. Tell him that I would deem it a personal favour if he did this service for me."
Patrick nodded. Ru Yee, Roy, Chiang, was a man of great power in Quebec and the Maritimes. He had the manpower and the resources needed to do what Michael asked. Patrick quietly slipped away, looking for a telephone.
As Patrick left the office, Michael turned to Laurence. "You will contact Acton Grimes. He is to initiate a friendship with Stephen Winslow. Together they will meet with this Troubridge person and garner whatever information they can." He turned to the Major. "They will also find a safe house in Toronto. It need only be temporary until we can make permanent arrangements for the boys we rescue."
"They will need money," replied The Major pragmatically. "Troubridge strikes me as the type of person who gives nothing for nothing. We will also have to arrange something for him. He will be in danger once his part in this matter becomes known."
"If it is a matter of false papers, they can be arranged," replied Michael flatly. "What is important now is that we gather as much information, from whatever source, at whatever cost, to enable us to bring down this horrible organization." The Major felt constrained to point out that the Order's resources were not infinite. Michael agreed. "Joel has bragged that he can access any bank account in the country. Let him do so! Bring Joseph Hobbes back from Comox, and inform Gabriel Izard that he is moving into the compound for a while. Together the three of them should be able to use that very expensive, and cumbersome, computer to arrange the clandestine transfer of funds."
The Major nodded and then said, "If anyone can do it, I believe Joel can."
"Then roust him from his bed. He is to begin at once." The Major was about to rise from his chair when Michael's quiet voice stopped him. "There is also the matter of manpower. I cannot use my Chinese resources for what we must do. My business partners would grow suspicious and begin to ask questions."
Nodding his understanding, Laurence said quietly, "We can use some of the mercenaries."
Reluctantly, Michael agreed. "They will do what is asked of them, one supposes, so long as they are paid," he replied sourly. "Dear Lord, I wish that some of our Knights were younger!"
The Major harrumphed loudly, taking exception to Michael's words. "I am still capable of performing, Michael. And Laurence is young, as is Noel!"
Michael's left eyebrow rose slightly. "Noel might be a young man, Major. However, it would seem that he has found new interests to occupy himself with."
Laurence swallowed nervously. "I have the feeling that he is not quite so enthusiastic about joining the Order."
Shrugging phlegmatically, Michael replied, "It happens, Laurence, and there is no reflection of you." He looked pensive for a moment, and then added, "Noel has left the compound for the evening. He is visiting a gentlemen friend."
The Major started. He had been so wrapped up in the business of ruining Willoughby he had neglected his primary duties. "I do apologize, Michael," he said shamefaced. "I should have known."
"You had more important things to occupy your time than to monitor the movements of a footman," replied Michael kindly. "Do not worry yourself about Noel. The man Noel is seeing is only interested in bedding him and poses no danger to us." He laughed tonelessly. "From what Cousin Tommy tells me, it is a business arrangement. The man is very generous."
"Perhaps he would float us a loan?" asked the Major, smiling, trying to lighten the mood in the room.
Michael smiled and shook his head. "Now why would we need a loan? Why, we have at least $10.37 in our coffers." He saw the quizzical looks on Laurence's and the Major's faces. "Young Lascelles donated $5.37 to found a hospital. A friend of his . . ." he quickly consulted a scribbled note on his desk and continued on, " . . . one Sean Anders, gave $5.00." A strange look came over Michael's face. "They are so young," he murmured, almost to himself. But what choice did he have? He looked at the Major. "I have decided that some changes need to be made."
The Major glanced at Laurence, whose face remained blank. Then he looked at Michael. "Changes?" he asked.
Nodding, Michael began to explain what he wanted. "We cannot depend on our present roster of Knights. Oh, Stephen Winslow, Rick Maslen, some of the others can be relied upon. As for the others . . ." He shrugged expressively. "We know that someone was protecting Simpson, someone within the organization. I believe that the late Grand Master was that someone. I do not believe that Simpson's activities could have been kept so deep a secret that no one in the Order knew of them."
Michael's belief sounded logical. The late Grand Master had clung to power even on his deathbed. Before he died he had also ordered the destruction of many of the Order's papers. The members of his personal household had disappeared. It was all too neat for the Major's liking. He sighed heavily. "It all seems so . . . unbelievable!"
"Why?" asked Michael. "The late Grand Master was in office for something like forty years. He knew many secrets - secrets he took to the grave with him, secrets he did not want revealed."
