Had there been a sea battle? Was this what death felt like? The Gunner awoke with a shattering headache. His tongue was coated and felt as if he had been licking the ship’s cat’s bottom. He raised his head and very quickly collapsed back onto the pillows, his head spinning and his stomach doing flip-flops. He had a hangover of biblical proportions and death would have been a welcome release.

Groaning loudly, The Gunner crawled out of bed. He had slept in his clothes, something he rarely did, and his whole body felt shabby. He needed a shave and a shower and a good swift kick in the ass. Today was Saturday, his Investiture was only a few hours away and here he was, smelling like a goat and looking like something that spent its nights sleeping in the bilges!

Shuddering, The Gunner shuffled unsteadily into the bathroom where one look in the mirror over the sink confirmed his hangover. Eyes bloodshot, face pasty, the skin under his eyes looking like it was made of Silly Putty, hair mussed and standing straight up at the back. God, he was a sight!

Which was exactly what he deserved. Time and again the old Command Chief Gunnery Instructor, his rabbi, friend and mentor, had told him: never mix grape and grain. As the Chief had once opined, it all might taste good at the going down of the sun, but in the morning all you had to show for it was two little men beating the bejezus out of the inside of your skull with sledgehammers, Delhi belly and wet farts.

Just thinking about all the booze he’d consumed made The Gunner feel sicker. There had been drinks before dinner, wine with dinner, drinks after dinner, and a devastating series of nightcaps with Laurence. The Gunner had no idea how late they had sat talking but he did know that barring a minor miracle he would hardly add éclat and brilliance to anything this day.

After stripping off his wrinkled, night-soiled clothing, The Gunner steeled himself for the next part of his morning ritual: shaving. He applied lather to his face and with shaking hand scraped the lather and the bristles of his beard from his face, shaving slowly as he castigated himself mentally. He deserved every ache and pain, and the fact that he had helped Laurence unburden himself barely made up for his discomfiture.

Having managed not to cut his throat, The Gunner showered, enjoying the hot water rushing over his body and partially washing away his aches. Enjoying the shower made him think about the showers at Aurora, which led him to think about The Phantom. He wondered idly what the little bugger was up to.

The Phantom would more than likely be up and doing about now. Saturday was just another workday until noon. The cadets still had to be fed so The Phantom would be in the Mess Hall. Later, with Saturday a half-holiday, The Gunner hoped that The Phantom would take some time for himself, maybe fool around with the Twins, well, not fool around with the Twins.

Turning off the water, The Gunner stepped out of the shower and as he towelled himself dry he reconfirmed his desire to go away with The Phantom for a little while after the cadets went home. There was so much that they did not know about each other, so much that he wanted to tell the young man.

He wanted to bring The Phantom into the Order. He wanted to understand what The Phantom wanted from their relationship. There was so much for them to talk about and they would never have the opportunity unless they simply got away from everything for a while. He left the bathroom and returned to his bedroom. Almost as soon as he entered the bedroom there was a light tap on the door and Laurence entered.

Laurence took one look at The Gunner’s nude body and began to back away, stammering his apologies. The Gunner, feeling marginally better, was not at all embarrassed. “Oh, Laurence, do come in,” he croaked. “After last night I think that I can safely say that we have no secrets between us.” He reached for his robe, which he had casually thrown over a chair the night before. Feeling his head throb as he bent over, The Gunner gave Laurence an evil look. For someone who had spent half the night guzzling cognac, Laurence looked remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, The Gunner cradled his aching head in his hands. Laurence, who was wearing his brass-buttoned footman rig, pulled open the drapes, flooding the room with bright sunlight and then, chuckling softly at The Gunner’s moans and groans, he gestured and Noel entered the bedroom. Noel was carrying a large tray, which he placed on the round table in the middle of the room.

“I am sure that you will feel better after some coffee,” Laurence said quietly to The Gunner. “And have something to eat.”

The Gunner gagged involuntarily. “Food is the last thing I want! And why are you so damned chipper?”

Laurence and Noel exchanged a glance and a smile. They had just the medicine The Gunner needed. “I never have a hangover,” said Laurence as he cracked a raw egg and dropped it into a large crystal glass. From the tray he took a bottle of Tabasco Sauce and jerked a liberal portion on top of the raw egg. Then he filled the glass with tomato juice and handed it to The Gunner.

“What’s this?” asked The Gunner suspiciously.

“I believe it is called a Prairie Oyster,” deadpanned Laurence. “A sovereign cure for those suffering the effects of the morning after.”

The Gunner looked at the glass and shuddered. “If I drink this I’ll just sick it up,” he warned hoarsely.

“Not if you drink it slowly,” replied Laurence patiently. He began laying out The Gunner’s clothes. “Mr. Leung is waiting in the corridor with your new suit. When you’ve done with him Mr. Michael expects you on the terrace for breakfast.”

The Gunner made loud choking noises as he slowly drank the noxious mixture of raw egg and tomato juice. He gagged and made a horrible face. “If I die from this concoction my blood will be on your hands.”

“You are not like to die,” returned Laurence calmly, “however much you may wish it so just now.” He nodded at the glass of noxious brew. “Now, drink your medicine and when you’ve got it down I shall pour you a cup of coffee, and you will feel much better. Then you really must dress.”

The Gunner did not enjoy being coddled, and glared at Laurence. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Laurence returned the glare with a grin. “Of course. It’s not every day I see one of the Council in such a state.”

The Gunner stood up and walked tentatively to the table. He sat down - gently - and Laurence poured a cup of coffee for him. “I know you think I’m whining, but after last night I think I’m entitled.”

“I am thinking nothing of the sort,” replied Laurence with deliberately exaggerated dignity. “As a boy I was always told by my Mother to look with pity on the less fortunate, in particular those suffering the after effects of self-inflicted wounds.”

The Gunner sipped his coffee, gagged, groaned, and fixed a gimlet eye on Laurence. “Tomorrow I will feel better,” he said ominously. “I will remember all slights and I shall repay.”

Laurence laughed quietly. “As much as I would enjoy continuing our duel of wits I am very much afraid that the day awaits. A very busy day.”

The Gunner waved his hand slowly. “I know, I know. Mr. Leung wants to finish so he can swan off to Aurora. God help him if Chef is as hung over as I am.”

“I’ve laid out your clean underpants and a vest. And who, please, is Chef?”

The Gunner collected his underpants and T-shirt and walked toward the bathroom. “Chef is a cantankerous, overweight tyrant who rules the galley with an iron hand, a meat-cleaver and a heart of gold.”

******

After Mr. Leung finished with The Gunner’s new suit he left the bedroom and returned with another suit bag. “What’s that?” asked The Gunner.

“Your dress suit,” replied Mr. Leung. “I apologise for it being ready made, but Mr. Michael insisted . . .” He shrugged expressively.

“Dress suit? A tuxedo?” asked The Gunner.

Laurence coughed delicately. “Tails, actually. The dress for the dinner tonight is white tie.”

“You’re joking!” The Gunner moaned loudly. “I think my headache just got worse!”

“It was either a ready made suit of tails or the Major’s Gilbert and Sullivan outfit,” returned Laurence tartly. “And to be honest, somehow I do not think lace and watered silk is quite your style.”

After checking the hang of The Gunner’s trousers Mr. Leung stood up and nodded. “Later, if you will permit me, I would be honoured to make you a proper suit.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” asked The Gunner as he began dressing in his new rig.

