"The Knights of Aurora" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2005 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.
My thanks to Peter, my editor, whose expertise and pithy comments help make my work better. My thanks also to those who write with comments. I try to reply to all my correspondents (and promise not to be too long-winded and stick to writing the book - okay, Nifty Reader?).
The Knights of Aurora
Chapter 5
Golden. It was the only word that Michael Chan could think of to describe what was, so far as he was concerned, a wonderful day. The sky overhead was a deep, clear blue, without a cloud to mar the pristine glory of it. The sun was hot but a cooling breeze from the mountains blew across the verdant lawns and set the tops of the trees that lined the brick wall that separated the grounds of the estate and the Crown Lands to waving gently. As he listened to the chatter and laughter of his guests, another word came to mind: Arthurian. Smiling to himself, Michael wondered if his love of the romance novels of Sir Walter Scott, novels of knights and ladies, and round tables, which he secretly read from time to time, had influenced his thinking.
As a realist, Michael knew that he in no way resembled King Arthur, and the "young gentlemen", as the Major insisted on calling the new knights and companions, were hardly Lancelots. Mind he did have a round table. Actually, he had a dozen of them, neatly arrayed along the length of the terrace, each glass-topped metal table decorated with flowers and the fine china and crystal that the Maestro considered proper for luncheon service.
A shout of outrage from the middle of the long, sweeping lawn drew Michael's attention and he nodded absently. Yes, Arthurian. He even had a court, of sorts, with knights and lackeys and even ladies! At a nearby table sat Mrs. Catherine Leveson-Arundel, Mrs. Mary Putnam Randolph, and Mrs. Mabell Airlie, sipping gin and tonics and charming Colin Arnott.
Michael's eyes scanned the back garden of his estate. The flowerbeds were in glorious bloom. The trees and shrubs had been trimmed. From the far side of the gardens, near the red brick, blank wall of Mews, where the Maestro had set up the huge, stainless steel barbecues, an errant gust of wind brought the aroma of cooking food: thick filets of the finest Aberdeen Angus beef, hamburgers ground and made in the basement kitchen by Ginger's own hands, chops, sausages, steaks cut from salmon fresh-caught that morning, and the finest Kosher hot dogs.
Beside the barbecues was a large, canvas pavilion. Inside, tables hung with fine linen held salads of every description, a seafood buffet that included whole salmon poached in white wine and herbs, lobster, scallops, Dungeness and Alaskan King crabs, and tray upon tray of fresh baked breads and rolls. As he watched, Michael saw yet another line of footmen, each bearing an immense silver tray on which rested . . . desserts, cream cakes, chocolate cakes, tarts filled with berries, cheesecakes and cookies of every description.
For Michael the day had been, thus far, an unqualified success. He had met the convoy of limousines, standing nervously on the front steps. As each knight approached, Michael held out his hand and welcomed him as his guest.
Michael had planned that the first hospitality offered to his guests would be a meet and greet, for all hands, in the drawing room. This would be a two-fold opportunity for the new knights to become acquainted with the protection officers, and for them to meet the small group of men, the Major, Laurence, Joe Hobbes, Gabe Izard and Pete Sheppard that he had come to regard as his "Council", his board of directors as it were, the men who helped him govern the Order.
The young knights were told not to worry about their luggage and were led into the house where in the drawing room footmen, in brass-buttoned tailcoats and red waistcoats, offered trays of lemonade and soft drinks, while under butlers, their tailcoats adorned with black braided epaulettes on the shoulders, and wearing black waistcoats with buff piping, passed coffee and tea.
The boys chatted and admired the display case containing the mascots of the "Lost Priories". Joe Hobbes, his adoring younger brother never far from his side, at least until Simon Keppel appeared in the doorway, circulated, as did Gabe and Joel. The Protection Officers were not in evidence, except for Logan, who stayed as close to Brian as he could. Michael, laughing and at ease, chatted with each knight, and thoroughly enjoyed himself in the bargain.
After perhaps half an hour the Twins left for their home in Clarence Square. They would be returning later. The rest of the young men were led upstairs and shown their bedrooms. Much to their surprise they found that the footmen assigned to look after them had emptied their kit bags and suitcases. They found that their gunshirts and clean underwear had been neatly folded and put away in the dressers, as had T-shirts and sports gear. In wardrobe or closet most of the boys found, hanging neatly on cloth-covered hangers, a dark suit, two freshly starched white shirts, a blazer and grey trousers. Mr. Leung, who had most of their measurements from his visit to the ship, and his assistants, had been busy. Sean, Phil Thornton, Eion Reilly, Peter Race, Calvin Hobbes, Simon Keppel, and Nate Schoenmann were taken to a small room in the under croft, where Mr. Leung waited to measure them for their new clothes.
Michael, or rather, the Maestro, had forgot nothing. In the baths adjoining each bedroom were large, soft bath towels, bars of scented Pears soaps, and new toothbrushes - they were young men, after all, and prone to forget things. On the dressing tables in the bedrooms were combs, hairbrushes, and a small tray containing more soft drinks and lemonade (for the younger boys), and carafes of whiskey, sherry and gin (Chef had casually mentioned that the Gunroom cadets enjoyed a wee dram of the day).
The boys also noticed that their laundry bags, which contained soiled gunshirts, dirty underpants and socks, and whatever other laundry they had, were nowhere in evidence. These had been carried down the back stairs to a laundry set up in the basement where a crew of chattering Oriental ladies washed, rinsed, starched and ironed sundry dozens of drawers and shorts. These would be returned later in the day, neatly folded and put away.
When the boys had changed into more casual clothing the Protection Officers, also changed so that they would "blend in", rejoined their charges. Everyone then piled into the cars for the trip downtown, for shopping. Michael had arranged for accounts to be set up at Eaton's, the Hudson's Bay store, and with the Gieves man. The young gentlemen would also make a stop at Birks & Sons, there to have their ring sizes recorded. As knights they would be given a ring and while there was a large store of the jewelled rings - when a knight died, his insignia ring was returned to the Order - new ones would be ordered if necessary.
With the boys gone, Michael met with Chef and the Major to finalize the details for the afternoon, and to discuss his plans for the next day. Chef, who was itching to satisfy his curiosity as to the competence of the catering staff, was quiescent for once, which led the Major to think that the old fool was gathering strength to do battle.
