"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.
Although there is absolutely NOW SEX in this chapter still the usual warnings apply: 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.
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The Knights of Aurora
Epilogue
They plodded, as Jergen had said they would, in a light snow squall, the short distance from the Chapter House to the Chapel. The wide roadway was lined with student cadets, who presented arms as the procession walked slowly past.
The Gunner, remembering his youth when many high schools had benefited from an affiliated Army Cadet Corps which appealed to boys, had early in his tenure as Chancellor approached the Navy League of Canada, in the hope that they would sanction a Sea Cadet Corps in the hospital he planned to establish in Arnprior. The League, while it did good work, was not high on The Gunner's List of favourite organizations. He balked at the fees charged by the League, and their allowing local Branch offices almost total autonomy, with unenviable and at times unfortunate results. The League, as with the Boy Scouts of Canada, had certain policies concerning what they delicately referred to as "moral turpitude" which had, in The Gunner's mind, translated into: "No Gays Allowed."
The Gunner, as he later told The Phantom, thought he must have been getting old, as he had not lost his temper. Instead, he had left the Ottawa Headquarters of the League, returned to his hotel and called London and, as he had forgotten the six-hour time difference between Canada and England, roused Captain Edouard de Lotbiniere, OBE, RN, from his comfortable bed. Captain Lotbiniere, in addition to being a fellow Knight, and former lover, was Staff Captain and Chief of Staff, to Vice-Admiral Sir John Stevens, VC, KCMG, DSO, DCM, RN, who just happened to be Second Sea Lord of the Admiralty, the man in charge of all personnel in the Royal Navy.
Somewhat crankily, Captain Lotbiniere listened, bitched mightily at the damned inconvenience of colonials, and promised to see what he could do, rang off and went back to bed.
The Captain used his many contacts at the Palace, the Horse Guards, the Admiralty and the Palace of Westminster. The Admiral, also a Knight, whose nephew, Fred, was one of the original "Boys of Aurora", supported him. Just whom the two men contacted The Gunner never knew. What he did know, two months after his initial telephone call, was that the two enjoyed extraordinary favour in all the right places. The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, received Royal permission to establish not one, but four cadet corps, all affiliated with the established corps in England.
After reading the Charters, The Gunner had winced, and then contacted his friends in the Livadian Hassidic Community, specifically Aaron Goldschmidt, known to his fellow Knights as Aaron Mark II. The Gunner had then gone to the bank and retrieved from its safe the magnificent suite of emerald jewellery bequeathed to him by his Aunt Margaret. Later, The Gunner was amazed and appalled at the cost of the dress uniforms the cadets would need. Did he, The Gunner had asked Chef, know the cost of a bloody pith helmet? Chef did not, but he did opine that he knew what it was like to be on the uppers and not have a pot to pith in.
In time, as the hospital grew, the cadet corps grew, and they reserved all their panoply for Collar Day, the boys dressing in their finest albeit expensive uniforms, taking an integral part in the procession, leading the Knights to the chapel.
The Sea Cadets lined the roadway interspersed with Royal Marine Cadet Force cadets, for the hospital had been authorized three sections of eight boys each. The Sea Cadets, in their distinctive blue uniforms and round white caps, and the Royal Marine Cadets, in their dark blue tunics and trousers, and wearing white pith helmets, presented arms as the procession passed through their ranks, the bayonets fixed to their polished .303s shimmering despite the gloom and snow.
From time to time Sir Brian Venables, KSt+J, Master of the Horse, "promenaded", keeping an eye on the drill and deportment of the cadets, and nodding approvingly as the first of the marching units appeared.
Leading the procession were the cadets of the 1st Life Guards Corps of Gentlemen Cadets, their silver, red plumed helmets shining. Unlike the Sea and Marine Cadets, these cadets hid their finery under deep blue, red piped, ankle length cloaks which buttoned at the neck in deep collars, and which hid their tunics, worn under silver cuirasses, white breeches and mirror-polished riding boots, the wind teasing the red plumes of their helmets.
Immediately behind the cadets came the Companions of the Order, marching two by two, in ascending order, the newest members first, with Jérémie Cher, the Senior Companion, and Arden Putnam-Chan last. Arden, who had just turned 19, was the adopted son of Blake Putnam and Cousin Matthew Chan, the latter one of the innumerable Chan cousins, and named for his late, much mourned, "uncle", Arden Chan. The younger Arden, while the youngest of the Companions, had joined the Order when he was 15 and had been a Page of Honour to the then Grand Master, Stephen Winslow.
Separating the Companions from the Knights, were the members of the King's Troop Cadets, Royal Horse Artillery. Compared to the Life Guards, the Artillery Cadets were rather Plain Janes, dressed in dark blue, red piped and frogged jackets, tight breeches and short busby caps. Not that their uniforms bothered them - the cadets bragged that the tight trousers showed off their bums a treat - for they had something that made the small arms, swords and rifles of the other cadets pale in comparison. They had two shining, ash-wheeled, polished Model 1904 Ordnance Quick Firing 13pdr Field Guns, complete with limbers and horse tackle. The cadets delighted in firing the guns on any occasion although they confined their enthusiasm to firing the Noon Gun in most days. They made up for it at funerals, however.