“For ready made? Why nothing at all,” Mr. Leung sniffed. His tone, however, said that there was everything wrong with it.

Laurence, knowing Mr. Leung and his opinion that a gentleman always wore tailor made suits, quickly intervened before The Gunner twigged on Mr. Leung’s obvious condescension. “Are you and your people ready to go to Aurora?” he asked, moving behind The Gunner and smoothing the shoulders of his suit jacket. “A very nice fit, Mr. Leung.”

The Gunner, who was not as stupid as Mr. Leung thought he was, knew exactly what Laurence was doing. “Yes, Mr. Leung, thank you. You do very fine work.”

Mr. Leung beamed. “It is always a pleasure to serve a gentleman,” he returned insincerely. “And if I may, whom shall I speak to at Aurora?”

“Since you’re outfitting the stewards, you would be best to speak to the Chief Steward, Chief Petty Officer Lascelles. He is usually hanging about the Mess Hall,” replied The Gunner. He poured himself another cup of coffee and sat at the table.

Laurence quickly hustled Mr. Leung out and then turned to face The Gunner. “I’m sorry about him, Steve, but Mr. Leung is the best bespoke tailor in Vancouver, even if he does grate on one.”

“Laurence, never apologize for the other man. If anything you should feel pity for him.”

“Whatever for?” Laurence asked.

“He is about to meet the vainest, pickiest, persnickety and downright ornery cadets on the face of the earth.” The Gunner grinned hugely. “And I would like to be around when he pulls his act on Chef.”

He returned to his seat and reached for the silver coffee pot. “Saturday morning is a work day,” The Gunner continued. “The cadets always start out with morning exercises.”

He looked at his watch. “By now Harry has flashed the Chief Physical Training Instructor and the Peanut Gallery; Chef has lost his temper at his Makee Learns at least twice, and no doubt chased them from the galley once. The Phantom will be nattering on at Matt, who is a good kid, about how the breakfast tables have been set, or not set as the case may be. As for the Twins, God only knows what they’ve gotten up to.”

“The Twins?”

“Cory and Todd Arundel. God help Leung if he pisses them off!”

“Why, I always found them to be perfectly polite and respectful young men. Except, of course, for the time the Major . . .” Laurence stopped abruptly. The Major would not appreciate him telling tales out of school.

The Gunner looked at Laurence and then stood up. “You know the Arundel Twins?” he asked as he walked toward the door.

“Um, why yes, I do, in fact,” began Laurence as he started to back out of the bedroom. “Their mother is a very great lady and a good friend of Mr. Michael’s. Mrs. Arundel shares Michael’s passion for roses and she and her sons have been here several times.” He eased open the door. “Well, I really should be off. I’ve some things to do in the drawing room and . . .”

“Oh no you don’t!” said The Gunner with a grin. He draped his arm over Laurence’s shoulder. “First you are going to tell me exactly what the Twins did to the Major.”

“Please, Sir Stephen, I . . .”

“Come on, Laurence, spill!”

******

The Morning Room was a large, square chamber that gave direct access through huge, floor to ceiling French doors, to the rear terrace. The room was a light and airy chamber, painted a pale yellow accented by light green and gold window hangings. It was the only major room in the house that did not have a chandelier hanging from the moulded plaster ceiling.

Although normally used as an informal sitting room, when there were guests and Michael wanted to breakfast or lunch on the terrace, the room was converted into a dining room. Down the centre was a long table covered by a spectacular, embossed, white linen tablecloth, which protected the precious veneer of the table.

Laid out on the table were silver dishes and bowls containing an enormous selection of breakfast dishes. There was a large chafing dish of scrambled eggs; another dish held bacon, and yet another sausages. There were kippers, which Laurence told The Gunner were a favourite of Michael’s. There was a large tureen of porridge, beside which was a silver jug of farm-fresh cream. There were freshly baked croissants and rolls and, on the side tables, in the event that a guest might prefer something cold, there was a huge York ham. Noel stood at the ready, waiting to carve.

On another table a variety of fruit waited: apples, oranges, bananas, grapes, freshly sliced pineapple, curving crescents of melon and cantaloupe. Standing nearby was another footman, another white male The Gunner observed, ready to pass the fruit plates and silver fruit knives and forks.

On the terrace Michael and the Major sat at a large, round, glass-topped table reading the morning newspapers. At each of the other six places were place mats set with plain silver cutlery, large crystal juice glasses, and huge coffee cups. The Gunner surveyed the cornucopia of food and the quiet elegance of the breakfast table and while he did think that there was a lot of food for so few people, he was not about to complain. His stomach was still sending out signals of outraged queasiness so he took only a sweet roll and a croissant and went out onto the terrace.

The Gunner looked toward the well-kept lawns and gardens of the estate. While he knew that there was a large security force somewhere about, he saw no one lurking in the bushes and the sylvan beauty of the lawns was unmarred.

As The Gunner seated himself Michael quietly folded his newspaper and set it to the side of his plate. “Good morning, Stephen, I do hope you slept well,” he said with a warm smile.

“Well enough,” replied The Gunner noncommittally as Noel poured him a cup of coffee.

“If your room is uncomfortable, I am sure that . . .” Michael took great pride in his hospitality and if a guest were in any way uncomfortable . . .

The Gunner waved away Michael’s coming offer of new accommodation. “The room is fine. In all honesty I stayed up late with Laurence.” He grimaced slightly. “The atmosphere was decidedly liquid,” he confessed, somewhat shamefaced. He regarded the small collection of silver topped crystal bowls in the centre of the table. Out of place was a small, covered china bowl. On the lid was a tiny bee. “Jam?” The Gunner asked, indicating the bowls.

Michael nodded. “And honey.” He leaned forward. “What do you think of Laurence?”

The Gunner thought a few moments. He answered slowly and carefully. He considered his conversation with Laurence privileged. “He seems a fine, intelligent young man. I like him.”

The Major’s head appeared around the edge of his newspaper. “Bit wasted as a footman, do you think?”

The Gunner nodded. “You’ve served with him in Malaya and Vietnam, Major. Michael has known him for two years. It hardly seems fair for either of you to ask me for a fair assessment of him after only two days.” He broke his croissant apart and nibbled at a small piece.

Michael cocked an eyebrow. “If you have any doubts, Stephen, please do not hesitate to voice them.”

The Gunner carefully laid his bit of croissant on the plate in front of him and looked evenly at Michael. “Laurence has said nothing, and done nothing, that would lead me to doubt him. I did not say that I had doubts. I did say that I liked him, which has nothing to do with him being a Knight. I know some rogues whom I like, but whom I would not trust to clean the heads.”

“You would trust him then to be your Equerry?” Michael sipped his coffee, his face blank.

“Will I need an assistant?” asked The Gunner carefully, wondering what Michael was up to now. “And why Equerry?”

The Major’s head appeared again. “Merely a term of convenience. You can call him your assistant. Whatever you please.”

“I’ve spoken with him. I know his history.” The Gunner looked directly at Michael, “As do you and the Major. Laurence will make a good Knight and he is most definitely wasted as a footman.”

Michael smiled. “Which makes it all that much easier for me to tell you that he is going to be your advance man.”

“He is?”

“Unless you have any objection, yes,” replied Michael with a slight smile. “As Chancellor you will receive petitions from many people who wish to become members of the Order. Some you will want to meet, some you will be unable to meet. You do have a career, and I am fully aware that you cannot just up and leave whenever you feel like it.”