They had barely concluded their business when there came a discreet knock on the door. The butler entered and said as he presented a silver salver to Michael, "Sir Todd and Sir Cory Leveson-Arundel had returned, sir." He placed the tray on the desk in front of Michael. "And three ladies have arrived."
Michael picked up the first cream-coloured, deeply engraved visiting card. "Mrs. Catherine Leveson-Arundel," he read aloud. He picked up the second card, as cream as the first, but with a different engraved lettering. "Mrs. Mary Putnam Randolph and . . ." Michael waved the third card at Chef. "Mrs. Mabell Airlie!" A smile of delight spread across Michael's face. "What a delightful surprise!"
"I've taken the liberty of asking them to wait in the drawing room," advised the butler.
Rising from behind his desk, Michael gestured for Chef and the Major to accompany him. "Then we shall go to the drawing room," he said.
When the Twins had arrived at their home they had found their mother entertaining Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Airlie in the garden. Much to their surprise they also found Mrs. Randolph's nephew, Blake, sitting with the ladies. Blake, who was wearing full regimentals: kilt, dark wool doublet, and a Glengarry, had served as a bearer at a funeral for one of the regiment's Old Comrades and dropped by his aunt's house, as he always did when in Vancouver. Mrs. Randolph, who had been invited to her best friend's house for tea, and to view a new rose cutting Catherine had received from the greenhouses of Windsor, immediately sequestered her nephew.
Catherine was delighted to see her sons. "Cory, Todd," she ordered with a smile. "Come and give your old mummy a kiss!" she said as her sons appeared in the Garden Room doorway.
After bussing their mother's cheek the two young men sat down and greeted the other guests. After the usual male ritual of firm handshakes, Cory and Todd settled back. Blake, who was sitting beside Todd, leaned slightly forward as he reached for a slice of lemon for his tea, and glanced at Cory. Suddenly the sun seemed warmer, and the doublet he was wearing tighter.
Cory returned Blake's look and a soft smile formed on his lips. Blake was a handsome devil, very clean-cut, and possessed a delightful, unique scent. He and Blake had spent one afternoon together. Blake had been a virgin when he entered Clarence House. He had not been when he left.
Remembering that special afternoon, Blake's colour rose and his dark brown eyes brightened. He could feel a stirring under his sporran and quickly asked, "I see you've been promoted." He glanced at the Coat of Arms decorating the sleeves of each Twins' jumper. "Chief Petty Officers!"
Todd, whose knee was resting against Blake's, felt a slight tremble as Blake looked at Cory. "Yes," he said with a knowing grin. "I see you're still a corporal!"
"Um, yes," replied Blake as he began spooning sugar into his tea. "The Regiment's numbers are down so . . ."
"Blake, whatever is the matter with you?" demanded Mrs. Putnam. "You've enough sugar in there to kill you!"
"Sorry, Aunt Mary," was all Blake could manage.
Todd was tempted to change seats with his brother, but decided against it. He knew that Cory had discovered what was under Blake's kilt - the subject of one of their infamous brotherly spats, which Harry had managed to quell quite expertly. Smiling at the memory of what had happened in the Unwinding Room in the School of Wind, Todd decided it would be better to remain seated exactly where he was. Cory might be in love with Sean Anders, but Blake was an old flame, and sometimes Cory's eyes tended to rove. Sometimes Cory needed to be saved from himself.
"Where's Papa?" Todd asked, quickly changing the subject. "I was hoping he'd be here."
"Papa is busy at his office," replied Catherine. "He and your Uncle Louis are plotting something." She idly stirred her tea and looked fiercely at her "elder" son. "He refuses to tell me a thing!" she complained mildly.
Cory saw the look in his mother's eyes and thought, "Well, better stirring the tea than twirling the ring." He smiled winningly. Cory had a very good idea what his father and uncle were "plotting".
The silence of her sons spoke volumes to Catherine Arundel. She pushed her chair back and crooked her finger toward Cory and Todd. "Mary, will you and Mabell excuse us for a moment?" she asked.
"Of course, dear," replied Mary Randolph. She glanced at Mabell, whose shoulders formed a very small, ladylike shrug. Catherine had that look again. Mary turned to Blake. "Blake dear, if you can resist the temptations of the sugar bowl, would you play mother?" she asked, holding out her teacup and nodding toward the pot of tea.
Pete Sheppard used the absence of the young knights to good purpose. He walked the perimeter, and then patrolled the under croft. Everything was quiet for a change. He passed the laundry and watched as the ladies fed the industrial washing machines with laundry. He then walked on to the central control room where a much-chastened Private Frank Campbell monitored the CCTV cameras that dotted the estate. Frank's unfortunate tryst with the even more unfortunate Kuang Hsu was in the past. He had been reprimanded, demoted, and while the incident was never mentioned Frank knew that he was on probation, and worked hard to restore his tainted honour.
From the CCR Peter went to the Staff Canteen, a large, oblong, somewhat bare room. Here he found Ned Hadfield, who was sitting at the long dining table, nursing a cup of coffee.
After pouring a cup, Pete sat down at the table, opposite Ned. It was time for him to talk to the tall, lanky West Virginian. Pete had decided that the only way to talk to Ned was up front, with no pretence. Pete also suspected that much of Ned's dumb hick routine was an act. He had read Ned's service file. The man was no fool.
After thanking Ned for his hard work with the protection officer assignments, Pete said, "Ned, you quite rightly told me that I have not told you as much as I should. I think that now I shall." He slowly pushed away the cup of coffee in front of him and added, "I only ask that you try to understand certain things. I also ask that you keep what I tell you confidential."
Ned laughed dryly. "Y'know, y'all been hangin' around that Major fella too much. You sure do sound like him."
Pete returned Ned's laugh. "Yes, perhaps I am," he conceded. The smile left his face and he continued. "Ned, until quite recently you did not have a need to know about what went on here, in the big house. Your job was to guard the exterior of the estate, and I know you did that quite well."
Scratching his chin reflectively, Ned nodded. "Yeah, I did." Then he said sourly, "Except for that time that Lieutenant Howard and that Hartsfield fella bushwhacked us!"
"It happens," replied Pete without inflection. He knew that Ned felt embarrassed, but then being tied, naked, to a tree, would do that to a proud fightin' Marine. "I hope Stein and Peabody have got over that little episode."
"They're okay. I sorta made sure they were on the list to guard them young fellas, you know, to make up for what happened."
