Date: Thu, 27 Apr 2006 16:16:18 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Knights of Aurora - Chapter 20 - EPILOGUE

"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.

I enjoy hearing from readers and try to answer all e-mails. If you have a
comment or a question please contact me at paradegi@rogers.com

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"