The Gunner leaned back in his chair. “The finest source for new recruits is in the Service. They are young, they are enthusiastic, and they are disciplined. In order to meet them, and to evaluate them, I have to be with them. And you are right. I cannot just up and leave whenever I feel like it and . . .” He shrugged almost apologetically. “ . . . At the end of the month I am back to the Fleet.”

Michael understood all the implications of The Gunner returning to the Fleet. Once back on duty he would be at sea much of the time, particularly during the summer months, training Reservists. During the winter he would be working almost every weekend from September until April and except for 21 days leave time, he would be very much serving at the pleasure of the Crown.

“Laurence will meet the potential candidates that you cannot meet,” continued Michael. “He will make an assessment, and report to you. That is, if you agree.”

After last night, and Laurence’s confession, The Gunner could give only one answer. “I agree. I would trust him to be my Equerry.”

Michael nodded, pleased. “You will still have to make the final decision as to accept or reject a candidate. Laurence might recommend, but the final decision will be yours.”

The Gunner sighed. “An awesome responsibility.”

“Again I detect a note of doubt.” Michael stood up and gestured. “Come, walk with me.”

******

Arms linked they walked the length of the garden, stopping from time to time to admire the flowering shrubs, Michael commenting on the age, origin and difficulty of growth of each plant. For a man who was busy with his various enterprises and interests Michael showed a remarkable knowledge of horticulture. When The Gunner commented on this Michael smiled. “I have watched them grow from seedlings, to young plants, to mature, flowering bushes at the height of their beauty.” He looked at The Gunner. “I am not a reluctant gardener.”

“I am,” admitted The Gunner, recognizing the metaphor Michael had used. “You have taken seedlings and as they’ve grown you have pruned and trimmed them to grow in the direction you want them to grow. My seedlings are not plants, but boys, and I cannot help wondering if some of them will grow the way we want them to grow, or flower into the plants we think them to be.”

“When I began planting this garden, I sought the advice of experienced gardeners, men who knew seedlings and plants.” Michael stopped beside one bush and plucked a flower from it. He handed it to The Gunner. “Before plantings began I knew which shrub would grow here, which would not. The flower you hold is the result of many years of nurturing.”

“It’s very beautiful,” replied The Gunner. “I just wonder how many of the seedlings I bring to you will grow into such beauty.”

Michael straightened and they continued their walk. “Unlike my garden, Stephen, your garden will be composed of wild flowers, young men, impetuous, filled with life and, like so many young men, not influenced by our pitiful attempts to trim and prune them into pale imitations of ourselves.”

“But is that not exactly what we are trying to do?”

Michael shook his head forcefully. “Certainly not! I want thinking, cognitive, self-assured young men who will question everything, who will not simply accept that such is so simply because you, or I, say it is so. I want young men who will not accept that they are outcasts simply because society says they are. I want young men who think and who know that they are just as good as the next fellow. In some cases, better than the next fellow, young men who are not afraid to stand up and tell the world to go to Hell!”

The Gunner chuckled as they retraced their steps and returned to the terrace and sat down again. The Major, still engrossed in his newspaper, paid them no heed.

As he resumed his seat The Gunner expressed a further doubt. “My biggest concern is the youth of the young men we might recruit. I also do not want to have anything to do with anything that smacks of brain washing.” He gave Michael a searching look. “If I see the least hint that someone is being pressured into joining the Order, I will refuse him. I mean that, Michael! They must make up their minds on their own hook. Many of them will have enough emotional baggage as it is.”

“Which is exactly what we have been doing for seven hundred years,” replied Michael without rancour. “I understand your misgivings, Stephen. We have all had them, but what we all seem to forget, and I think this important, is that the average sixteen-year-old male has a very good idea of who and what he is. He might not like what he is, he might decide to conceal his true feelings, he might decide to act on his true feelings, but at the end of the day he knows what he is.”

Suddenly The Gunner thought of The Phantom, young, impetuous, full of life, and not about to let anyone influence him into being something he was not. “Never be ashamed of who you are . . .” quoted The Gunner, remembering The Phantom’s words to Joey and Randy on the Legislature grounds: “Never be ashamed of what you are and never, ever, be afraid to be who you are!”

“A profound statement which sums up adequately what we are trying to do. One of yours?” Michael beckoned to the footman for more coffee.

The Gunner shook his head. “No, a 17-year-old boy whom I freely admit is dear to my heart, a young man who is also stubborn and impetuous. He is gay, and he sees nothing wrong with being gay and he is damned if he is going to apologize or make excuses for being gay. He is also someone who I fear might go in harm’s way.”

“Then we must do what we are sworn to do. We must show him the correct course to steer, and where the shoals are.” Michael could milk a maritime metaphor just as well as The Gunner.

The Major’s paper crackled imperceptibly and a small groan rose above the newsprint. Being Army, he did not suffer Naval types gladly. Both The Gunner and Michael ignored him.

“Will you be recommending that we speak to your young man?” asked Michael.

“Yes, when the time is right. There are others that I would like to be considered.”

“All cadets?”

“For the moment, yes. Not all are gay. Two, possibly three are, and there are two others that I do not think are gay but I think would make good candidates. Two of the boys you know.”

Michael gave the Major a quick glance and laughter danced in his eyes. “The Arundel twins?”

The Major’s paper shook perceptively and he growled low.

“Yes, Cory and Todd. I think that they are two of the finest young men that I have ever met. Granted, they are young, and sometimes they display an unfortunate teenage exuberance, but they are rock steady,” enthused The Gunner. He smiled wickedly at Michael as his eyes slid over to the Major, and then back to Michael. “The Arundel Twins are fine boys. They have, as we say in the Andrew, ‘bottom’.”

The Major’s newspaper shook so much that The Gunner thought that the tectonic plates beneath the house had shifted.

Michael could not help smiling, secretly pleased that his instincts had proven correct. Stephen Winslow had come highly recommended as a keen observer and a good judge of character. What no one seemed to have picked up on, which Michael had, was that Stephen Winslow had the ability to pick up on seemingly innocuous bits and pieces of information, study them, and come to the correct conclusion, as evidenced twice now.

Last night Stephen could not have known that Laurence was one of the anointed, and had the support of not only the soon-to-be Grand Master, but the support of Major Meinertzhagen. Stephen had, to put it in naval parlance, divined that the Major was Laurence’s rabbi.

This morning, the Major’s reactions to innocuous and innocent comments about the Arundel boys, had led The Gunner to think that something untoward had happened between the Major and the Twins. He had picked up on it and, while he more than likely knew none of the details, had decided to have a little fun at the Major’s expense, and in the doing exposed a collegial humour that Michael found refreshing.

Listening to the muted growls of outrage coming from behind the newspaper, Michael wondered just how good an intelligence network The Gunner had access to. There would be his friends in the navy, former term mates, and shipmates, of course. That was to be expected. Then there would be the cadets. Too many times adults dismissed the prattling of schoolboys as so much nonsense, never paying attention, and never really hearing what the boys had to say.

For a brief moment Michael wondered if Stephen obtained some of his information from pillow talk. He was fully aware that The Gunner was in a relationship with one of the boys of Aurora, a young man who happened to be very close to the Arundel twins who, in the innocent, chattering way of boys, would in all likelihood have mentioned their prank to their friend who, in the innocent, chattering way of boys, would have mentioned it to his lover. It was a logical explanation, Michael thought. Certainly, not a mention of the incident would fall from the Major’s lips.