The funeral of a Knight was always a solemn occasion and always brought out everybody. The hearse carrying the coffin was met at the Hospital gates and the coffin, draped with the Knight's banner, was transferred to one of the field guns (both could be fitted with a coffin board for the purpose) and then carried in procession down the Long Walk to the hospital where the Knight would lie in state under the soaring rotunda dome until his funeral. On the day of the funeral the gun carriage came out again, this time draped in black swags, and pulled by a Field Gun Crew of Sea Cadets. Horses, both riding and drag, were kept in the stables, but at a Knight's funeral the Sea Cadets provided the muscle. They were considered much more reliable than horses! As the cortege marched slowly toward the Chapel the Artillery Cadets fired the Minute Guns, one for each year of the Knight's life.
Funerals were solemn, impressive affairs that always brought out the crowds from town. The Phantom complained privately that the only reason "the Townies" came out was because a luncheon was always provided after the funeral. Simon Keppel, Dean of the Chapter, complained that the townies kept their hands firmly in their pockets and the Chapel Gift Shop never made a dime on funeral days. Funerals, Simon liked to expound, were bad for business.
The Artillery Cadets also had an extra advantage: they had not one, but two, Honourary Colonels. Cory and Todd, both ex-gunners in HMCS Aurora, and their sons, Cory's Sean, and Todd's twin boys, two identical, blond-haired hellions who favoured their uncle more than their father, Philip and Stephen, marched with the Artillery Cadets.
Behind the Artillery Cadets, flanked on either side by Escorts, actually the boys of Coldstream Guards Cadets, the Knights marched in procession. As the most junior of Knights, Jergen and Harry's second son, Stefan, led the parade. Behind them, in order of precedence, came the Knights, with the most senior, Harry and Tyler last.
Behind the Knights marched three of the Cadet Officers, Alistair Chan's oldest son, Peter, dressed in the naval uniform, Harry's first born, also named Harry, wearing the blue tunic, white breeches and high, patent leather boots of Cadet Captain, the Royal Horse Guards Cadets (The Blues). Beside Young Harry, as he was called, walked the tall, blond, Adonis-like Mark Maslen-Britnell, wearing the uniform of the Life Guards and Staff Aiguillettes (he was Brigade Major). His fathers, Rick Maslen and Glenn Britnell, now rested in the North Choir Chantry Chapel.
Behind the young cadet officers The Phantom walked with Colin Arnott, their long robes held by Pages of Honour. These boys were perhaps the most colourful of all the participants in the procession. The Phantom's Pages, Nicholas Berg and Alexander Valpone, both sons of Knights of the American Province, wore gold-trimmed, green frock coats, lace jabots, white breeches, and silver-buckled patent leather pumps. Colin's Pages, also sons of Knights, Matthew Home and Kevin Berkeley-Cornwallis, wore similar livery, except their coats were St. Patrick's blue trimmed with silver lace.
The last of the procession, their long, dark cloaks flecked with flakes of snow, was made of cadets from the Life Guards.
At the top of the three, long, broad flights of steps that led into the Chapel, the marching cadets broke off. Just inside the Chapel door Alex Grinchsten and Jake Guildenhall, Black and Gold Rods, waited. They would conduct the three separate "processions" down the long nave of the Chapel.
"Immortal, invisible, God only wise, In light inaccessible hid from our eyes, Most blessed, most glorious, the Ancient of Days, Almighty, victorious, thy great Name we praise."
The hospital choir - 23 boy choristers and seven "Lay Clerks", as they were called, began the processional hymn, the organ's notes joining the crystal clear voices of the boys as they soared upward to the magnificent vault of the chapel's ceiling. Jérémie Cher, already in his seat in the choir, closed his eyes and listened as the soprano voices of the boy choristers, complemented by the altos, tenors and basses of the Lay Clerks, sang the hymn that had become the traditional processional hymn of the Order. He recalled the first time he had heard it, back when he was what . . . 15, and had walked down a makeshift aisle in a hotel ballroom, the hymn played on a cranky piano by the hotel's resident pianist. He wondered what had ever become of the young man, a stranger to the young knights. Jérémie might not know what had happened to the pianist, but knowing Michael Chan, the then Grand Master, the young man had not gone away unrewarded.
As he listened to the choir, Jérémie Cher, somewhat snidely, compared this choir with the one that sang in his church back home in North Bay. There the soloist, the organist's wife, howled out the hymns like dog baying out the words, warbling the hymns in a screeching soprano. Women, Jérémie Cher had long ago concluded, simply did not have the clarity of a boy soprano, and all too often the sung words sounded strangled and indistinct.
Smiling, Jérémie Cher recalled what André de Noailles, one time "Sticks", or lead drummer of the HMCS Aurora Bugle Band, had observed with some heat and great insistence. They had been in a motel swimming pool, in Victoria, having marched in the BC Day Parade, and there had been a water fight, which ended in a depantsing - if that was the proper phrase, although Jérémie Cher doubted it was - with bathing suits flying through the air and André, the victim of Randy or Joey, or the Twins - nobody admitted anything - had retreated to the side of the pool, clutching himself. Lounging at the far end of the pool was a small group of teenage girls, whom André insisted were looking at him.