Laurence shook his head. "And in doing so, sowed the seeds of the destruction of the Order."
"Perhaps," said Michael blandly. "The Order has survived 900 years and more. It has risen from the ashes before and it will do so again."
"You have a plan, I take it?" asked the Major.
"I have a plan," confirmed Michael. He pointed a finger at the Major. "You are confirmed as Keeper of the Common Treasure and raised to the rank of Knight of Justice, and granted Letters Patent as Duke of Anhalt and Dessau, with the honourific of Serene Highness." He turned to Laurence and said, "You are raised to the rank of Professed Knight of Honour and Devotion, and granted Letters Patent as Margrave of Carpathia, with the honourific of Serene Highness. Bertie Arundel is granted Letters Patent as Margrave of Istria, with a special remainder that the title will be inherited, and shared, by his sons, Todd and Cory, who are named Pages of Honour to the Grand Master; Louis Arundel is granted Letters Patent as Count of Bregenz, with a special remainder that the title will be inherited by his former ward, Gabriel Izard."
Laurence, who had been scribbling madly, raised his head. "With respect, Grand Master, do you have the authority to make these appointments, to grant patents of nobility?"
"I have," replied Michael firmly. "The authority of the Grand Master has not been used in over three hundred years. Now it will be." He saw the questioning looks on both the Major's and Laurence's faces. "My authority is the Papal Bull issued by His Holiness Gregory VIII, which granted the Order sovereignty from the bishops, which is buttressed by Letters Patent issued in 1355 by His Imperial Majesty, Charles IV, Holy Roman Emperor, creating the Grand Master, his heirs and successors as Counts Palatine, and confirmed by His Imperial Majesty, Charles V in Letters Patent issued on the 10th of May 1557."
The Major looked sheepish. "I should have known, Michael."
Michael smiled and waved away the Major's apology. "You were more concerned with the present than the past. Rightly so! Now, we will use the past the help us shape the present!" He scratched his jaw and then nodded his head, as if confirming a thought. "Rick Maslen is raised to the rank of Professed Knight of Justice, and granted Letters Patent as Duke of Holstein in the Austrian Peerage. All the others are named Peers of the Holy Roman Empire."
Laurence was about to mention Chef, and Stephen Winslow, when Michael seemed to read his mind. "I have not forgotten Chef. Or Stephen." He reached into the middle drawer of his desk and withdrew a large leather and gold-tooled binder. "Chef is raised to the rank of Knight of Grace and Devotion. He is granted Letters Patent as Duke of Lorraine and Styria, with the honourific, Serene Highness. He is further named Hospitaller of the Order." He smiled sternly. "And he is not to sell his ring!"
"And Stephen?" asked the Major, wondering when the awarding of honours would end.
Michael folded his hands over the gold-tooled binder and looked at Laurence and the Major in turn. "Stephen is our hope, our future. He has a sense of duty and honour that rivals my own! He will not compromise, nor will he surrender or bend to the will of others. His sense of justice is unparalleled and his judgment of the characters of other men has yet to be proven wrong."
Suddenly, Michael stood up, left his desk and walked over to the tall cabinet that dominated one side of the room. He opened a door in the cabinet, revealing a small safe. Carefully he dialled the combination and when the door swung open he extracted a large blue leather jeweller's box emblazoned with the Arms of the House of Hapsburg. He handed the box to the Major and gestured for the man to open it.
Inside the box was a bejewelled collar, each link fine gold. The "flints" that separated the links were made from carved emeralds, and the Golden Fleece pendant adorned with rubies. The Major's eyes widened in surprise and awe. "The Golden Fleece!" he explained softly. "An Imperial Golden Fleece!"
"In 1712 the Emperor Charles VI granted to his cousin, the Archduke Maximilian Alexander, who was the then Grand Master, the Order of the Golden Fleece, with the remainder that the Collar and Fleece were to be worn by all succeeding Grand Masters."
Laurence nodded. "You wear that collar!" he said. "But this, this is a different insignia."