"You did well," complimented Pete sincerely. "You've managed to match up the right man with the right knight." Then he said, "One question, though. Why Grinchsten?"
Ned pursed his lips. "Why did I match him up with that fella the other boys call The Phantom?" At Pete's nod, Ned continued. "Now that was funny. I was lookin' at the list of names and I saw The Phantom's name and well, 'Grinchsten' just popped into my head. I can't explain it."
"He's a good soldier," temporized Pete. "But too quiet."
"He's got baggage, Cap," returned Ned. "Alex is, well, he ain't got over what happened in Nam. He won't talk about it." He looked quickly around the empty room, and then leaned forward. "You know him and me, we share a cabin in the village?" Ned's voice was very low. "Sometimes, at night, I hear him. He's . . . well, he has nightmares, I think. Sometimes he's cryin' like a baby."
"It was a bad time for all of us, Ned," said Pete softly. "We all have baggage from the shit hole!"
"Yeah," Ned agreed. Then he blurted, "I wanted to . . . you know, sorta just crawl in with him and hold him." His shoulders sagged. "But I didn't." Suddenly, a tear rolled down Ned's cheek. "I shoulda, Cap, I shoulda."
Pete reached out and placed his hand over Ned's, giving it a squeeze. "Sometimes, Ned, all it takes it the touch of another human," Pete said sympathetically.
Quickly wiping the tears from his eyes - it wasn't "manly" to cry - Ned gave his superior a probing look. "You been there, ain't ya." He had not asked a question.
"Let's just say that I know what you were going through," replied Pete, deliberately procrastinating. He thought a moment. He had overheard the Major and Michael talking once or twice about the character of the boy they called The Phantom. "Ned, I think you made the right choice in assigning Alex to The Phantom." He pushed back his chair and gave Ned a long, direct look.
"Ned, you're a good guy, and you've been around. You're smarter than you let on, and you left behind a lot of . . . prejudices back in Nam." Pete smiled ruefully. "We all did."
Ned nodded slowly. "We had to," he said. "We were too busy hatin' Charlie. We didn't have time to hate each other!"
"True," agreed Pete almost absently. "Ned, I brought you into the big house because I feel, no, I know that I can trust you. You are not, as I've said, the big hillbilly you'd like me, and the others, to think you are. You've been around, and you understand that sometimes things are not what they seem to be."
"It don't bother me none if Michael Chan is some bigwig Chinese gangster," Ned drawled. "You're right. I ain't stupid, and I hear things, and see things." He shrugged. "They pay me to guard this place. Where the money comes from ain't my concern. Mr. Chan is an okay guy. Some of the things he does might not pass muster with the local Sheriff, but hell, back home, a lot of the things we did woulda had us spendin' time in the local klink." He smiled at a happy memory.
"My daddy, hell, he made the best 'shine in the county." Then he frowned. "But for that 'shine, we wouldn'ta had britches on our asses, or grits on the table. The only time we had meat was iffen Daddy went out and shot it, which was agin' the law, except durin' huntin' season, and then ya needed a license." Ned snorted. "Hell, nobody had money for a fuckin' huntin' license."
Pete was well acquainted with the grinding poverty that existed in the hill country of West Virginia. Many people were hard up there, and dirt poor. "Is that why you joined up?" he asked Ned.
"Had to, Cap. We had no money, no land to speak of. My momma was wore out from havin' kids and daddy, well, daddy, iffen the black lung didn't get 'im, the 'shine surely woulda. When ya got a passle of little critters lookin' at ya for some food, well, ya gotta do what ya gotta do." Ned looked at Pete. "When the war ended, and I got shipped home, I was worried about how I was gonna be able to keep sendin' my momma some money. I coulda re-upped, I suppose, but hell, Cap, the army, the marines, they wasn't the same anymore."
Pete nodded. "Drugs, booze, no discipline. It was a bad time." His eyes grew hard. "It's still a bad time."
"The fight had gone out of most of 'em," agreed Ned. "The officers, they was too afraid to spit! Hell, even the MPs wouldn't go into the barracks! If you was white the coloureds would get onto you! If you was coloured, the rednecks would make sure you were a good little coloured boy! Hell, Cap, it was bad! We suddenly become a bunch of dawgs lyin' in the sun! The guv-ment, the Washin'ton trash, they sold us out! The politicians, they was runnin' around with their tails tucked betwixt their legs and listenin' to that traitor bitch Fonda and the rest of the white trash cowards in the Senate!"
Ned's eyes flashed angrily. "We weren't Americans! We were cowards! We ran, Cap! We ran because a whole bunch of Americans hated their own country! The peaceniks parade around, beating drums and waving banners and . . ." Slumping dejectedly, Ned shook his head. "I hate them, Cap. May God damn them to a special hell for traitors!" He raised sad, haunted eyes to look at his Captain. "My own people betrayed me, Cap. They betrayed their own sons! I will never forgive them. Never!"
Pete, who noticed that Ned had dropped the "aw-shucks-I'm-just-a-country-boy" routine, could only nod. He felt much the same way. "Is that why you came to Canada?" he asked Ned.
"Yeah. I sorta drifted for a while, and then I met up with a guy I knew, and he told me that the old Top Sergeant was looking for some men to be security guards for some rich guy up here in Canada. I got in touch with Top and he sent me up here." Ned's body relaxed. "The money is good, Cap, and I won't deny it, but you know what, the man I work for is better. I stay here because Michael Chan is a man I can respect. He doesn't take crap from anyone, and yes, I know all about the gambling, and the loan sharking, and the smuggling. I don't know why we're looking after a whole passle of little boys, but if Michael Chan says it's what's to be done, then I'll do it."
"Michael has your loyalty, then?" asked Pete.
"Yes."
Pete nodded and then spoke quietly. "Ned, we are not 'looking after a passle of little boys'. We are in service to them, as Knights of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre."
"The what?" Ned replied with a gasp.
"It is an order of Knights, Ned." Pete leaned forward to emphasize his next statement. "Real knights, Ned. They might be young, but they are dedicated, a Band of Brothers if you will."
Ned leaned back in his chair. "Tell me?" he asked.
When Pete finished speaking, Ned asked. "Is Michael Chan . . . is he a . . . is he . . ."
"He sleeps alone," said Pete, not waiting for Ned to ask if Michael were homosexual. "So far as I know he's not taken anyone to his bed." He regarded Ned. "Would it bother you if he did?"