Michael’s eyes slid over to The Gunner, who nodded his head ever so slightly in the Major’s direction. Michael returned the nod. The Major could be damned stuffy when he put his mind to it and Stephen was not averse to poking the man with a large, pointed stick. Nor was Michael. He leaned forward and, as his smile became a grin, he said, “I’m very glad indeed that you think so highly of them. I have always found them to be delightful boys. So very well-mannered and polite.” He ignored the strangling noise that erupted from the Major. “I was very impressed with them the last time that they were here. So much so that I am toying with the idea of asking them to be my Pages of the Presence.”

This was too much for the Major. He stood up abruptly, noisily folded his newspaper and slammed it under his arm. He glared at Michael and The Gunner. “IF you will excuse me, I have some things to attend to in the drawing room,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Michael could barely contain himself. He prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions under control. The Major’s icy petulance, however, was too much for him. “Never, my dear Stephen,” he gasped between scarcely contained gales of laughter, “underestimate the efficacy of Ex-Lax and Kahlua!”

******

After breakfast The Gunner was left to his own devices. He went into the library, a large, book-lined room where he settled behind the massive writing table, a huge oak piece inlaid and veneered with rosewood marquetry. He found some writing paper and a pen and began to list his candidates for the Order.

Aside from The Phantom and the Twins, he considered the other cadets. First was Tyler. The boy had great potential and from his remarks when they were on the range at CFB Comox Tyler was, if nothing else, sympathetic. The Gunner wrote Tyler’s name, and then added a stipulation. Tyler was not to be approached until after his settling in period at Royal Roads. He would have enough on his plate as it was, trying to acclimatize himself to life at the Military College as a bare-assed New Cadet.

Next came Val. Like Tyler, The Gunner doubted that Val was gay, but as Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor he was well liked and respected by the cadets. More importantly, Val was respected as a man. He had been Tyler’s roommate at school, and in Aurora. While not quite an unknown quantity, Val could at least be sounded out and his sympathies, if any, determined. He could be approached when he left the Sea Cadets.

Third on The Gunner’s list was Harry. Rock steady Harry! Huge, rude and totally honest Harry! A sweet young man for all his bluster and a man without guile or pretence. Harry’s relationship with Stefan alone made him a possible candidate, although The Gunner had his doubts that Harry was truly gay.

The Gunner read his list and sighed. Six boys, three admittedly and honestly, gay, one who was at least, bi-sexual, and two straight arrows.

There were, he thought, others. The Gunner decided that his main task would not be determining who was gay, or straight, but who amongst the cadets would be sympathetic and approachable. That was the key, he thought. He could fill the rolls of the Order with a hundred gays, but if society continued - as he expected it would - to reject them, and treat them with contempt, then there would have to be members, sympathetic to Michael’s cause, whom society would accept.

Tyler and Val were a start.

He considered some of the other boys, those who really knew The Phantom, who loved him and respected him. There were the galley staff, and stewards, boys who actually worked with The Phantom. The Gunner thought a moment and wrote down Ray’s name, then Sandro’s. Kevin’s defence of Matt gave him a place on The Gunner’s list. When the time was right, he would add Randy and Joey to his list as well.

Of the boys in the Gunroom, those who lived with the Twins, he chose Chris, Jon, Fred and Nicholas. The four boys knew that the Twins were gay and were prepared to ignore it. They accepted the Twins for who they were and had never expressed a bad word against them.

Two Strokes, while a nice boy most of the time, had made more than a few remarks that had led The Gunner to believe that while he was prepared to tolerate the Twins, he did not really approve of their homosexuality. Thumper, who was Two Strokes’ friend and confidant, while he had never voiced an opinion one way or the other, was too much influenced by his friend and would not be approached.

That left Greg. The Gunner thought long and hard before deciding that Greg would not be asked or approached. The cadet was smart, had a presence and, to The Gunner’s certain knowledge, had slept with Harry when the cadets were in Victoria.

The Gunner was also aware that Greg’s affair with Harry had been brief, and from all the signs, when it ended Greg had not reacted well. No, The Gunner decided, it would be best to leave Greg be for the present. Perhaps later . . .

Noel, who was carrying the box containing The Gunner’s Chain of Office, interrupted him. It was time for Laurence to become a Knight. The Gunner thanked Noel and then asked him to return the Chain to his room. While Michael had appeared after his election wearing the Grand Master’s Chain of Office, The Gunner had decided to let the symbol of his new office lie in its box until later in the day. He would don the Chain only after his Investiture as Chancellor of the Order.

Before he left the library The Gunner reread his list of names. He thought a moment, smiled at happy memories of sunny days in England and a heady night on Texada, then added two more names to the list.

******

The drawing room was huge. It was actually a double room, two exact cubes that had once been the Great Hall of Poole Court, the vast country home of the 8th Lord Poole of Carlisle. His untimely death in 1971, followed by the even more untimely death of his son in 1972, had saddled the estate with double death duties. Faced with an Inland Revenue bill that they could never hope to pay otherwise, the heirs sold the estate. Michael had purchased the Great Hall in situ, and had it dismantled and stored until it was fitted into his new house.

The rooms, with 20-foot ceilings and four vast Venetian-glass chandeliers, had been designed to impress and awe any who had the good fortune to see them. The overall colour scheme of the rooms, which were separated by twin Doric columns and a richly carved entablature, was wine red and vellum. At one end, above a shining rosewood Steinway concert grand piano, was hung a Mortlake tapestry representing the Battle of Solebay. At the other end was a floor to ceiling fireplace. The chimneypiece was decorated with swags and pendants carved out of one block of limewood and had come from yet another old house in England. The carvings, as with the mouldings and fireplace surrounds in the dining room, were attributed to Grinling Gibbons and over the mantel hung Claude’s Embarkation of St. Ursula.

Both rooms were carpeted with superb antique Aubusson carpets, which, like the furniture, reflected the overall colour scheme.

The furniture, as was the custom in all the great houses of England, had been designed to complement the rooms in which it sat. The main suite of 12 chairs and two sofas had come from the workshops of Thomas Chippendale the Elder. The cabriole legs of the sofas and chairs were gilt with burnished gold, and each piece had been upholstered in Boucher medallion tapestries from the Gobelin looms. The second suite of four sofas and seven chairs, taken from a design by Robert Adam, had been made by Chippendale the Younger, and was upholstered in wine red silk.

Between the windows of each of the rooms, to give the illusion of space, were placed matching pier tables with overhanging pier glasses. On each table was a large silver bowl filled with the finest cut roses from Michael’s garden. Accenting the upholstered pieces were inlaid and veneered tables of rosewood, satinwood and mahogany, gleaming masterpieces from the workshops of Sheraton and Hepplewhite.

In front of the fireplace Michael and the Major, both formally dressed in morning suits, waited to begin the small ceremony that would make Laurence a Knight. The Major had all of his gongs up and Michael wore his Chain of Office. Before them was a small wooden kneeling stand. The Major held his court sword. On the satinwood table under one of the niches that flanked the fireplace was an Infantry Pattern Sword, and a large, tooled-leather portfolio containing Laurence’s Letters Patent. Everything was ready.

There was the scuffle of leather on hardwood flooring and Laurence, flanked by his sponsors, entered the room. Rick Maslen, who refused to wear the green uniform his superiors in Ottawa had foisted on the Armed Forces if he could avoid it, had resurrected the full dress, red serge and gold dress uniform of a Military Police Officer, and carried his Staff of Office.