"On his death the Emperor willed the Collar to the Order as a special mark of his favour. With it came Letters Patent granting the Grand Master the authority to create a new member of the Order of the Golden Fleece. The honour was to be awarded only to a knight of exceptional honour, devotion, and bravery. Until now such a knight has never been found." Michael cleared his throat. "Stephen Winslow, Chancellor of the Sovereign Order of St. John of the Cross of Acre, is hereby raised to the rank of Professed Knight of Magistral Grace, Donat and Justice, and granted Letters Patent as Archduke of Trieste and Protector of the Hospital at Jerusalem. He is named Champion of the Order and awarded the Order of the Golden Fleece, together with a Patent of Nobility in the Austrian Peerage as Margrave of Salzburg."
When he returned to his seat Michael regarded the other men. "Understand, my friends, that I am not playing at bread and circuses. I am not Napoleon, handing out marshal's batons from my saddlebag. These honours that have been given to you did not, as the English would say, come up with the rations. They are marks of my trust in you, in your abilities and in your honour as Knights." He reached out his hands. "My life, the future of the Order, is in your hands, and in the hands of the men I have named this evening. I beg you, do not betray that trust."
The Major rose stiffly and bowed from the neck. "I pledge you, Grand Master, my life and my honour. I pray that I will be worthy of your trust."
Laurence stood and bowed. "I too, pledge you my life. I am unworthy of the honours bestowed on me, but I swear on my honour as a man, as an officer in the Royal Marines, and as a Christian, to be faithful to you."
Michael beamed. "You honour me with your presence and I am proud to call you my brothers." Then he sighed. "And now, my brothers, we must begin to rebuild our Order." He handed the Major a piece of paper on which was a list of names.
The Major read the list of names with increasing intrepidation. When he was finished he shook his head. "With respect, Michael, some of them are so young! Why, some of them are barely into puberty!"
Michael had expected opposition and returned the Major's gaze. "I was 9 years of age when Uncle Henry introduced me to his business. When I was sixteen, Joey Tsang paid the price for his disloyalty." He looked sternly at the Major. "Do not underestimate the wisdom of youth, or the enthusiasm they possess." He shrugged. "In the event, they will not be put in harm's way if it can be avoided." Michael pointed at a name on the list. "This young man, what has become of him?"
Laurence read the name. "Logan Hartsfield?"
Michael nodded.
"He has been watched, as the Chancellor requested," advised Laurence. "He is living in a small flat above the grocery store where we arranged a situation for him. He has also applied to join the Army. When the paperwork is completed I expect that he will be off to basic training."
Michael rubbed the side of his nose, a sure sign that he was thinking deeply. "Young Hartsfield is a child of the streets," he said presently. "From all accounts he is quite capable of looking after himself in a sticky situation. He has also bonded, in a way with one of the boys in AURORA?"
The Major, who had a memory for such things, nodded as he said, "Yes, Brian Venables, a Gunnery Petty Officer. He seemed quite impressed with Hartsfield, at least according to the Chancellor."
"Then ring Joel and tell him that Cousin Tommy is to contact Hartsfield and say to him that I wish him to perform a service for me."
A look of surprise formed on the Major's face as he asked, "Cousin Tommy and Joel . . .?"
"They are adults and what they do in the privacy of Joel's apartment is their business."
The Major wondered how Michael knew that Joel and Cousin Tommy were sleeping together but said nothing. When Michael said that it was their business the matter was closed, and would not be mentioned again.
"Call Acton Grimes," continued Michael, "And tell him that I wish . . ."
The telephone on the bedside table jangled noisily. Joel, who was in bed with Tommy Chan, ignored the noise, enjoying the feelings of rapture that captured him as Tommy slowly thrust in and out of his body. As he approached his climax Tommy's hand reached down to grasp Joel's throbbing erection. Both men were lost in passion. Joel could feel Tommy's hot breath on the back of his neck, could feel Tommy's thick penis probing deep within him. Deep within his own body waves of pleasure crashed through Joel as the head of Tommy's thrusting organ brushed again and again against his prostate.
The wave of pleasure began rising and Joel's sphincter clamped down on Tommy's penis. Groaning, Joel orgasmed and almost immediately Tommy let out a small yelp. Joel could feel Tommy's penis throb and twitch and then felt the wetness as his bowels were filled with Tommy's seed.
Both men continued to groan and shudder until finally, Joel could no longer stand the noise. He reached over and snatched the telephone receiver from its cradle and snarled into the mouthpiece, "What!"