Nicholas Rodney, then Yeoman of Signals, and André's soon to be lover, had remonstrated that the girls couldn't see anything! He also pointed out that they were much more interested in Sylvain - blond, tall, far too handsome for his own good Sylvain de Beauharnais - who was wearing a white Speedo that left nothing to anyone's imagination. Sylvain had been a well-endowed young man, and as Nicholas took great pains to point out, Sylvain had no problem with the girls ogling his rat, which was of impressive length and girth, so why was André all hot and bothered when all he had on offer was his little souris, his little mouse. André, in a huff, had pointed out that there were certain things a priest should not hear in confession, and certain things a girl should not see, which was a guy's souris!
Jérémie Cher chuckled as he thought, "He should have added that there were certain things a woman should not do, and that was sing hymns!" He also wondered if André, who was sitting on the level above and behind Jérémie Cher, in his stall, with Nicholas next to him, remembered that day.
Sitting in his pew, Jérémie Cher looked around, admiring the architectural beauty of the Chapel. More cathedral than chapel, the church had been Michael Chan's last gift to the Order, and ultimately his last resting place.
Michael had decreed that no expense be spared. Only the best materials would be used, and artists from around the world were engaged to decorate the interior. Built of limestone and brick, faced with Portland stone in the late-Gothic, "Perpendicular" style, the building presented a long, plain façade to the world. The architect, Sir Nicholas Rodney, KSt+J, had originally planned a soaring bell tower. Michael had sadly responded by quoting the admonition of Saint John related in the Chronicles of the Order: "Raise ye not great temples, for these are displeasing in the sight of God."
Nicholas, who could not see a church, particularly one of the Anglican Tradition without a set of Change Bells, had promptly designed what he called "The Horseshoe Cloister", a series of two-storey structures, also in the late-Gothic style, housing the Infirmary, a house for the Surgeon in Ordinary, a house for the Matron and two sisters who staffed the infirmary, and Nicholson House, originally designed as the summer residence of Sophie Nicholson Edgar, the grandest of Grande Dames, and a power in the Order, despite not being a member, and a woman! Nicholas had also incorporated a tower, which in time became known as the "Curfew Tower" - from the ringing of the great bell every evening at 2230 proclaiming "curfew" - bedtime for the gentlemen scholars. In the tower were hung the 12 Change Bells, rung on Sundays after Mass, at weddings and funerals, and the bells had been rung for the first time at the Commitment Ceremony held for Nicholas and his lover, André. What the Surgeon, or Sophie, thought of the bell ringing at the oddest times was not recorded. Sophie had, however, sent along a magnificent George II silver tea set to the newlyweds.
On either side of the main structure were Chantrys, small chapels really. Here rested two of the great men of the Order: in the North Chantry, under a black basalt stone set with gold letters recording his name, his dates of birth and death, rested Michael Chan. In the South Chantry was the ornate, marble tomb of Chef. On his sarcophagus rested a marble effigy of the much-beloved old man, dressed in his robes and wearing his collar. He would have delighted in the knowledge that each night before final exams were scheduled to be written the boy choristers would sneak in and rub the cold figure's tummy - for luck. Tradition held that this only worked for the choristers, although why no one knew why because those who had known him proclaimed that Chef hadn't been able to sing a note, and sounded more like a strangling cat than a boy chorister or even one of the Lay Clerks (as the professional singers who taught voice and music to the students, were called).
Both Michael and Nicholas had adhered to the clean-lined geometry of the Gothic period. Four great piers towered to support the low-vault, carved of stone by master masons from Italy, and embossed with shields of the first knights. Light streamed through the great West Window that rose 36 feet from above the Great Door to the ceiling. The window was composed of tiers of stained glass figures, depicting kings, popes, and knights. It was a masterpiece of stained glass crafted in Venice, the mythical depictions of the earliest knights, shining bright with blue and green and gold, red and emerald, robes and armour. The figures also included, although few recognised or knew it, one non-knight, in fact not a Christian at all, but a Muslim physician. Al-Din Salef el-Hashemy, had been a slave, purchased by the Knights so that they could obey the Law as proclaimed by the Saint:
"Thou shall make unto God, and unto thy brothers, a covenant, as Abraham made unto the Lord. Each of you shall remove the orlah that is between thee and thy God and make unto him a sacrifice, and return to the image of Him that made thee, for ye are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee."
Although he did not realize it, Jérémie Cher was blushing. He was the only one remaining of the original Companions: Peter Race, Eion Reilly, Nate Schoenmann, and himself. He of them all had not made the final decision, although Eion and Nate, who was Jewish, had not needed the services of a Doctor el-Hashemy. Peter had obviously found his doctor, and now sat in his stall, located midway down the Choir Enclosure, with Eion in the next stall. Nate Schoenmann sat in his stall across the aisle.
As the Senior Companion of the Order, Jérémie Cher sat closest to the Grand Master's stall, actually a box of sorts, built into the architectural heart of the chapel, the choir screen, a deep arcaded screen in the gothic style, richly carved from Coade stone. On top of this screen was the Organ Loft, which contained the chapel organ and pipes, an instrument reputedly designed by Henry Emlyn, in 1788, and repeatedly restored over the centuries. It had come from a derelict church in London. In the stall, The Phantom and Colin sat in solitary splendour, although Colin looked to be asleep!
Looking around, Jérémie Cher took in the architectural beauty of the Choir Enclosure. On either side of the Enclosure, were three tiers of seats. The lowest, in reality a carved and padded wooden bench, was reserved for the Dean and Canons of the Free Church of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, and the Companions of the Order. The Dean, Simon Keppel, who was also a Knight, and the twelve Canons sat closest to the Altar. Then came the Companions, five to a side, for there had been men who, through "ignorance of conscience", stubbornness, or insecurity, had declined the offer of Knighthood.