Much to Pete's surprise, for he thought Ned a product of the no-nonsense, hide-bound, Bible-thumping, evangelical hills, Ned shook his head and spoke one word: "Nope."
"I'm surprised," said Pete honestly. "You, well, you come from a culture that hardly approves of the gay, or homosexual, lifestyle. And you do know that many of the knights are gay?"
"Figured," was Ned's blunt reply.
Pete chuckled, not quite sarcastically. "To be honest, I half expected you to start quoting Leviticus!" He looked at Ned. "The Bible, you know?"
Ned grimaced. "I never read it, and I let every word of the Rev'rend's sermons go in one ear and out the other. I was too busy worrying about how I was going to get some shoes to wear to school or where I was goin' to find some new drawers to wear 'cause there was a hole in the ass of my overalls and my hairy butt was hangin' out! I didn't have time to listen to some old fool of a bigot." Then Ned smiled. "And I figger a man better not judge another fella, 'specially if he was doin' somethin' the same."
His eyes growing wide, Pete asked, "The Reverend?"
Laughing, Ned shook his head. "Hell no! Me!"
If it were possible, Pete's eyes grew wider. "You . . . you mean you . . .?" he managed to sputter once he his mind had registered what Ned was saying.
"Remember, y'all said that sometimes all it takes is the touch of another human man?" Ned asked, his face calm, his eyes clear.
"Yes."
"Where I come from there's two kind of folks, them as has some land, some money, and them that don't," said Ned. "Most of the folks in town was poorer than a Saigon beggar. The mines was closed, the land wasn't fit to grow dirt. Most of us lived on what the County give us - welfare - and I cain't tell you how many times we had nothin' in house but grits and turnip greens!"
Pete wondered where Ned was going, but said nothing.
"There was one family in town, they had money. They owned the local store, and the gas station, and the hardware. Hell, they owned most of the town!" Ned shook his head. "Most folks hated 'em 'cause they owed most of their welfare cheques to the store. Folks hated 'em cause they had inside toilets, and wore nice clothes." Ned's eyes lowered. "But a lot of folks hated 'em 'cause the boy of the family, he was . . ." Ned held out his arm and let his hand dangle limply. "You get my meanin'?"
"I do."
"Y'know, Cap, folks is strange," opined Ned. "Now, Lucas - that was his name - was swishy, and he talked like a girl sometime, and he always had on nice clothes, and a tie! Hell, most of us we had nothin' but bib overalls and runnin' shoes, and here was Lucas paradin' around in a tie!"
Pete considered the hardscrabble life Ned had lived. "The other boys must have made his life hell!"
"Oh, they did, for a while." Ned's face fell slightly. "Includin' me, and that was wrong, Cap. He couldn't help bein' what he was. Okay, he was a bitch when he put his mind to it, but hell, I sorta think that gettin' called 'queer' and 'fag' and 'bone blower' will make a guy bitchy. I sorta felt sorry for him 'cause he never did nothin' to nobody that I knew of. He kep' to hisself, an' didn't bother nobody at all."
"Obviously something happened," remarked Pete.
Laughing quietly, Ned nodded. "My brother and me, we was walkin' past his house one day. I forget where we was acomin' from, but anyway, Lucas, he was settin' on his own porch, mindin' his own business, readin' a book . . ."
Pete could not help interrupting. "It's amazing how you manage to turn that country boy act on and off," he said.
"Old habit," replied Ned. "Sometimes it pays to pretend to be a dumb as post, with no learnin'." He did not elaborate further, and went on. "Anyway, as we was . . . were . . . passing Lucas' house, my brother said something, called him a fag, or something. Well, I'm here to tell you, we got the surprise of all time because old Lucas he let out one hell of a yell and came down off that porch, fists a'flyin'. I guess some of the other guys had given him a hard time earlier and he was fightin' mad. He lay into my brother and then me, because I was dumb enough to think I should help my brother."
"He whupped you both?" asked Pete, pleased that yet another stereotype had been shattered.
"Shore did," said Ned, lapsing back into a hillbilly twang. "He whupped our asses good and made us say 'sorry', which we did. Then he did somethin' that surprised us even more."
"What was that?"
"He brought us into his house and gave us milk, fresh milk, from a cow, and not a can, and cake. I recall it was a white cake."
"He wasn't as bad as you thought, then?"
"Nope. All he wanted was a friend. He didn't wanta fight us, but he would if he had too." Ned looked at Pete. "In the hills, you grow up fast, and you learn to defend what's yours, with your fists, or your gun. Lucas was no pussy, Cap. He could fight, and I respected him for that."
"You became friends?"
"Yep. Oh, not for a while, but eventually, yes, we became friends. My brother, he wouldn't go back, but I did. I'm not sorry I did, just as I'm not sorry for what happened."
"What did happen?"
"Cap, Lucas lived in a whole different world from me and mine. His house had a solid roof. He had his own bed, in his own room! His momma had a coloured lady to cook and a coloured girl to do the cleaning! Hell, I never thought a life like that existed."
"I can see where you would want to be his friend," ventured Pete.
Ned shook his head firmly. "It wasn't like that. Oh, I sure did enjoy the food, and the house, but what he had wasn't why I went back. Lucas liked me for me! He wouldn't let me 'talk country', made me speak properly. He had books, a whole library of books, and he made me read them! He even tried to teach me how to play the piano, but that didn't work." Ned smiled, remembering. "Lucas could play! Man, could he play, classics, rag, the whole bag of tricks. I could sit and listen to him play for hours!"
"Ned, did it ever occur to you that he might want to . . .?"
"Captain, I wasn't stupid. I figured that sooner or later he'd put the moves on me. He didn't, at least not for a long time."
"But he did, didn't he?"
Surprisingly, Ned shook his head. "Nope. I made the move, not him."
"Really?"
"Really. I knew that Lucas liked me, liked me a lot, and I figured that he was falling in love with me. I wasn't too sure what I would do when he made his move, which I was sure he was going to do. But, like I said, he didn't. He was just Lucas. We liked each other, and he taught me a lot. I took him to my favourite fishing hole, and he liked that. We read books together, we tossed a ball around together, hell, we even went skinny-dipping together, which was when I thought he'd try something."
"He didn't?"
"Nope. There we were, naked as jaybirds, and he didn't try a thing. He looked, but then, he couldn't help looking, and I looked, too, so fair was fair. In the end we ended up lying in the sun and I listened to him explain why some guys were different down there, clipped, like he was and I wasn't. I'd never seen a dick like his - all I had to go by was my own, and my brothers'. Anyway, that's what happened . . . then."