Tommy, who was still hard and firmly embedded in Joel, paid no attention to the whispered conversation that Joel was having over the telephone. Tommy had never been happier in his life and, lost in the throes of wicked sex, began to lick and suck the back of Joel's neck. Joel, who was trying to have an intelligent conversation, bit his lower lip in an effort to stifle his moans of pleasure. He pushed back as Tommy pushed in and held the telephone receiver in a death grip. When the Major - it was he on the other end of the line - finally rang off Joel let out a loud moaning groan. Then he began wiggling and wriggling, forcing Tommy to adjust his thrusting and his position. Very soon Joel was on his back, with his legs wrapped around Tommy's waist. Tommy's nose was buried in the valley of Joel's shoulder and his harsh breathing vied with the grumbling thunder that broke the silence of the bedroom. Very soon the tempo of Tommy's thrusting increased and his grip on Joel tightened. His breath came in quick, ragged gasps and then he let out a long, low, "Fuuuccckkk!" His body stiffened and he thrust upward, shuddering as his second orgasm overwhelmed him.
Joel held Tommy close until his orgasm had passed and he rolled away, his softening penis falling from Joel's body with a soft "plop". When he had caught his breath Tommy smiled at Joel and said, "Now for the main event." He raised his legs and pulled them back, whispering for Joel to fuck him.
"For someone who is supposed to be straight you sure like getting it up the ass," observed Joel as he pressed the crisp, warm, circumcised glans of his penis against Tommy's pink rosebud. Then he pressed forward, pausing when the head of his penis was inside of Tommy.
Tommy grimaced and grunted at the intrusion, then reached around and pulled Joel into him. "And for someone who is supposed to be a bottom, you sure know how to bring the straight boy off!"
Joel and Tommy came again within seconds of each other and when he was finished Joel rolled away, off the bed, and padded into the bathroom. He returned with a bowl of warm water scented with lilac water and carefully cleansed Tommy's body of his ejaculate. He was particularly careful when he pushed back Tommy's foreskin to clean the light purple glans. Tommy was very sensitive after sex and he groaned happily as his penis was cleaned. "Fuck, Joel," he murmured, "Nobody as ever cleaned me like that before."
"Nobody but me has sucked your dick," rejoined Joel with a slight frown. Tommy was a brilliant fuck but his dick, being uncircumcised, needed frequent cleaning to rid it of the lingering odour of smegma, and the faint taste of urine and sperm that seemed to gather in the folds of skin covering the glans.
When he was finished Joel washed his stomach and genitals, and then poked Tommy in the ribs. "Time to get moving."
Tommy, who was looking forward to a long nap, allowed a look of surprise to cross his face. "Moving where?" he asked as he raised himself on one elbow. "And who was on the telephone? It wasn't Pavel, was it?"
Joel laughed and shook his head. Pavel had returned from the baths to find Joel and Tommy in a most compromising position. In a fit of pique the young Pole had stormed from the apartment, vowing never to return. "It was Richard Meinertzhagen," said Joel as he bent down to retrieve his underpants from the floor beside the bed. "He has work for me and told me to tell you that Michael wants you back at the compound."
"Jesus!" exclaimed Tommy. "Meinertzhagen knew that I was here?"
Joel snickered at Tommy's discomfiture. "Don't worry, your 'secret love' will remain a secret." He pulled on his underpants. "Now, get out of bed and get a move on."
"Did the Major happen to say just why I'm required at the compound?" asked Tommy as he began dressing.
Shrugging, Joel went to fetch a clean shirt for Tommy. As he handed the crisply starched shirt to his cousin, Joel said diffidently, "All he said was that you were to find someone named Logan Hartsfield and you were to bring him to the compound. Who is Logan Hartsfield?"
Cousin Tommy knew that Joel was not privy to any of the Order's secrets and knew better than to lift the veil of secrecy. "Just a young man Michael knows," replied Tommy enigmatically.
As Tommy began fumbling with his tie, Joel reached out. "Here, let me do that," he said quietly. He expertly knotted the coloured length of cloth, then patted Tommy's chest. "There."
Tommy saw the twinkle in Joel's eyes and leaned forward to kiss him. "You know that I'm falling in love with you," he said softly.
Sighing, Joel turned away. "You're married, Tommy, and you have three sons," he reminded Tommy.
"My wife is happy if I keep her supplied with money and long ago lost interest in sleeping with me," replied Tommy with a scowl. "I can be a good father and be in love with you!"
Joel shook his head. "Nobody knows about us, Tommy, except Michael and the Major. We had better keep it that way."
"Why, dammit?" demanded Tommy angrily. "I want to be with you and you want to be with me!"