Behind Jérémie Cher the choir stalls remained empty, waiting for the procession of clerics to enter. Above him were the Knights' Stalls - tall, carved ebony seats surmounted by canopies on which were placed the colourful crests and mantling of the individual knights, and his sword. These armorial insignia had been carved in the hospital's own woodworking shop, first by craftsmen imported from Europe when the chapel was built, later by the gentlemen scholars apprenticed to those of the craftsmen who had taken advantage of their situation and remained in Canada.
As he looked around the Choir, Jérémie Cher thought that it would be a magnificent space on a bright, summer's day, with the sunlight streaming through the East Window, yet another magnificent construction of stained glass, depicting the Nativity with Magi bearing their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, the Resurrection and the Last Judgement. Carved around the window frame were sculptures of the nine orders of angels and, in its apex, a depiction of the Trinity. The window served as backdrop to the High Altar, a huge structure, the three panels of the altar reredos carved in alabaster. Above the centre of the altar was the Ascension of Christ, flanked to the left by His appearance in the garden after the Resurrection and to the right by His disputation in the Temple.
With a slight nod of his head, Jérémie Cher concluded that this chapel was a fitting, magnificent setting for the Knights. The building looked like a church should look, and not at all like the architectural blunders that had replaced the magnificent structures he had grown up with. Back home, in North Bay, Jérémie Cher attended church every Sunday, as required of a good, Catholic, family man. The building, which bore little resemblance to a church, being as cold and spare as a Quaker Meeting House, had replaced the old church, a church filled with gold and silver and colour. Gone were the life-size and life-like effigies of saints, the carved Stations of the Cross, the panoply that had once been the Roman Catholic Church replaced with all the cheer and beauty of the Roman catacombs! At least they had kept the organ, which seemed to be played only at weddings and funerals. Three men, one playing an electronic piano, one strumming a guitar, and one singing a questionable, and execrable, hymn of his own composition, had provided the music the last time Jérémie Cher had attended Mass.
A gleam of silver caught Jérémie Cher's eye as the procession entered the Choir. He saw that James Kenyon was crucifer, smiling as he carried the great silver Processional Cross. As James passed by Jérémie Cher smiled as well. The young man had met him at the luncheon before the Investiture, a smiling, shy acolyte who had helped him with his robe and hat, and introduced Jérémie Cher to the newest Knights and Companions.
Thinking of the luncheon and Investiture caused Jérémie Cher to blush slightly. The Phantom had greeted him warmly, hugging him and kissing him with great affection. Ever sentimental and a romantic, The Phantom had given his younger friend no grief about his staying away for so many years. Jérémie Cher was here now, and that was all that mattered.
As the choirboys filed into their seats behind him, Jérémie Cher watched the younger boys carefully. He saw their faces and wondered if one day his own son, his own little Armand would join his voice in songs of praise, wear the red cassock and white, starched surplice that the choir boys and Lay Clerks all wore, or ride with the equestrian cadets, or carve with his own hands a coronet or helmet that would adorn the stall of a future Knight. Would his son one day enter a room and be greeted by The Phantom with a diminutive of his name, as James Kenyon had been? The Phantom, his eyes gleaming with brightness, had called James, "Jamie". Would Armand one day look upon The Phantom with love, as Jamie Kenyon did, as Jérémie Cher himself had done so many years ago, sitting on the steps leading to the command YAG, and offered his first token of the unspoken love he felt for the then young, insecure, Chief Steward?
As the music soared and the piping, glorious voices of the choir soared toward the choir vault, Jérémie Cher realized that for his son's future, and his own, he must decide. His wife, Cécile, wanted something that Jérémie Cher could never give her. She would go to Africa, he knew that. She would have her freedom, and make her own way, and he knew that too. He would bring his son here, to this haven, and together they would make a future. He would return to his place, and be what he had been destined to be and stand, as he should have stood years ago, with the Boys of Aurora.
Deus Vult.
"Unresting, unhasting, and silent as light, Nor wanting, nor wasting, thou rulest in might, Thy justice like mountains high soaring above thy clouds, Which are fountains of goodness and love."
Colin Arnott was not sleeping. He was resting his eyes, for the past week had been, in some ways wonderful, in others damned near brutal! It had been a week of gathering as the Knights, older now, returned to their days as young men, as Sea Cadets. It had been a week of telling tales and swinging the lamp, grumbling that things were better done in their day, and bringing each other up to date on their personal lives and on the progress of the Order. It was also a time of raising their glasses high in toast to their comrades now lost, some resting here, some in foreign fields, their lives celebrated by memorial plaques placed, in the Anglican tradition, on the walls of the nave and in the long corridors of the North and South Choir Aisles, the marble and limestone and bronze brightened by the light shining through the arched windows that pierced the fabric of the chapel. One of the monuments, perhaps the most simple of them all, recorded the life of Stephen Winslow, whose ashes had been scattered at sea, according to his wishes.
There had been other losses, of course. That had been inevitable. Colin's eyes opened and his gaze fell on Sandro, sitting, his hands folded, his eye closed in prayer. Colin knew that Sandro was praying for the soul of his first, true love, a sturdy, blond, blue-eyed boy named Chad Peters. They had fallen in love and their love had never wavered, despite their separation and Chad's inability to remain constant with any one man. Sandro had returned home to Saanich and, in the fullness of time, had married. His sons, Avram and Ari, sat somewhere in the Nave, as part of the congregation, in the chairs reserved for the Cadets.