"But you did, eventually," said Pete.
"Yeah. We were alone in his house one Saturday afternoon. His momma was out, shopping, and his daddy was at the store and we were up in his room. That wasn't something strange or anything. We usually ended up in his room. We were sitting on the bed, and he was telling me about how he wanted to go to college, had one all picked out, and how much he was looking forward to going. He said that he hated the town we lived in, and that his only regret would be leaving me. He told me that I was the only friend he had, that he hoped I could get away too, because he loved me. Then he kissed me. On the cheek."
"On the cheek?" asked Pete. "Hardly an expression of unbridled passion!"
Ned laughed and pointed to the middle of his right cheek. "Kissed me right here. Then he cringed away and started to say how sorry he was for kissing me. He'd wanted to do that for a long time but he didn't want me to freeze him, or beat him up. He asked me to forgive him."
"Did you?"
"I did more than that," declared Ned with a smile. "I grabbed him, and I kissed him! On the lips and I thought he'd faint." He shrugged. "Then we sort of let nature take its course."
"You became . . . lovers?"
"We became lovers," confirmed Ned with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "But more important, we stayed friends. He needed a friend, Cap, not somebody to plant him and then walk away. He needed somebody to make him feel that he meant something, that what he was . . . was okay, you know?" Pete nodded. "All Luke needed was somebody to hold him, to make him feel wanted. For all his life he'd been put down, and called names. He needed what you called the touch of another human man."
"There was the sex," Pete pointed out.
"That was something special, between us," replied Ned stoutly. "He wanted it, I wanted it. I ain't ashamed of being with Lucas, no way, no how. I was his first, and that made me special to him." Ned smiled and shook his head. "And ya know what? I would still have loved him, without the sex I mean. He was my friend, and I liked him as my friend."
"So what happened?"
Ned shrugged ruefully. "He went to Yale, I went to Vietnam. When I got I back I went home and talked to Lucas' momma. She said he was living in New York. She seemed kind of embarrassed. I got the impression he was living with somebody."
"That didn't bother you?" asked Pete.
"Nope. I was there when he needed me. That's all that was important. I hope he found someone to hold him when he needs it." Ned frowned. "I should have gone to Grinchsten."
Pete rose slowly from the table and smiled at Ned. "I think you'll do exactly that, the next time." He held out his hand. "You understand, Ned, about he boys. They're all about love, and being there when someone needs them."
Ned shook Pete's hand. "Yeah, Cap, I do understand. Maybe more than you'll ever know."
"When you're ready, Ned," said Pete, letting go of Ned's hand. "When you're ready," he repeated as he opened the door and left the lunchroom.
"I do not understand this . . . conspiracy of silence!" Catherine Arundel said to her sons. They were sitting in the Morning Room, surrounded by the sunlight that poured through the windows. She had led the Twins inside the house, away from prying ears, and was now demanding, in as ladylike a way as possible, to know what was going on!
"Mummy, it's not what you think," counted Todd.
"There is no 'conspiracy' of silence," said Cory.
"Oh, really?" snapped their mother. "Then why will your father not say anything and why are you two, who have never kept a secret in your lives . . ." Her tone implied that if they did not start talking their lives would not get too much longer.
"Mummy, we can't tell you . . ." pleaded Todd. "Please try to understand!"
"I would understand if someone told me what is going on!" rejoined Mrs. Arundel.
"Mummy, it's a 'guy thing'," blurted Cory.
A look of astonishment came over Mrs. Arundel's face. "A what?"
"He means, um, well, we're knights now, Mummy, and we can't betray the secrets of the Order, not even to you," said Todd hastily. He gave Cory a black look, thinking, "Idiot!"
"That is not what Cory said!" responded Mrs. Arundel. She saw the Twins exchange a look, no doubt willing each other to silence. "As for the Order, I was privy to its secrets, or at least some of them, when you two were still in diapers and drooling!"
"Cory still drools," said Todd in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.
"I do not!" flared Cory. "You shouldn't talk!"
Mrs. Arundel held up her hand. He looked balefully at her sons. "Oh, no you don't. It's not going to work!" She stood up. "I know you two far too well. One insults the other and in the ensuing confusion and caterwauling you think I'll forget all about what I wanted!" She walked briskly to the door leading to the garden. "Well, my dear sons, I have news. If you will not tell me what is going on, I know someone who will!"
"Oh, shit!" muttered Cory.
They could hear their mother's voice drifting in from the garden. "Blake, dear, are you doing anything this afternoon?"
"Um, no, ma'am," came Blake's reply.
"Good. I shall need you to accompany your Aunt, and Mabell, and myself."
"Okay, I guess."
"Where are we going?" asked Mary Randolph.
"Why, we are going to visit Michael Chan," said Catherine, raising her voice slightly to make certain that her sons heard. "We must show him the new cutting."
"We're screwed," mumbled Todd.
"Michael won't tell her anything?" said Cory. Then he looked at his brother. "Will he?"
Michael, with Chef and the Major trailing, hurried to the drawing room where he greeted the ladies effusively. He then offered tea. Mrs. Randolph opted for a gin and tonic. Michael saw the sombre look of the Twins and their darting glances at their mother who gently brushed aside Michael's expressions of thanks for her help in obtaining the services of the Maestro. The Major, as he always was when the Twins were on the premises, was wary.
Rather than sit indoors, Michael led the party to the back terrace where they inspected the array of round tables glittering with the finest linen, china, crystal and silver. There they chatted amicably for a while. Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Airlie went off to inspect the flowers in the beds that lined the walls on either side; Chef, with the Major, went off to complain about the food being prepared in the barbecues and pavilion set up by the Mews wall. The Twins fidgeted, which Michael surmised was because their friends were off shopping. Blake Putnam, his kilt carefully folded between his legs, drank a beer. Catherine waxed lyrical about the latest rose bush sent to her. It was, she declared, a wonderful gift and still unnamed. The flowers would bloom into lavender and gold roses, eventually, and she needed Michael's advice. She would, of course, send him a cutting when the bush grew larger. The Twins, having politely declined the use of a car to take them into Vancouver to join their peers, and darting daggers at their mother, retired into the house to change into something more comfortable.