The Gunner, resplendent in his new black suit, felt decidedly drab and colourless, what with Michael and Major Meinertzhagen in all their finery, Rick in his red tunic, and Laurence looking like a poster boy for the Royal Marines. Casting a frankly admiring glance at Laurence, The Gunner regretted his decision not to wear his Chain of Office.

Laurence had dressed in his best, Number One, Dress uniform. Noel had fretted and fussed over the single-breasted jacket with the four silver-gilt buttons bearing the Royal Marines Globe and Laurel crest. He had pressed the fine black serge uniform trousers until they had a sharp, knife-edged pleat. He had polished the two silver pips (representing Laurence’s substantive rank of 2nd Lieutenant, Royal Marines) fixed one to each of the jacket’s shoulder flaps, and brushed the thin red stripe that ran down the side of the trousers.

While Laurence appeared calm, his placid demeanour masked his nervousness. He fully realized the importance of what he was about to do, of what he was about to become and, although he would not admit it, he was just a touch afraid of what the future would bring.

As they waited for the signal to proceed, Laurence drummed his fingers on the top of his white, red-banded garrison hat, stuck it under his arm, removed it, and then stuck it back under his arm.

“Stop fidgeting, Laurence,” commanded The Gunner as they waited for the signal to proceed into the drawing room. “You’re making me nervous.”

“And me,” echoed Rick, smiling. Then he added, “Really, Laurence, for a Lieutenant, Royal Marines Reserve, you are more like a schoolgirl on prom night.”

Laurence smiled weakly and then ran a finger around the collar of his stiffly starched white shirt, realigned the Windsor knot of his black tie, and plucked at the red cloth running down the outside seam of his trousers.

Rick chuckled. “You’re going to crush your hat, Laurence. Do calm down.”

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Laurence groaned in reply. “I don’t know if I should piss or puke.”

“Whatever you do, do not do it on Michael,” returned Rick dryly.

Laurence passed his white-gloved hand across his brow, and then fiddled with the polished brass buckle of his Sam Brown belt. “I should have worn a sword,” he muttered disconsolately. “An officer always wears a sword.”

“You don’t have one,” reminded The Gunner. “And please stop rubbing your forehead. You will get your gloves all sweaty.”

“Ah, here we go,” murmured Rick. He bobbed his head, acknowledging the Major’s hand signal for them to proceed.

With what seemed like agonizing slowness his sponsors led Laurence to the kneeling stand where he knelt on his right knee and looked at Michael, who smiled and winked. Michael took the sword from the Major and lightly tapped Laurence’s right shoulder, then his left, and then his right shoulder again. He returned the sword to the Major and held out his hands, which Laurence clasped in his gloved hands.

“I, Laurence Albert Edward Howard, do become your liege man of life and limb . . .” he began slowly and clearly, reciting the oath from memory. “. . . And of earthly worship and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and die against all manner of folks.”

Michael withdrew his hands and gestured for Laurence to rise. “Now, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” he asked as he reached out to shake the hand of the Order’s newest Knight.

******

After presenting Laurence with his new sword and Letters Patent, Michael once again shook the man’s hand, and then settled onto one of the Gobelin sofas. Noel bustled in carrying a tray laden with glasses of champagne and although it was not yet noon they all toasted Laurence’s Knighthood.

The toasts and congratulations finished, The Gunner looked into the niches built into the panelling on either side of the fireplace. Behind the thick, bevelled glass doors of each niche, were three shelves, on each of which rested a rosewood box containing the bejewelled collars and insignia of what Michael called the Lost Priories. Beside each box was a silver mascot representing each of the six priories that no longer existed.

The Gunner was drawn to the insignia for England and the mascot, a six-inch high representation of Britannia atop a globe. As he studied the display of collars The Gunner idly tapped his champagne flute, thinking of a tall, redheaded, stunningly handsome Royal Navy Lieutenant with a patrician face and well-muscled body. He also thought of that weekend so long ago in one of the stately homes of England, and the weekends spent in the small house in Southsea.

Michael joined The Gunner in admiring the artefacts contained in the cases. “Behold the Lost Priories,” he murmured. “The relics of our former greatness.” He began pointing to the various cases and mascots. “England, France, Germany, Spain, Austria and Italy. All gone now.”

“Seven hundred years reduced to a few jewels and bits of silver,” replied The Gunner sadly.

“Seven hundred years of complacency and apathy,” returned Michael, an angry tone in his voice. “Add in Hitler and his thugs . . .” he shrugged expressively.

“I can understand Germany and Italy, but England?”

“We were never really well-established in England,” began Michael. “They are, apart from the Germans and the Americans, the most homophobic of peoples. Their viciousness is surpassed only by the rednecks of the American South.” They returned to the sofa and sat down.

Michael regarded The Gunner a moment and then said, “Stephen, what destroyed the Order in Europe was lack of leadership combined with apathy. The European mind set is medieval when it concerns homosexuality. Draconian laws, in England, in Germany, in all the so-called civilized nations, only made the climate more difficult.”

“Being sodomized with a red-hot poker would certainly be a deterrent,” opined The Gunner dryly.

“Quite so,” agreed Michael. “Even Royalty learned discretion. One admits that so long as one was very, very discreet, and the Order always has been that, one could live in relative peace. But once false step and the mob would descend.”

“Which is not all that much different from today.” The Gunner shook his head sadly. “The vast majority of gay men hardly go around wearing a pink triangle.”

Michael agreed. “Which is one reason why the Order has never had any distinguishing robes or medals or decorations. Our watchword has always been to never draw attention to ourselves if we could avoid it. For much of our history we have worked in the shadows, behind the scenes. Unlike the Templars, and the Hospitallers, we raised no great churches or hospitals. Our priories were always small and nondescript. While the Order did grow rich, it never flaunted its wealth. The Order never courted power and avoided the Friendship of Kings.”

“Power corrupting and Kings being very fickle creatures,” opined The Gunner.

“Particularly if they owed you money, as the Templars learned much too late.” Michael smiled. “We learned that a favour for a favour worked much better.”

“Some would call that bribery,” interposed The Gunner.

“Not at all,” protested Michael. “Remember, from the 13th Century onward Kings and Popes held all the power. Being Kings and Popes they were always at war with someone or another, and always needed money. In 1155 money brought Papal recognition of the Order and confirmation that the piece of the True Cross the Order held was authentic.”

The Gunner winced inwardly as he recalled The Phantom’s disdain and mockery when he had told the boy about the True Cross. “So, the Order purchased its legitimacy, then?”

Ignoring The Gunner’s cynicism, Michael shrugged. “Who is to say? Pope Adrian wanted to believe that the piece of wood was a relic of the Cross. The adoration of relics is an ancient Catholic custom, enshrined in Canon Law. And remember, the Pope is infallible.”

The Gunner snorted. “I might believe that the True Cross is real, but really, Michael, the church’s obsession with relics is too much! Would you believe that a church in Italy claims to have the Sacred Prepuce of Christ?”

“Twelve monasteries and churches, actually,” replied Michael. “They question, loudly, and on a regular basis, the authenticity of each other’s relic.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But, no matter. The point is that we used, and will continue to use, whatever we must use to gain our ends. If it is money, so be it. If we must play on the susceptibilities of religious men, so be it. In 1187 the Knights of Outremer rode out to meet Saladin, taking with them the largest portion of the Cross known to the Church. Saladin beat them soundly and captured the Cross. Jerusalem was captured and Gregory VIII preached a new Crusade, which of course the Order heeded.”