A memory stirred and Colin smiled. Sandro had always claimed to be the only Jew in the Catering Branch of the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets. His sons claimed to be the only Jews in the Royal Marine Cadet Force!
Chad had been the first to leave, stricken before he was old enough to vote, taken by the Plague, as so many others had been. The carved memorials did not begin to tell the tale, or relate the horror that had descended on mankind. Nathan Berman, who was not Jewish, and who had been Sandro's first lover, lay in the churchyard, and every day a single white rose was placed on the marble slab that marked his final resting place. Nathan had returned, in the last stages of the dreaded sickness, to Fred Fisher, and for a year Fred had lovingly cared for his friend, his lover, his partner. Just before the end of his sufferings, Nathan had asked to be brought home, to be with his brothers, and Fred had seen to it.
Another memorial commemorated the life of Joel Chiang, cousin to Michael Chan. Joel had led a wild, dissolute life, had known many men, but in the end he had returned to be welcomed as a brother. Joel had fought for gay rights, but at the end of the day his colleagues, his parents, his friends, had abandoned him. Only Cousin Tommy, and Michael, had been with him throughout his illness. Few had known it, but Joel had been the true love of Michael's life. Michael had mourned Joel and, as he lay dying from prostate cancer, his last breath had whispered, "Joel".
Cousin Tommy Chan was also a victim of AIDS. He too rested in the churchyard, his grave less flamboyant than Joel's, but beside that of his lover. Cousin Tommy had been Joel's last lover and had died in tears at the memory of his time with Joel. Cousin Tommy had also died abandoned by his sons, who would have nothing to do with their queer father. Michael, in a rare fit of rage, had consigned the sons to hell and Coventry. They would make their way in life without his assistance, and were never brought into what was euphemistically called, "The Business". Michael's heir, Alistair Chan, had maintained their exile.
Sean Anders was gone, dying in Cory's arms from an aortic aneurysm, leaving behind his legacy of dedication to medicine, a respected and much admired surgeon. He had also left behind a perfect copy of himself, a boy child sired by a surrogate mother, a boy once called "Little Sean", now just Sean, but the much adored son of Cory, Sean's partner and soulmate.
Thinking of the new generation of boys that had come to the Order made Colin think of his own brood. He hoped that the triplets were behaving themselves, a forlorn hope he was sure, and that the twins were not conspiring with Todd's two hellions. Thinking of hellions, Colin smiled. His oldest boy, David, had been a handful and was no doubt cutting a swathe through the maidens of Sloane Square with his friend Harry Windsor.
David Victor Clayton Lascelles-Arnott was his biological father's son, and no danger. He looked very much like his father, also named David, and an old and dear friend to The Gunner. David Clayton had been a man who lived life large. David's star had risen slowly but surely as he made his career in the Intelligence Service. In time he came to be the most respected, and experienced officer in the Intelligence Service, and was constantly out of country. Where he went, and what he did when he got there, David had never said. All anyone needed to know was that David was the Man so far as the Intelligence Service was concerned.
Along with his reputation in the intelligence community, David acquired another. Whenever he returned from wherever he had been, he popped into the closest Wardroom, and always left with a dolly on his arm. And there had been an awful lot of dollies. David loved the ladies, and the ladies loved him, which surprised more than one of his acquaintances. David was hardly the movie star Lothario in looks or demeanour. Still, he attracted women like honey attracted bees. Most were beauties and thus everyone was surprised when David returned from some hush-hush duties with MI5 not only with a new gong, but a wife!
Handsome, rather than beautiful, Lady Anne Catherine Lowell could have been the classic advertisement for the "peaches and cream" English countrywoman. She spoke well, rode well, and had a sense of humour. Which she needed, considering David's line of work and reputation, which set the naysayers to chattering. The marriage, they foretold, would never last.
David surprised everyone. He became, in essence, the perfect husband and father, doting on his sons. He was still frequently called away, but when he returned he always came home laden with gifts and became the picture of domestic happiness. There were some, the unkind, or the caustic-tongued, who opined that David only came home to get his wife pregnant, but the truth was that Anne and David wanted their children, and had never planned for them. What happened, happened, although they both had to admit surprise when, after the birth of their first son, named David for his father, Anne became pregnant again and out popped Dermot and Daniel, fraternal twins who favoured their mother's side of the family. They were even more surprised when, shortly after his return from Kuwait in 1991, Anne gave birth to triplets! And not only triplets but identical triplets, named Tristan, Timothy and Theodore! They favoured David, having his blue-grey, soft eyes, stubborn disposition and sense of deviltry. Chef, when invited to inspect the new arrivals, smiled and then in an aside to The Gunner, rumbled that David Clayton had given new meaning to the Biblical instruction to "Go ye forth and multiply!"
With the Gulf War over, and the world more or less quiet, David had settled down in Ottawa, buying a house, mowing the lawn on the weekend, or shovelling snow, painting, completing countless "Honey-DO" projects and, in light of six boys cluttering up the place, wondering if Anne and he might consider practising safe sex, or at least the Rhythm Method. Then, one night when the triplets were barely a year old, he had gone to bed and in the morning could not be woken. A stroke, the coroner had said, massive, and so sad in such a young man.