When the Twins returned to the terrace, dreading Michael's reaction to their mother's probing questions, were surprised to see the ladies and Michael gathered in the canvas pavilion, listening to Chef extolling the culinary expertise of Ginger, the cook, and sampling the food that would be offered at luncheon.
"Mummy hasn't said a word," observed Cory as he stood on the terrace shading his eyes with his hand.
"She will," replied Todd gloomily as they descended the steps to the garden.
What the Twins did not know was that Catherine Leveson-Arundel would never pry into Michael Chan's business. The Phantom, however, was an entirely different fish.
As he watched the young men, and listened to the idle chatter of the ladies, the Arthurian Metaphor returned to Michael. Sitting with him were The Phantom, and Colin, the one a not-yet-proclaimed True Prince of the Order, and the Paladin. Nearby, trying to be unobtrusive, Alex Grinchsten, and Hank Peabody seemed to be lounging comfortably, their eyes darting about, surveying the scene, and never moving too far from their principals. On the lawn, with the usual shouting, yelling, and name calling associated with boys at play, there was even a joust of sorts in progress.
Harry had organized a soccer game, dragooning as many of the cadets as could be cajoled, threatened and bribed into two teams: skins and shirts. Not all of the young men felt like exerting themselves and, with Joey and Randy in tow, Harry had press-ganged four of the footmen, two to a side, and Blake Putnam. Pat Ives, whose association with English Football was limited to watching the World Cup matches on television, and Ned Hadfield, who claimed he didn't know that the English had their own version of the game, were named linesmen.
There was even a Court Jester: The Major, who claimed that he had coached more winning teams than there were players, had appointed himself Chief Official. Those cadets who had no desire to play wandered about, doing justice to the buffet, or sitting on the sidelines, kibitzing and generally raising hell at the ineptitude of the players. Fred, in keeping with tradition, sat with his back against the terrace, lackadaisically commenting on the play to Nathan, and sipping a Pimm's.
The game had proved interesting, if nothing else. The Twins, on opposite teams, had held up play by holding a most satisfying domestic. Cory claimed that Todd had fouled him. Todd retorted that Cory was foul. Their resulting contretemps, while resulting in no lasting injuries, had earned them a five-minute suspension. Blake Putnam, who had stripped off his doublet and singlet, and playing for Todd's team, had scored a spectacular goal, deeking out Harry, and at the same time showing anyone who was watching exactly what a Scotsman did not wear under his kilt. Michael ignored the admiring gasps, and smiled at Mary Randolph's comment that she had not seen that since Blake was three, and that he took after his father!
As Michael watched the match developed into what looked like a mob scene. The Major, with Pat and Hank at his side, broke up the scrum and one of the footmen (a skin) was helped, limping, toward the house. Nicholas began a shouting match with the Major, who red-carded him for insubordination, inappropriate language and conduct unbecoming a Knight of the Order, which everybody thought he had made up just for the hell of it.
As Nicholas stomped from the field of battle, calling the Major some very uncomplimentary names under his breath, a red-haired predator streaked across the smooth lawn, heading for the terrace. Harry had set Randy on the hunt for replacement players.
Screeching to a halt at the bottom of the steps, Randy spotted The Phantom, and Colin. "Come and play," he ordered, his thin chest heaving as he breathed deeply. "We need you."
"I'll pass, Randy," said The Phantom with a smile. "I'm talking with Mr. Michael."
"I play hockey," growled Colin, fixing his eye on Randy, who grimaced and looked around. "Grinchy!" he shouted. "Hank!"
Behind The Phantom, Alex Grinchsten cringed inwardly. Why in the hell Dr. Seuss had to call his character "The Grinch" Alex did not know. He regarded Randy, who along with Joey and Calvin and Simon had made it their business to get to know all the protection officers, and smiled. "Sorry, I can't. I'm on duty."
Hank, who had no desire to offer his body on the altar of soccer, also declined.
"But we need you," Randy whined. "Come on, Grinchy."
Laughing at Randy's youthful familiarity, The Phantom beckoned for Alex to come alongside. "Go ahead," he said. "Colin is here, so you go and have some fun."
"Yes, go ahead, Sergeant," Michael said, smiling. He waved his arm, indicating the perimeter wall, which was being patrolled by pairs of men. "We're quite safe. Take Sergeant Peabody with you."
Alex hesitated but The Phantom insisted, and Michael's words, while soft, had the force of a command. Before Alex walked away The Phantom pulled him closer and whispered in his ear, "Boxers or briefs?"
Alex started. "Pardon?"
Glancing at Alex's baggy shorts, The Phantom warned seriously. "Don't let them get their hands up your shorts!"
As Alex, bewildered at The Phantom's laughing remark, walked down the steps to join the fray, The Phantom whispered the story to Colin and Michael of what had happened in the motel pool when the cadets had last been in Vancouver. He had just come to the point in his story, describing the looks on the faces of the busload of Japanese tourists that was passing when Todd had leaped, porpoise-like from the depths, when the butler announced the arrival of Doctor Bradley-Smith.
The doctor, looking hot and flustered, began apologizing for his late arrival - there had been a problem with the ferry coming over from the Island, and for some reason the traffic in Vancouver was close to gridlock. Michael brushed aside Daniel's apologies. He was here and that was all that mattered. He offered the doctor a chair, and a drink.
The Phantom, who had met Daniel the day before, was polite, as he always was. He listened as Daniel chattered away, not really paying the man too much attention. Daniel was a knight and while not yet a friend, his status in the Order, demanded a modicum of respect.
Telling himself that he was completely neutral - he neither liked nor disliked the young doctor - The Phantom watched as Daniel held court. The Phantom, while trying not to prejudge, found himself focusing on some annoying little quirks of Daniel's. The doctor was, well, the only word The Phantom could think of, swishy. This in itself was not too unsettling. Fred, especially when Nathan was about, had a tendency to hang off of the young American, but Fred kept his impulses and obvious love for Nathan under control. And he kept his hands to himself. Daniel was a touchy-feely type, always never failing to rest a hand lightly on Colin's knee when he made a point about something, or a gentle tap on Michael's wrist. Daniel was just a touch too effusive, too hail-fellow-well-met for The Phantom's taste.