Joel never lied to those he loved, and he did not lie now, though he knew it would have been better if he did. "Tommy, I won't deny that I have always had deep, strong feelings for you. In a way, yes, I am in love with you. But . . ." Joel sat on the bed and raised dark, concerned eyes at Tommy. "I have nothing to lose by being your lover. You, on the other hand, would lose your children. Sleeping with me on the quiet is one thing. Living openly with me, in a homosexual relationship, is quite another and because I love you I will not let you do it." He raised his hand and slowly caressed Tommy's cheek. "And I do love you, Tommy."
Tommy rested his hand on Joel's and then leaned forward to kiss him gently. When he drew back Tommy's eyes were bright with the love he felt for Joel and the anger at a society that would take away his most precious sons. Joel was right, of course, and Tommy knew it. The Chinese culture abhorred homosexuality and Tommy's wife, aided and abetted by his in-laws, would see to it that he never saw his children again if he left her for Joel. Tommy sighed unhappily. "One day," he vowed under his breath. "One day!"
In Toronto the heat wave that had enveloped the city continued unabated and the humidity hung over the city like a pall. In Acton Grimes' apartment The Gunner, sweating profusely, left Ace's bed, picked up his packet of cigarettes, and walked naked to the small balcony overlooking Bloor Street. He was sufficiently high up not to have to worry about casual passers-by and all the windows in the building opposite were dark. He settled onto a cushioned, cast iron chair and smoked contentedly. He heard the jangling of the telephone but ignored it.
Presently a new, louder noise broke the silence. Ace, cursing and snarling, was awake. The Gunner heard the crash of something falling into the floor and then Ace's snarled greeting. For a long time there was silence and then came snatches of a one-sided conversation. The Gunner's ears perked up when he heard Ace say, "Yes, Laurence."
The Gunner, his curiosity piqued, continued quiet as he listened carefully as Ace switched on a reading lamp, the weak beam of light breaking the blackness of the night, and continued his conversation. There was another long pause and then Ace said, "I've already done that and . . ."
It was obvious that whoever was on the other end of the line had interrupted Ace abruptly. The Gunner leaned forward in his chair, cocking his head and listening. Presently Ace spoke softly, "Dear God! And the Grand Master knows?"
At these words The Gunner stiffened. Grand Master? Laurence? His natural caution aroused his suspicions. Just what connection did Ace have with a "Grand Master"? How did he know a "Laurence"? Ace had given no indication that he was a member of the Order, and he did not wear the ring of a Knight. Yet it seemed obvious that Ace was involved with the Order, but how?
The Gunner mashed his half-smoked cigarette into the glass ashtray on the small glass-topped table that stood near the door. He skewed uncomfortably and peered through the open window of the bedroom and saw Ace sitting on the bed, a serious look on his face, the telephone receiver clasped to his ear. While The Gunner watched, Ace reached out to rummage in the bedside table drawer for a pen and a pad of paper.
As he watched with growing frustration and impatience, The Gunner heard Ace give further evidence that whatever he was up to without doubt involved the Order. Ace made further muttered references to the Grand Master, and once, to the Major. "Just what in the hell is going on?" The Gunner asked himself as he watched Ace scribbling madly on the tablet of paper. As he took notes Ace's face revealed a theatrical range of emotions - from surprise, to amusement, to puzzlement, to fury, to acquiescence, and finally, to determination.
As Ace continued his whispered conversation, The Gunner turned to stare into the darkness, barely noticing the buildings surrounding the small terrace, and not hearing the angry bleats and rush of tires from the traffic in the street below. Why would Ace not tell him about his involvement with the Order, and why would Laurence call Ace in the middle of the night? The Gunner temporized. It was entirely possible that Ace was not a Knight, that he could be merely one of Michael Chan's many correspondents and therefore could not know that The Gunner was Chancellor. It could be mere coincidence that he and Ace had met, and urgent telephone calls in the middle of the night were hardly rare occurrences. But . . . The Gunner did not believe in coincidences and this, this was all a bit much to be a coincidence!
Determined to confront Ace, The Gunner stood up and was about to return to the bedroom when Ace hung up the telephone. He saw The Gunner standing in the doorway. He also saw the determined look on his lover's face and asked, "You heard?"
"I heard enough," replied The Gunner. "When were you going to tell me that you were a Knight, Acton?" He glared at Ace. "That's is, if you are a Knight!"