The funeral had been held in Ottawa, which had been David's home for so many years. The Knights had gathered, for David had maintained his association with the Order. Michael Chan had come from Vancouver, as had his cousin and Heir, Alistair, and Pete Sheppard who was Alistair's partner and lover, although no one spoke of it, for business reasons. Harry came with his wife, a strong, buxom girl heavy with child - again. Chef, old now, had entered the funeral parlour on the arm of his adopted sons, Ray Cornwallis and Kevin Berkeley. The Gunner flew in from Halifax with his Chief of Staff, Tyler Benbow.
They had all gathered, including a large contingent of officers and men, men who had served with David, and who all parted when The Phantom, still recovering from his wounds, and released against medical advice from the National Defence Medical Centre, hobbled in, looking wan and pale, one hand gripping the thick cane tightly, the other grasping Colin's strong arm. The crowd of sailors and soldiers stiffened to attention when they saw the dark crimson ribbon and bronze cross on The Phantom's chest. They remained at attention as Cory and Matt Greene entered and eyes grew wider, as if the sight of three Victoria Crosses in one room at the same time was too much to bear.
Of all the mourners, The Gunner seemed the most affected by David's death. What no one else, except for Chef and The Phantom, knew was that it had been in another house of death, in a room very much like the one in which they now mourned, that David Clayton had begun his subtle campaign against bigotry and hatred, when he and The Gunner had buried, with dignity and honour, an innocent victim of prejudice.
Colin's eyes drifted upward to the cornice that separated the upper and lower storeys of the chapel, carved with the figures of angels. Each figure was shown from the waist up, as if leaning over a balcony, and holding a part of a great scroll. In some places the scroll was painted with texts of prayers and biblical quotations and the sculpture had been dubbed "The Great Choir of Angels".
Yet to Colin, the figures did not represent Angels so much as they represented the new generation of boys, the future of so many of the Knights, and the Order. Six of them could so easily have represented his and The Phantom's sons. Death had snatched David Clayton away, but had left behind six gifts.
After the funeral, when all but Colin and The Phantom had departed, Anne Clayton sent her oldest son, David, who had just turned 10, outside to play in the sun. Anne's mother, who had flown over from England, had taken the twins outside as well. Anne's sister, a tall, willowy blond, and a paediatric nurse, had taken the triplets upstairs to change their diapers and settle them down for their afternoon nap.
Anne, dressed in black, and seated on the sofa in the living room of the home she had shared for far too few years with her dearest love, had fixed her cornflower blue eyes first on Colin, and then on The Phantom. Then she said, bluntly, "I am dying."
Before either man could reassure her that she would, in time, overcome what they assumed was her grief, Anne explained: she had cancer, in her ovaries, in her uterus, in her liver and, the doctors suspected, in her stomach. She had, she said in her blunt and forceful way, perhaps six months to live. David had known, of course, and together they had planned for the time when she was gone and he would be alone. His death had upset her plans, but she was determined that her sons would be raised properly, with respect and dignity for others, to love, to hope, to endure!
Again The Phantom and Colin made to protest and again Anne raised her hand. She knew what needed to be done. She would live out her life for her sons, and when she was gone, which was inevitable and there was nothing anyone could do about it, she wanted her sons to be in safe hands. To that end she asked that The Phantom and Colin assume the guardianship of her boys. She had considered The Gunner, who was a good man, and David's best and dearest friend. But he was engrossed with his beloved Order, and while Anne had no doubt that he would make an excellent guardian, he would never make a father. The Gunner did not have it in him. There it was, the truth. She cared for Stephen Winslow, but he was a man destined to be a leader, alone save for his constant companion, Acton Grimes, called Ace, a man who would devote his time and his energy to his Order. Anne saw it, if no one else did.
She had considered Chef, but the old man was . . . old, and he had, in addition to his adopted sons, the added burden - as Anne put it - of Randy and Joey and Phil Thornton. Chef was a dear and a delight but the old gentleman deserved some peace - what he had of it - in the autumn of his years. Besides, the old fool was much too short-tempered to put up with bouncing boys, and she doubted that he had ever changed a diaper in his life!
There was nothing else for it. She had decided, and the papers were ready. All The Phantom and Colin had to do was to agree, and sign.
Too stunned to answer at once, both Colin and The Phantom had taken a large whisky, and then gone out to the porch for a long talk. What Anne had asked was an awesome responsibility. What they needed to determine was if they were both ready to take on that responsibility, to see to it that Anne and David's boys became the men that Anne wanted them to be. Neither Colin nor The Phantom doubted that they could take care of the boys. What they had to decide was if they were both ready for . . . fatherhood.
"Are we?" Colin asked The Phantom. "Do we want the responsibility?"
"No, Colin," The Phantom replied, his green eyes shining, "the question should be: 'Do we want sons?'"
For a long time Colin had stared into the distance, not seeing the neat lawns and beds of flowers and shrubs of other houses that lined the street. Then his eyes fell on a group of boys, chattering and laughing, carrying baseball mitts and bats, strolling and laughing toward them. They were dressed in abbreviated shorts and basketball shirts stitched with the with the name of their favourite player of the moment, their sneakers scruffy, their hair dishevelled, playing grab ass and swearing and chucking shit at each other in the manner of teenage boys. As they passed the two Naval officers the boys smiled and waved and Colin knew the answer to The Phantom's question.