“For a consideration, of course,” said The Gunner dryly.

Michael grinned. “Of course. In exchange for the better part of the Order’s piece of the Cross and 50 knights, we received a Papal Bull recognizing the Order and granting it Sovereignty from the Bishops. A donation of 50,000 marks to Richard the Lion Hearted gained us the right to establish a Priory in England.”

“Politics and money,” sniffed The Gunner. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Michael nodded, thinking that his new Chancellor was much too honest, and too much of a naïf in the intrigue of politics. The Gunner had much to learn, and now would be as good a time as any to begin his education.

“Stephen, the world, and the way in which the Order must conduct its business, has never changed, really,” began Michael, “and by playing on the whims and ambitions of the powerful the Order has gained much.” He held out his right hand and showed The Gunner the large ring, set with a stunning ruby that he wore on his ring finger.

“In 1355 Charles of Hapsburg decided that he wanted not only to be Holy Roman Emperor, but that the Imperial title would be vested as a Hereditary Right to his heirs and successors. He needed money to bribe the Imperial Electors. The Order gave him the money.”

“And gained?”

“Letters Patent creating the Order a County Palatine, and granting the Order the right to create Knights and to grant Arms to each Knight. It was also given the right to issue Patents of Nobility, with appropriate honours and honorific, up to and including ‘Prince’, which is why, as part of your Investiture, you will receive not only a ring such as mine, but Letters Patent of a Grant of Arms!”

******

For The Gunner, the balance of Saturday passed in a whirlwind of

activity. In the ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel, the utilitarian desks and chairs had been removed, replaced by delicate, gold and white ballroom chairs, and in this sybaritic setting and before the assembled Knights The Gunner swore on his honour to:

“. . . Bear True Allegiance to my Brothers in Knighthood. I swear that I will defend all those Our Brothers, and that I will in all things conduct myself in a chaste manner, so that no dishonour will I bring upon the Order; I swear also to succour the ill and destitute of all our Brothers, and that I will henceforth dedicate my life to my duty as a Knight. This I Swear before God and this Company and upon the Symbol of Our Order.”

After swearing his oath The Gunner touched the gold casket containing the relic of the True Cross. He was then given a large leather portfolio, which contained his Grant of Arms, and a magnificent watercolour of his new Arms, which were in keeping with his naval past.

The shield was quartered with a White Ensign, the White Rose of York, a gold fouled anchor and a trillium, centred with an escutcheon of the old King’s Colour. Two sailors, wearing gaiters, holding bayoneted .303 rifles and dressed in the old blue rig, supported the shield. They bore a startling resemblance to the small figurines that The Gunner had purchased in Mr. Schoenmann’s shop. The knight’s helm on top of the shield bore a Naval Crown, and from the helm rose a “lion passant guardant”. The shield was mantled and collared with a broad blue ribbon on which was engraved his new motto: IN HONOUR BOUND.

The Gunner was then presented with a Naval Officer’s sword, a gold rod bearing a vermeil figure of a knight, and a superb gold ring set with a table-cut ruby. Surrounding the ruby, in small, precise letters, was his new motto. On one side of the ring was the Shield of the Order, on the other side his new Arms, executed in exquisite enamel. Finely chased martial trophies backed both shields.

Following The Gunner’s Investiture, Laurence, as the newest and most junior Knight, was presented to the assemblage. When the official presentations were finished Michael went off with Willoughby. The Gunner, Major Meinertzhagen and Laurence retired to one of the side rooms reserved for private conferences. The Major, as usual enigmatic, muttered something about “sticky fingers” and then asked The Gunner about his possible candidates.

The Gunner glanced at Laurence. The return look on Laurence’s face told The Gunner that he was just as much in the dark about the Major’s “sticky fingers” remark as The Gunner was.

Seating themselves in the comfortable armchairs, they discussed the list of possible candidates from Aurora, and the Major nodded as The Gunner read each name on his list. The Major shuddered slightly when The Gunner read Todd and Cory’s names.

“They are young I admit, the oldest boy is only 18, but they are high spirited and I think each of them will be receptive,” concluded The Gunner.

Nodding, the Major removed a small piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “What do you know of one . . .” He extended his arm its full length (he’d forgotten his reading glasses). “ . . . Brian Venables?”

“Brian? Guard Petty Officer Venables?” The Gunner looked at the Major and at Laurence in turn, wondering how the Major could possibly know about Brian.

“The same.” The Major cocked his head, waiting for an answer.

The Gunner thought a moment. “From what I know of him he is a sturdy young man. The Guard respects him and the boys like him. And how do you know about him?” he finished quickly.

Laurence looked at The Major who nodded slightly. Laurence began to speak, his tone casual. “The young gentlemen were in town this afternoon. Most of them took the opportunity to visit the local laundress.” He smiled slightly. “I understand that there has been a problem with laundry?”

“Brian Venables?” asked The Gunner pointedly, ignoring Laurence’s question.

“It would seem that there was an altercation between young Venables and one of the town boys. Our correspondent in Comox tells us that Venables acquitted himself well,” interjected the Major dryly.

“What correspondent?” The Gunner demanded. Christ, did the Order have people everywhere? he asked himself.

Again Laurence looked at the Major, who again nodded his permission. “We have friends, Stephen, and from time to time they report on young men who they feel might bear future investigation,” began Laurence.

Strangely, The Gunner found the thought of secret agents, hidden correspondents, and the like, repugnant. Perhaps it was because the whole idea smacked too much of SIU and its goons for his liking. Still, at the end of the day he realized the necessity. How else would the Order know what was going on?

The Major, from experience gained over the years, and with his usual prescience, sensed The Gunner’s unease. “You must understand, Sir Stephen, we must work in the shadows. We really have no choice,” he explained. “I am sure you will agree that the people we must reach out to . . .”

The Gunner held up his hand. “I understand completely.” He made a wry face. “An overreaction on my part, I think, because I tend to associate secret agents and such like with covert investigations that usually end up with someone being hurt.”

“Not at all,” assured the Major. He gave The Gunner’s knee a reassuring pat. “We have agents, men of integrity, in many places, most notably military installations. They do spy, Sir Stephen. They observe actions and individuals. Their primary purpose is to inform us when a serviceman, or woman, is in difficulty. From time to time they happen to be in the right place at the right time to observe a young man who, by word or deed exhibits sympathy with our Brothers. There is nothing sinister about it.”

“The man in Comox is a driver for Base Transport,” continued Laurence. “He witnessed the altercation between Venables and the town boy. Venables refused to divulge the reason for the altercation to his Officer. He admitted that he had thrown the first punch, and was prepared to accept responsibility for his actions. He also refused to allow the town boy, a disreputable child of the streets, to be blamed for what had happened. He displayed a certain nobility of character.”

“To my knowledge Brian is not one of us,” observed The Gunner.

“He does not have to be. He is a fighter and he has character,” returned the Major. “We lose nothing by speaking with him. Unless, of course, he is in league with this Greene person.”

The Gunner shook his head. “Brian shares in the universal dislike of that particular little man.”

“A point in his favour,” agreed the Major. “One of the positive things about this odious little man named Greene is that he acts as a catalyst. The other boys hear his rants, and are immediately repelled by his hatred. In a way they represent the large number of the people in North America who are decent human beings, and who are disgusted by the hatred being spewed by the religious fanatics and the hate mongers. They believe in fair play, in being non-judgemental. The cadets look at the obvious gays around them - the Arundel boys - and they know instinctively that what Greene is saying is wrong. They are being lied to and the young gentlemen do not like it!”