Ace recognized the icy tones and sighed. "Steve, I . . ."
"What did they tell you? Afford me every courtesy? Fuck me and keep me happy?" demanded The Gunner angrily. "And what did Laurence want? A report?"
"Don't be an ass, Steve," returned Ace. He stood up, pushed past The Gunner and walked out onto the balcony. He regarded the sleeping city around him and then took a seat on the wooden bench that ran the length of the balcony. He heard The Gunner come onto the deck and the slight squeak as he sat down on the chair. Ace turned and saw The Gunner staring at him. He stared at The Gunner for a long time, gathering his thoughts, his eyes boring into the man he was falling in love with. "You were not just a fuck, Steve, never!" he said slowly, trying to keep his emotions under control.
"Then what was I? What am I? And what is Laurence doing calling you in the middle of the night?"
"I will answer all of your questions," replied Ace. He resisted the urge to reach out and take The Gunner in his arms as he said, "When your aunt died, and I was told that you were coming out to the funeral, Major Meinertzhagen asked me to keep an eye on you, to give you emotional support, and to just be as helpful as possible."
"Including seducing me?" asked The Gunner dryly.
Ace smiled and shook his head. "It was never asked of me. Sleeping with you was a pleasant, and surprising bonus. And sleeping with you was entirely my idea. The moment I saw you come into the house I wanted to sleep with you." He shrugged expressively. "I meant it when I said you were never a fuck!"
"Then you had no ulterior motives?" asked The Gunner. He was, frankly, suspicious. He barely knew Acton Grimes and if Acton, who had to know that he was the Chancellor, had crawled into his bed in the hopes of rewards within the Order, Acton was about to be sorely disillusioned. "You are a member of the Order, and yet you do not wear the ring," The Gunner said, his words flinty.
"Nor do you!" returned Ace, his words just as hard-edged as The Gunner's. If Steve was implying what Ace thought he was implying, well he was in for a rude awakening. "I don't wear the ring because it would draw too much attention, evoke questions from my father that I am not yet prepared to answer." He looked sternly at The Gunner as he added, "And I didn't sleep with you because you are the Chancellor! I slept with you because I'm . . ."
"Don't say it, Ace," interrupted The Gunner. "I told you, I'm committed to someone else. I like you, I want to be with you, but I am not in love with you."
"I know that!" snapped Ace with a grimace. He squared his shoulders. "Steve, I am in love with you, and you cannot change that. I also know that soon, very soon, you'll be out of my life, and I cannot change that. I meant no disrespect, had no ulterior motives, when I slept with you. I think now, however, that I made a mistake."
"Really?" asked The Gunner, his eyes widening slightly.
Nodding, Ace continued. "I should have kept our relationship on a professional basis. I should have told you from the get go that I am a Knight. I apologize for that. I do not apologize for what has happened between us."
The Gunner folded his arms across his chest. "And now?"
Gazing off into the distance, Ace replied, "That is up to you. In the mean time, I have a message to convey, Chancellor," he finished formally.
Groaning, The Gunner reached out and pulled Ace to him. "Don't, asshole! I made a mistake in suspecting you. I'm sorry for that."
"Apology accepted," replied Ace briskly. He pulled away and returned to the bench. "I still have a message for you, from Michael Chan."
The Gunner groaned inwardly. He had insulted Acton, knew it, was sorry for it, and had not the slightest clue how he was going to make it up with the young man. "Very well, Sir Acton," The Gunner said with heavy emphasis. "Your Chancellor is listening."
Ace shook his head. "Laurence asked me to contact you - if I had not already done so - and inform you that there is Order business to be done." A doleful look crossed Acton's face. "Laurence did not go into detail, but there is something dreadful going on. It involves Percy Simpson."
"Simpson!" snarled The Gunner. "I wouldn't soil my hands with him! He's a thief and a liar and God only knows what else!"
"He is also a paedophile," said Ace quietly.
The Gunner felt his stomach heave. "A paedophile?" he asked, his voice shaking with indignation. "How can that be? How is that a Knight . . .?"
"It gets worse," interjected Ace. "For some time now there has been an investigation into Simpson's involvement in missing funds, which you know about."
"He and Willoughby and Hunter stole big bucks," confirmed The Gunner with a wry smile. "But what has that got to do with Simpson being a paedophile?"