"Yes, I want sons," he all but breathed. "I want lots of sons."
The Phantom reached out and his hand came to rest on Colin's wide shoulder. "And so do I," came his whispered reply.
At first it was all trial and error, for neither Colin nor The Phantom had a clue about fatherhood. They learned on the job, at times despairing, at times elated, and always busy! If it was not one thing, it was another, what with swimming, baseball in the summer, hockey in the winter, soccer, and skiing, and God! They were one of them, or both of them, always off somewhere with the boys, the van - a plain sedan was not built for six active boys - loaded to the gunwales with baseball equipment, hockey equipment, soccer gear and balls, and on more than one occasion, errant jocks and forgotten tighty whiteys!
In the fullness of time, as the hospital grew, and The Phantom and Colin became more involved with the school and the Order, they had moved to Flagstaff House. In time, David Junior had come to them and asked if they would adopt him, make him their son. Behind him had hovered his brothers, nodding their agreement with David's request.
When The Phantom had stopped weeping tears of joy, and Colin had stopped cracking his knuckles from the sheer wonder of it all, they had agreed, but only on the condition that the boys keep "Clayton" as a part of their names. So, David Victor Clayton became David Victor Clayton Lascelles-Arnott, and The Phantom became "Papa" while Colin became "Daddy Colin" to the twins and the triplets.
The "Lascelles-Arnott" boys, as they came to be called, did not lack for companionship. Once again, Colin's eyes drifted toward the Choir of Angels. Dear God, how the Boys of Aurora had grown!
Harry had started it. He had always said that all he ever wanted to be was a farmer, raising cows and corn and boys! After graduating from the University of Manitoba he had found a wife, a sweet tempered girl who was as fertile as the fields Harry so lovingly tended. First had come Harry, Junior, then Stefan, then Michael, then Philip, then Nicholas (named for Harry's brother, also dead from the dreaded plague), who was followed by Stephen, whom chance and a drunk driver had destined to be the "Baby Brother" to the other five. Harry's wife had been returning home from a shopping trip to Winnipeg when a tractor-trailer driven by a boozed-up trucker had swerved into her car. She had been shopping for baby clothes again, for the unborn seventh son who lay with her now, forever.
The other boys had followed. Todd, in a fit of stupidity (according to his brother, Cory) had married, and much to his, and his wife's, surprise, had father identical twins. Sean Anders, following a biological urge that he could not explain, and his lover, Cory, could not understand, for he had no such feelings, at first, had used his connections at the hospital where he worked and found a woman willing to be the surrogate for Sean's child. Little Sean Anders-Arundel was the image of his father, having the same eyes, the same red hair flecked with gold and, according to Cory, the same plump little penis!
Spurred by example, Sophie Edgar had adopted Eugen Arenberg, one of the "German Boys" rescued so long ago. Rob Wemyss had also, with his partner, Marc Worden, come to the hospital for their sons.
The hospital, which had grown and prospered, was a fees paying public school in the Anglican tradition, drawing young boys from primarily Canada and the United States. There were also students from Britain, at least six from Germany, and an even dozen from Australia! The hospital also took in the boys it had originally been conceived to shelter: the lost, the betrayed, and the abandoned. No one was ever turned away, no matter what baggage they brought with them and some of them carried quite a bit.
Many of these boys had been victims of abuse, both sexual and physical. Some were judged "incorrigible" and shunted from foster home to foster home by the Children's Aid Society. The hospital took them all, the only condition being that once inside the gates the CAS gave up any and all interest in them. Glad to be rid of nuisances that plagued their sedentary and non-productive lives, the caseworkers gladly signed away the boys. Even now, in the infirmary, under the watchful eye of Jon Jackson, Extra Surgeon in Ordinary, and a specialist in paediatric medicine, were four young boys, one all but comatose from the abuse he had suffered while in the care of the CAS.
With time, love - a lot of love - and understanding, the waifs and strays of society turned around. There had been failures, which had been expected, but in the main there had been many more successes and Rob and Marc adopted two of them. Ray and Kevin also adopted three of these boys. Chef brayed happily at being a grandfather and spoiled the boys outrageously.
"At this rate," Colin thought, "we'll have to extend the cornice around the entire chapel!"
To all life thou givest, to both great and small, In all life thou livest, the true life of all; We blossom and flourish, like leaves on the tree, Then wither and perish; but nought changeth thee.
The Phantom hummed along with the choir, thinking that the words met the times. The Hospital, this great, sprawling Hospital, had given life to the boys rescued so long ago. They had come here, broken in body and spirit, had blossomed and flourished. Some had died, some had run away, but in the end nothing had changed. The Hospital had remained, had grown and would continue to grow, for there was a never failing line of boys.
As he listened, The Phantom wondered if the new generation would ever come to know the awe that he, and The Boys of Aurora had known, and still knew. Would they, he wondered, these new boys, this new generation be a part of the Tapestry? Would they come, in time to learn about becoming part of something greater than themselves; often a new concept for teenagers. Would this willingness to commit to something greater than oneself enable them to commit to life-partnerships with their lovers. Would they learn to become leaders, to be one of what The Gunner called his "Thousand Laurences"? Would those who became leaders learn more about being leaders, and be better able to be effective in the renaissance that was the Order of St John of the Cross of Acre?