“Unlike the so-called liberals, my cadets have done something about Greene,” returned The Gunner hotly. “They do not like him as a person, and they do not like the hatred he preaches. They have acted while the vast majority of people in this country turn a blind eye to the discrimination and hatred of gays. The same people who get all hot and bothered if a black church is bombed, or a swastika painted on the synagogue door, or tombstones are defaced in a Jewish cemetery, never see the gay man being beaten to death because, after all, he’s just another dead queer!”

The depth of emotion in The Gunner’s voice, and the force with which he had delivered his words struck a chord in Laurence. He remembered Sergeant Major Chard. “Which we must work to change,” he all but whispered.

The Gunner passed his hand across his face. “It will take years. I hope the young men of tomorrow will never know the horrors of the past or the present.”

“We will do what we must do!” The Major also remembered Sergeant Major Chard and what his defence of the Sergeant had cost him. “There will be setbacks. But we will prevail, God willing.”

“God willing,” repeated The Gunner. “But God helps those who help themselves. When I was in the drawing room at Michael’s house I looked at the collars and mascots of the Lost Priories and thought it might be good idea to have some sort of representation in England and the United States. Also for Germany, but I’m being selfish in that case.”

“The United States?” The Major shook his head sadly. “We gave up on that idea a long time ago. The prejudice and bigotry is so ingrained, the fear so intense that there is no point.”

“But . . .”

“There can be no buts!” snapped the Major, his voice harsh. “You said it yourself. The Lord helps them who help themselves. Homophobia permeates every level of American society, the government, the military, and the judicial system. Every hour of every day not one but four, count them, four investigative services do nothing but spend their time hunting for gays in the US Military. Soldiers, sailors, airmen, and yes, marines, are terrorized and tortured, and nobody cares.

“The Americans crow about their freedoms . . .” Here the Major sniffed his obvious disdain. “. . . and shove their damned Bill of Rights down the throats of every poor benighted heathen from Borneo to Bangladesh. But what they do not mention is that writ large across the front of that same Bill of Rights is: no blacks or Asians, no queers or faggots, need apply!”

Both The Gunner and Laurence stared wide-eyed at the Major, who continued his rant. “The Supreme Court of the United States is little more than a rubber stamp for the prevailing government. Instead of a strict and fair application of the Constitution and Bill of Rights, the Justices ‘interpret’ the Constitution, interpreting it to be whatever the government wants it to be, or whatever cabal has the most clout at the moment, whether it is the Religious Right or the so-called Liberal Left!”

The Major was not about to listen to reason. He waved his hand, dismissing the Supreme Court from his mind. “The American military is so hidebound and reactionary that even after it was pointed out to them, time and again, that World War II tactics cannot and do not work in a guerrilla war, they stubbornly clung to their outmoded way of fighting and lost the bloody war in Vietnam!”

The Gunner nodded. “And ended up killing 55,000 young American men and women that we know of.”

“And fracturing their country, and leaving the army confused, disoriented and demoralized,” thundered the Major. His eyes flashed with anger. “In 1957 a naval officer named S.H. Crittenden wrote a report that stated emphatically that there was no good and sufficient reason why homosexuals could not, and should not, serve with honour in the military. Not only did they consistently meet standards, in many cases they far exceeded the standards. It was suppressed. Ask after it in Washington and the Pentagon denies that it exists, denies that it was even written.”

“So we simply write the Yanks off?” The Gunner asked calmly.

“Yes. Be damned to them for the fools they are. They won’t fight, dammit! Let a gay serviceman be found out and his friends and colleagues run and hide! The perceived gay man or woman rolls over and takes the abuse and the contempt flung at them by Neanderthals, with or without badges, and meekly accepts a Dishonourable Discharge!”

All but breathing the fire of a mythical dragon, the Major stared levelly at The Gunner. “When the gay men and women of the United States stand up on their hind legs and roar back at their abusers, then will we help them. Until then, on their own heads be it!”

“And the English?” The Gunner was shocked at the Major’s refusal to at least give lip service to the Order’s credo when it came to the Americans.

“As bad, if not worse. The ordinary, or garden variety gay does not have a chance against the mob! I know, I was there, remember?” replied the Major.

“And so was I,” said Laurence quietly. “You stood up for Sergeant Major Chard.”

Major Meinertzhagen did not fail to detect the note of deep regret in Laurence’s voice. He was not, however, going to dwell on the past. “Stephen, Laurence, please understand,” he said slowly, “The place to start is here, in Canada, and not in England or America. The climate in both countries is not right.”

The Gunner, who liked Americans, and who did not agree with the Major’s assessments of England and America, was not about to give up. “Major, we are building something here, laying the groundwork for what we hope will be a strong and vibrant organization. We all know that what we are doing will not come to fruition for years. We accept that for Canada. We may not be able to build a viable organization in England, or in America, but we owe it to ourselves, and to the Order, to at least try.”

The Major glared at The Gunner. “You obviously have something in mind.”

“I do,” confirmed The Gunner with a curt nod. “There are two men I would like to be approached. If necessary I will do it myself.”

The colour drained from Laurence’s face. He had known the Major a long time and knew that the man did not like his decisions or opinions questioned by anyone, for any reason.

“They are?” asked the Major coldly.

“The first is an Ensign in the US Sea Cadets named Andy Berg. At the present time he is in Aurora, seconded to the Canadian Sea Cadets. In September he plans to enrol in university, and enlist in the US Navy ROTC. He is a member of the Brotherhood.”

“And the other?”

“Edouard Michel Louis Marie Joseph du Faience de Lotbiniere.”

The Major rolled his eyes and groaned loudly. “Dear God, a Frog!”

Ignoring the Major’s theatrics The Gunner continued on. “Actually, he’s Canadian born. He is more English than the Royal Family, a pain in the ass, arrogant, anti-Semitic, and a racist.”

“Sounds a charming fellow,” replied the Major sarcastically.

“He can be,” said The Gunner calmly, determined not to let the Major get to him. “The point is, however, that he is a Commander in the Royal Navy. He is on the Staff of the Second Sea Lord, which gives him access to the personnel files. More importantly, not only is he an Extra Equerry to the Queen, he is a great friend of Lord Louis Mountbatten. He has friends in high places.”

“As opposed to the rest of us, who have friends in low places?” replied the Major snidely.

The Gunner smiled thinly. “Knowing him as I do, I would not be at all surprised if had friends in low places. But that is not why I would like him to be considered.”

“Is he a member of the Brotherhood?” interjected Laurence.

“Very much so,” answered The Gunner. “But very much in the closet, and very discreet.”

“He would have to be, to survive in the Royal Navy,” observed the Major. “You know him well enough to put his name forward?”

“I do,” replied The Gunner with firmness. He leaned forward in his chair. “For all his faults he is one of us, and I think he will come in with us. He might ‘fit in’ with the aristocracy, but he is just as happy rolling in the muck.”

“Really?” drawled the Major.

“Yes, really,” replied The Gunner, not at all intimidated by the Major’s disdain. “In addition to commanding the King’s Company at Whale Island, he trained the Naval Gun Run Teams, and played football with the Company squad. When I knew him he was not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“Hardly sterling qualifications,” sniffed The Major.