Then there were Daniel's eyes. They never seemed to focus for any length of time on one subject. As The Phantom watched, Daniel scanned the lawns, his eyes taking in first Harry, then Mark, then Mike, all large, well-muscled young men. When Blake Putnam ran toward the house, chasing the soccer ball, Daniel's eyes flamed with palpable lust. Blake was as large as Harry, as muscular as Mike, and his sweat-streaked chest seemed to ooze . . . maleness. Then, when Pete Sheppard, on his rounds, walked out of the house Daniel's eyes filled with a look The Phantom knew well. He had seen it when he looked in the mirror before one of his forays onto Heron Spit, one of his raids on the treasure houses of HMCS Aurora. Lust. Unadulterated lust, reinforced by a slight, barely seen lick of Daniel's lips.
The Phantom dismissed the evil thoughts from his mind. So the doctor was gay, and wanted to jump somebody's bones. The Phantom reasoned that he should have expected Daniel to be gay. After all, the Order was composed of gay men, for the most part. But there was something else, something The Phantom could not quite put his finger on.
Since befriending the cadets of Aurora, and meeting Colin and Michael and Alex and Hank, The Phantom had become aware that he had an almost immediate affinity, a bond, with each of them, and with all the others. A feeling would come over him and he knew at once that a bond had been formed between them. The Phantom knew at once which young man would be a part of him, and he a part of the young man. That had not happened with Jeff Jenson, the handsome, all but overpowering sexy object of The Phantom's nighttime fantasies. It had not happened with Robbie, Jeff's younger brother. It had not happened with Sam, his first "best friend" and frequent jerk off partner. The feeling had not been as strong with Sylvain, but Sylvain was a part of him. The Phantom never doubted that.
Sighing, The Phantom came to think that while Daniel Bradley-Smith was a part of the Order, he would never share The Phantom's life as a friend and brother.
Then The Phantom noticed it. A shadow crossed his face. Why, he asked himself, was Daniel paying so much attention to the patrolling guards? There was no danger, or none that The Phantom could see, and there were more than enough armed protection officers about. Daniel seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to the security of the estate. And why did he look at his watch every time a patrol passed?
The Phantom refused to believe that Daniel was doing anything more than plotting to get someone, Pete Sheppard, perhaps one of the patrolling guards, into his bed. But . . .
Michael Chan's eyes seemed to be focused on his guests. His face was placid, his lips formed into a small, satisfied smile, the look of a man who had done well by his friends. Michael's eyes might seem still, but he missed nothing. He caught the look in The Phantom's eyes and knew that something was wrong. He maintained his composure, however, and waited. He was a master of waiting patiently for a scene, an incident, to unfold.
Michael's chance came when Daniel rose from the table. He had not met the ladies, and expressed a wish to do so. He also wanted to test the buffet, which smelled wonderful, and wanted to have a bite before "the kids" ate everything!
Leaning forward, Michael addressed Colin. "I wonder if you might be kind enough to do the honours," he asked, his voice low. He glanced toward the table where Mrs. Arundel and her companions were sitting.
Colin saw something in Michael's eyes that told him that Michael wanted to be alone with The Phantom. He also had an unsettled feeling deep in his gut. Unlike The Phantom, Colin had formed an opinion of the doctor. Colin distrusted Daniel Bradley-Smith. Every instinct told him that the doctor was a slime ball, and sent warning signals echoing through his mind. He did not care for Doctor Bradley-Smith, not at all.
Standing, Colin looked at The Phantom, who smiled fondly at him, and nodded. "Yes, Colin, you need a break as well," The Phantom said quietly. His eyes darted to Daniel, and then back at Colin. "I'll just spin a dip for Mr. Michael." The Phantom's smile was frosty, but not directed at Colin.
Much against his will Colin's inborn manners came to the fore and he smiled at Daniel, and gestured toward the buffet tent. "Sure. I'm hungry and there's a lobster salad."
The Phantom rolled his eyes at Colin and then glowered as Daniel placed his hand on Colin's elbow. "Yes, I'm famished," the doctor said. "But first we'll join the ladies."
Michael waited until Colin and Daniel were out of earshot. He regarded The Phantom carefully and then asked, "Something is wrong?"
The Phantom shrugged. "A feeling, nothing more."
"Do you trust your feelings?" asked Michael.
"I must," replied The Phantom. He regarded Michael a moment. "They are all I have to go on, really." He waved his arm slightly toward the soccer players. "When I first came to Heron Spit, to Aurora, I did not know any of them, really. To them I was just a galley wallah - I washed dishes, cleaned the floors, and so on."
"A non-entity, a cipher," agreed Michael. His eyes softened. "But that all changed, did it not?"
"Yes. It changed. I came to know them, and they came to know me," replied The Phantom. His emerald eyes grew bright. "Somehow, some way, we became . . . brothers." Once again he looked at the soccer players. "Please do not ask me to explain how that happened." He laughed a low, almost rough, chuckle. "I don't even understand it myself!"
Michael thought a moment. "You have accepted their love, their bonding, though," he said presently.
"Yes. Peter Race - he's the skinny git with the dark hair about to get his butt kicked if he doesn't look out . . ."
On the field Peter was racing toward the goal when Blake and Joey sideswiped him and rang him for six. The Major began to blow his whistle frantically and confusion broke out.
"I hope he's not hurt," observed Michael. He shaded his eyes and then nodded. "No. He's on his feet." He smiled. "Obviously none the worse."
"He's tough," replied The Phantom absently. "They're all tough."
"So it would seem," agreed Michael. "You were saying . . . about Peter?"
"When we were flying down he and I talked," said The Phantom. "I was wondering how, and why I became their - I suppose you can call it their leader. I asked myself, 'Why me?' and Peter answered."
Cocking his head slightly, Michael spoke quietly. "Accept what you cannot understand."
"You know?" asked The Phantom, his eyes wide.
Shaking his head, Michael replied, "I guessed. I long ago gave up trying to understand why men give their love and friendship to other men. They do not give it lightly, but when they do they give it forever." He reached out and gave The Phantom's hand a pat. "You are fortunate, my dear Phantom. You have the love and respect of so many. Not many men can claim that." He looked fierce a moment, and then added. "Not even I."
"You have my friendship," declared The Phantom firmly. "You are a part of the Tapestry! You can't get away from that!"
For several long minutes Michael remained silent. "I was a part of your . . . dream?" he asked presently, not quite believing that The Phantom could, or would, have see him as a part of the wonderful Tapestry the young man was weaving.