In thinking of the future, The Phantom reflected on the past, asking a question: would the newer generation now under his Stewardship ever know the joys and delights that he had known? Would they have a Harry in their lives, or the Twins, or any of the young men who had made up the first generation?
Would they know the shame of deception, as The Phantom knew. He had deceived his friends, and while they had forgiven him, never mentioning his furtive groping in the dark of the Aurora night, he had not, really, forgiven himself. Of course, he consoled himself, none of the boys he had visited had complained. Indeed, most of them had welcomed his return. He remembered them all. He remembered them stifling their moans as he manipulated them into Nirvana and, in at least one case, far beyond.
The face of Tom Vernon, called "Thumper" for his incessant masturbation habit, popped into The Phantom's brain. Thumper, dear, sweet Thumper who had taken Roger "Two Strokes" Home down to the beach the night of the final beach party, and into a realm that Roger never really left.
As he watched, The Phantom saw Harry give Chris Hood a nudge with his elbow, and whisper something, which caused Chris to turn red! "Harry, you dog," The Phantom thought. Never changing Harry!
The Phantom wondered if Harry regaled his sons with tales of derring-do on the high seas, or told them of The Pride of the Fleet, and the Escorts. He also wondered if any of Harry's sons would one day sail, naked, along the Golden Coast, basking in the sun, and bragging about their upper deck fittings. The Phantom hoped so, for the sailing trip had been one step on the long road to what became the Band of Brothers, the Boys of Aurora, and the Knights of Aurora.
"The Knights of Aurora," The Phantom whispered. They were together again, each come from a different place, some with their sons, some with their lovers and partners. They had laughed again together, cried again together, loved again, together.
They were older now, men, but The Phantom's spirit soared. To him they were still the handsome, young, boys they had been thirty years ago, impetuous, spirited, uninhibited examples of budding manhood, their eyes bright as they faced the uncertain future. He remembered them as they sauntered about the old, now long gone barracks of HMCS Aurora, half-naked for the most part, laughing not at, but with, each other. He remembered the morning when Cory had charged into the Gunroom, flushed with satisfaction that Sean Anders had finally learned to make love, and angry with The Phantom for showing Sean, on a warm, sunlit, sandy beach, how to make love.
The Phantom quickly raised his copy of the Order of Service to hide his smile, for he also remembered how Cory's tirade had come to an abrupt, squeaking halt when Harry, who was lying on the bunk beneath The Phantom's, had reached out, shucked down Cory's gym shorts and . . .
"Damn," The Phantom thought, "Harry had been a lascivious, randy bugger!" He could not help adding as an afterthought: "But then, hadn't they all!"
Lowering the printed Order of Service, The Phantom saw Tyler and Val, who had found each other in the cubbyhole they occupied back in Aurora, which they glorified by calling it the Chiefs Mess, but smelled like they kept goats in it. He saw Mark and Tony, the two Americans who had pledged their love in the long, low, old stone Ropewalk. Chris Hood was here, Doctor Hood, and Head of Surgery at the Ottawa Memorial Hospital. Seated in small, gold chairs to the right of the Altar, and blocking the metal gates to St. Michael's Chantry, were the "Stranger Knights", Joe Hobbes, Gabe Izard, Logan Hartsfield and Laurence Howard, so-named because while they had been a part of the original crusade, they had not been "Boys of Aurora". Name after name seemed to trip off of The Phantom's silent tongue and then . . .
"All Save Two!"
The voice, formal, cold, and intimidating, echoed through The Phantom's brain. "All save two," he sighed. There were more, of course, but The Phantom knew what the Voice was telling him. Some of the boys who had been in Aurora, but never really a part of the Band of Brothers, had not come over "to the Dark Side", as Thumper had put it when he had told Two Strokes that their affair was at an end. Ryan Ponthiere had never chosen to recall the long nights spent in Linen Stores with Rob. Steve Lee and Stuart MacDuff had returned home, kept in touch, but never rekindled the fires that had blazed in them.
But the Voice was not talking about them. There were two that could have been, should have been part of the Band of Brothers. Both were dead.
The Phantom's head dropped slowly. One had refused because of misplaced pride and pique, but had died in a desperate attempt to return home, home to his brothers. The other, because of hatred and bigotry had died alone, refusing to make his peace with God, or man, unmourned, his funeral attended only by the priest who said the words over his coffin, the undertaker, and two grave diggers, strangers employed by the cemetery and paid to be there.
Still, both were remembered. The Phantom remembered them. He would always remember them.
Great Father of glory, pure Father of light, Thine angels adore thee, all veiling their sight, All laud we would render: O help us to see 'Tis only the splendour of light hideth thee.
The hymn came to an end, the congregation settled in their seats and Simon Keppel, Dean of the Chapter, dressed in a stiffly embroidered gold cope, stepped forward to begin the service. His voice, firm, filled with awe, spoke the words:
"Thou art brothers in the sight of God and ye shall take thy brothers and all that are like unto them, unto thy breasts and keep them safe, for they are Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee."
The Phantom did not hear them. Instead, he heard other words, words spoken in French, in a famous, flamboyant shrine raised to the glory of God, and to the veneration of the Blessed Virgin Mother.
"Receive the soul of they servant, Sylvain, Lord, into place among those whom Thou hast saved, which he hopes for from Thy Mercy."
Sylvain . . .
Here Ends "The Knights of Aurora"