"I have no idea," replied Ace. "I only know what Laurence told me, and that was not much!" He looked at The Gunner, his eyes sad. "Steve, we are to contact a man named Troubridge. He is Simpson's butler and has information that will confirm Simpson's activities in what is turning out to be a ring of boy lovers buying and selling young boys and . . ."
The Gunner's jaw dropped. His eyes were wide with shock and disgust. "Simpson . . . boys . . ." he began, trying to retain some semblance of calm. "A ring of men selling . . .?"
"And this Troubridge is to provide the proof that Knights of the Order were involved," said Ace. "You and I are to arrange a meeting with him - Laurence gave me a telephone contact number - and find out what Troubridge knows."
Shaking his head, The Gunner reached for his cigarettes. After lighting up he smoked a bit, and then regarded Ace. "And report back, or take action?"
"We do nothing but listen and learn," replied Ace. "We are on a fishing expedition, nothing more."
"And God knows what fish we'll catch," said The Gunner. "Simpson is tight with Willoughby and Hunter." His eyes bore through the darkness as he stared at Ace. "This could get . . . messy," The Gunner warned.
"I expect it will," replied Ace with a small smile. "And if it does I shall serve with honour the Champion of the Order."
"The what?"
Ace did not immediately reply. He leaned forward, placed an elbow on his knee and cupped his chin in the palm of his hand. He stared at The Gunner, smiling softly.
The Gunner had no idea what Ace was up to now, and was not in the mood for foolishness. "I suppose that in the fullness of time you will tell me what in the hell you're talking about!" snapped The Gunner. "And why are you looking at me that way?"
Ace grinned in spite of himself. Then he said seriously, "I'm just wondering if a cat may look at an Archduke."
"Whatever are you on about?" asked The Gunner frostily. First Ace natters on about Champions of the Order and now he's on about cats! "Who is a cat," he growled, "and who is an Archduke?"
Ace could not resist. He pointed at his chest, waggled his soft penis at The Gunner, and growled a long, low "Meow!"
Completely taken aback, The Gunner's eyes widened. "I'm an Archduke?" he asked in a shocked whisper.
"Amongst other things," replied Ace with a grin. "Now, let me see if I can remember everything Michael told me." He began ticking off items on his fingers. "Let's see, oh, yes, raised to the rank of Professed Knight of Magistral Grace, Donat and Justice, and created Archduke of Trieste and Protector of the Hospital at Jerusalem."
"Jerusalem?" interrupted The Gunner. "There is no hospital at Jerusalem."
"It's a title, Steve," replied Ace. "And we are to found a hospital here."
"What?"
Shrugging, Ace continued, "Don't ask me. Laurence told me that Michael wants us - that's thee and me - to found a hospital. We even have a budget."
"We do?"
"Yes, $10.37!" announced Ace waspishly.
"You're joking," insisted The Gunner.
"Not at all," replied Ace with a straight face. "I would never joke at the expense of the Champion of the Order and a Knight of the Golden Fleece."
The Gunner, who was not entirely sure that Ace was not joking, flung his cigarette to the decking of the balcony. "Now really, Ace, that is too much. You can only carry a joke so far and . . ."
"I am not joking, Stephen," replied Ace in all seriousness. "You are everything I said you were." Then he knelt between The Gunner's legs, licked the head of his warm dick, and growled, "Meow!"
When he stopped laughing The Gunner gently pushed Ace away. "I don't think the neighbours are quite ready for a floor show," he said with a grin. "Behave and tell me everything, if there is anything more to tell."
Looking disappointed, Ace resumed his seat. "That's it. We contact this Troubridge, we establish a hospital, and we report back and await developments. What future role you - or I - will have in this Laurence did not say."
"We will have a role, you and I," said The Gunner ominously. He stood up and a dark, menacing look came over his face. "It will not be pleasant, I'm thinking," he said, his voice low. He held out his hand. "Never compare yourself to a cat, Acton, and always remember that the Chancellor and Champion of the Order regards you as a friend . . . and a lover." He squeezed Ace's hand gently. "I am like Michael Chan, Acton. We will not countenance betrayal, nor disloyalty, nor dishonour. If you follow me, if you walk at my side, know that if the allegations against Percy Simpson are proved Michael Chan will have no mercy." The Gunner's eyes hardened. "Nor will I!"
Ace allowed himself to be led back into the apartment, wondering just what sort of a man he had fallen in love with.
To Be Continued in Chapter 7