The Phantom did not hesitate. "You were a part of my dream, yes. And others." He looked quizzical for a time and then continued, "Some of the faces were clear, bright with colours. Others were hazy. I could see the outlines, their basic features, but no detail. It was if the colour of their lives had yet to be added." He looked around, his eyes resting on Alex, on Ned, on several of the other protection officers. "I think that some of the men you set to guard us are also a part of my dream. I can't be sure, but I think so."
Michael had noticed that when The Phantom's eyes had rested for a second, on Doctor Bradley-Smith that the shadow had returned to his face. "Were there others?" he probed quietly.
"There were formless shapes, many formless shapes, fiends in black, without faces. There were others, too, that seemed to be bright, and then faded." He looked pleadingly at Michael. "I can't explain that, either." The Phantom shuddered slightly. "There was another, a horrible creature who . . ." He stopped speaking abruptly.
"The boy they called 'Little Big Man'," thought Michael to himself. "The Archfiend, the enemy above all others," he suggested.
"I suppose so," agreed The Phantom. Then he added, his voice tinged with sadness, "I hurt him." He held up a hand. "Not physically. I showed him his true self. Sometimes I wonder if what I did was the right thing. I wonder if perhaps . . ."
Michael's voice was knifelike. "You did what you felt was necessary! He was not only your enemy, but also the enemy of your dearest friends. He would have destroyed you, the Twins, all of the young men whom you selected as friends and brothers, in a moment. He would have done it gleefully, without remorse, and without so much as a pang of conscience."
The Phantom looked askance and blurted. "You know!" Then he frowned. "Chef has been blabbering, again!"
"Do not look so disappointed," returned Michael mildly. "Chef is my friend, and my Counsellor. He is also the Proctor." Then Michael leaned forward. "He loves you, my young Phantom. He does not show it often, but there is true love in his face when he speaks of you. When he discovered that you were to be the Principum of the Order, he acted and made it his business to find out everything he could about you, about how you interact with the others."
The Phantom laughed ruefully. "How could he know? When he wasn't calling me names he was threatening me with a cleaver!"
"A façade, a veneer, a wall separating his true feelings from the reality he felt," responded Michael. "Chef is a man who understands other men. He is, one admits, at times impulsive. But his instincts are never wrong." Michael spread his hands slightly. "He did not choose you, Phantom. In a way, you chose him." Michael smiled warmly. "And if it is any consolation, Chef did not tell me everything. He did not go into details. I only know that you risked everything to save your friends."
"Hardly everything," replied The Phantom. He snickered. "There really wasn't all that much to risk."
"I disagree," snapped Michael. "If your actions had been revealed you would have become a pariah. Your family would have disowned you. Many of the cadets would have abandoned you."
"Not the Twins! Not Harry, not the boys here!" The Phantom's eyes flared with righteous anger. "They would have understood! They would have stood by me. They would . . ."
" . . . Have never betrayed you," completed Michael. "They have given you their loyalty because they know the true Phantom Lascelles. He would never betray them, and would, if necessary, die for them." His dark eyes bore into The Phantom. "As they would for you."
A far-away look came into Michael's eyes. "Phantom, you have the advantage of me. When I was your age, younger in fact, I was chosen to succeed my uncle." His stare into The Phantom's eyes was level. "You know what I do?"
Nodding, The Phantom replied. "Some of it, yes," he said carefully. "The Gunner told me a little, and the Twins told me a little." He shrugged. "My father, who is a cop, might object to you being my friend. I don't. What you do is your business and besides . . ." Here The Phantom reached out to touch Michael's arm. "The work you do for the Order far outweighs anything you might do in your 'private' business."
"Phantom, it is the nature of my 'private' business to make enemies," Michael replied flatly. "It is also the nature of the Order, which I am determined to change, and to lead down a different path, to make enemies. I think you should be aware of the dangers I, as the 'Serenity', and as Grand Master of the Order, face."
The Phantom's eyes took in the patrolling guards and protection officers. "I can well understand that there will be dangers," he said.
"The guards are not for me," said Michael. "A man in my position must exercise caution. He must also be very circumspect and very careful in whom he chooses to associate with. The men who would hate me, and they include my so-called business partners, and knights who cannot agree with my plans for the Order, will do anything to bring me down."
He saw the questioning look on The Phantom's face and continued quietly. "I never married, never drew other men close to me because my enemies would use my wife, or my children, or my friends, to find a breach in my defences, to bring me down." He sighed heavily. "I am estranged from my family - and the bulk of them live over that wall . . ." he pointed at the ancient-looking red brick wall separating his estate from his family's Regency pile. "I have cousins, many cousins, any one of whom would gladly follow my lead. Yet I cannot bring them into the business. I cannot visit the danger I live with on them."
"So rather than hold them close, rather than draw on their strength, on their love, you choose to live a solitary existence," replied The Phantom, his voice calm.
"You disapprove?" asked Michael, surprised that so young a man as The Phantom was so perspicacious.
"Not at all. You made the decision," said The Phantom. He smiled warmly. "You are a very nice man, Grand Master. I understand the reason behind the guards, which is to protect us, your knights. I also think that you did yourself a disservice by isolating yourself behind walls and guards. Still, I also think you deserve better."
"Perhaps I have better," replied Michael, cocking an eyebrow. "In you I have the respect and loyalty of one of the finest, if not the finest young man who has ever come into my life. I regret that I must put you in harm's way. I will try to minimize the dangers, although I must emphasize that they do exist, and in the most unlikely of places."
"Grand Master, I trust you, we trust you," said The Phantom. "If we did not, we would not be here. You are a part of the Tapestry. You are the Grand Master of an Order we have all embraced. We know the pitfalls; we believe we know the dangers. We will hold each other close."
Michael's eyes slid over to where Doctor Bradley-Smith was chatting up Ginger, the cook. "There is a saying, my dear young man, that one should hold one's friends close . . . and one's enemies closer."
The Phantom glanced toward the barbecues and nodded. "Why would he be so interested in the security arrangements, I wonder? He is a guest, after all, and aside from a passing glance, why would he . . ." Without realizing it, The Phantom finished his thoughts aloud, and bluntly.
"He was timing the patrols!"
Rising slowly from his chair, Michael stared at Daniel. Then he said, "Come with me. It is time we talked, time you knew that there are other things happening, things that you must be aware of."
As he stood The Phantom looked obliquely at Daniel, who seemed to be rubbing Ginger's arm. "And that?" he asked.
Michael smiled enigmatically. "I shall take an old saying to heart and hold my friends close." His eyes grew hard. "And my enemies closer!"