“In themselves, no. However, you want me to consider Brian Venables because, to echo Laurence, the boy displayed a certain nobility of character. I would like you to consider Edouard’s character.” The Gunner sat back in his chair and smiled. “When Edouard was in Britannia Naval College he was forced to climb the school mast. In protest he stripped naked and flashed the Captain’s wife and daughter, amongst other people. When Unification became law he resigned from the RCN, took out British citizenship, and joined the Royal Navy.”

“No doubt making full use of his connections with Broadlands and Buck House,” retorted the Major.

“And why not?” snapped The Gunner. “Edouard had sworn an oath at the Naval College. He had earned the right to continue serving the Crown as a naval officer.”

The Gunner did not have to remind the Major that he had sworn the same oath when he had taken the Queen’s Commission. “What has he done that you, and Michael, have not done before? Can you deny that the Order depends on friends with influence to gain its ends? You and Michael worked for the good of the Order. He worked for the good of himself, but where is the difference?”

The Major was forced to agree that there was really not all that much difference.

“Edouard Lotbiniere is a gay man who knows what will happen to him if he is discovered,” continued The Gunner. “He has influence so why not at least make the effort to persuade him to become one of us? If he tells us to take a hike, so be it, but at least we have made the effort, and it costs us nothing.”

The Major realized that this was an argument he was not going to win, and decided that a graceful retreat was in order. Besides, he was allowing his personal prejudices to cloud his judgement, which was unfair to The Gunner. “Stephen, I apologize for seeming mulish in regard to your Navy friend. It is just that in light of what has happened, and is happening, I do so want us to be right in our choices.”

“The men I select on my watch, Major, will remain true to their Oath,” replied The Gunner pointedly.

“Stephen, please do not take offence! You are trusted, my friend, and I am a cranky old man who stayed up well past his bedtime last evening.”

“Then Richard, please, allow me to maintain that trust,” replied The Gunner, not unkindly. “I understand your reasoning, and your reluctance, to recruit mature men. I ask you to please understand that recruiting young men, who will be our future, does not solve the problems of the present. We must not lose sight of the fact that even as we speak men and women are being persecuted and prosecuted simply because they were born gay. You complain that the Americans will not fight back. Major, I put it to you that they cannot fight back because they have no weapons to fight with and no one who can and will arm them!”

“Hoist on me own petard, be Gawd!” The Major shook his head and then smiled. “So be it, Stephen. You are quite right, of course. Not only must we invest in the future, but we must give attention to the present.” He turned to Laurence. “Fancy a trip over ’ome?”

Laurence started. “Home, well, um, I . . .”

“Need to keep up your qualifications with the Royals,” finished the Major. “You also must know some lads who might be of interest to us.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Good it’s settled.” The Major made to rise. The Gunner asked him to remain.

“Do we, do you, know of anyone in Germany?” The Gunner asked.

“Germany?” The Major all but spat out the word. “Why would we want anyone in Germany?”

The Gunner had no reason to doubt that both the Major and Laurence knew all about his relationship with The Phantom, and saw no reason to deny that relationship. “In two, perhaps three, months a boy who is close and dear to the heart of my Phantom is being moved to Germany with his family. The boy has been the victim of abuse, mentally, emotionally, and more importantly, physically. I have taken steps, with Rick Maslen, to ensure that he is at least half-ways safe here in Canada.” The Gunner shrugged. “But Germany . . .”

The Major rubbed his chin reflectively. “Rick has mentioned the boy. One would have thought that Rick could handle the boy’s protection using his own resources in Lahr.”

“Rick will do what he can. But his resources are not limitless and there is no guarantee that those resources will be available when needed,” reminded The Gunner. “These resources are, in any event, only available on the base at Lahr. I am hoping that the Order might have a ‘correspondent’ in Germany who could keep an eye on the boy.”

Major Meinertzhagen shook his head sadly. “We have no one. When the Nazis hauled the old Master of the German Priory off to Dachau that was the end of the Order in Germany. There was never a very great move to re-establish it after the war.”

Laurence looked thoughtful. “I know some chaps in Baden. They might be persuaded to help.”

“Persuaded?” asked the Major.

Laurence looked uncomfortable. “They are not members of the Order nor are they, as far as I know, even part of the Brotherhood. They are my friends to be sure, but I am very much afraid they would look upon such a service as, um, shall we say, paid duty.”

The Gunner sighed inwardly. Nothing for nothing. “I am prepared to pay all reasonable expenses,” he said quietly.

The Major looked at The Gunner and then nodded slowly. “This boy must mean a great deal to you.”

The Gunner returned the Major’s look. “He means a great deal to my Phantom. I gave my word that I would do everything I could to see that Matt is kept safe from his parents, from his brother, and from whatever lowlifes they might set upon him. If it costs money to do that, then so be it.”

The Major was about to remark that it was refreshing to finally have somebody about who was willing to put his money where his mouth was when Rick Maslen, a huge grin on his face, appeared in the doorway. He walked to where the Major was sitting and bowed low from the waist. “What is this nonsense?” snapped The Major.

Rick straightened and addressed the Major in pontifical tones. “Messers Willoughby and Hunter have decided to resign. Simpson, assorted camp followers and hangers-on, all chattering in their abominable German, have decamped to more salubrious climes. I am instructed by the Grand Master to request the Receiver of the Common Treasure pro tem to attend him.”

The Major paled slightly, muttered “Fuck!” under his breath, rose, and left the room.

******

The resignations of Willoughby and Hunter cast a pall over the formal, grand dinner held in the hotel’s ballroom. The hotel had laid on its finest china, silver and crystal; the hotel florist had created table arrangements of outstanding beauty. All might have been paper plates and plastic cutlery, with weeds in the low china bowls that decorated each of the round tables.

Michael had informed the assembled Knights of the resignations, and the appointment of the Major as interim Receiver. Officially Willoughby and Hunter had resigned their positions pending an audit of the Order’s finances. Unofficially Michael was livid with tightly controlled anger.

As Michael told it to The Gunner just before the dinner, Willoughby had been siphoning huge sums from the Order’s accounts, which were held by Hunter’s bank. Willoughby’s business interests and addiction to playing fast and loose with the Stock Market had led him first to borrow money from Simpson, at usurious rates, and then, as the market soured, to “borrow” more funds from Hunter’s bank, secured by the Order’s deposits.

Michael’s anger was directed more at himself than at the two thieves. It did no good for Major Meinertzhagen to point out that nobody could possibly be expected to know everything about everything. Michael would not be appeased. He should have known! He knew the measure of both Willoughby and Hunter and he should have known.

The excellent service provided by the staff of the Four Seasons Hotel during the dinner did little to dispel the overall gloom, and the 11 empty chairs that would have been occupied by Willoughby, Hunter, and their friends left ugly gaps that seemed to scream betrayal. Which was exactly the effect Michael wanted. The Order had been betrayed and Michael wanted everyone to know exactly who had not been true to their oaths.

Mercifully, there were no speeches and only two toasts, one to the Queen, the other to the Order. After the dinner few of the diners felt like lingering, and by 11:30 The Gunner was back in his room, deep in conversation with Laurence as they discussed the candidates for membership in the Order. Inevitably their conversation turned to the scandal.

“What I cannot understand, Laurence, is how they thought they could get away with it,” said The Gunner.

“It was easy enough to do,” replied Laurence. “Hunter’s bank fudged the statements, which Willoughby presented to the Council. What astounds one, though, is that they used the Order’s money to bribe the other Knights into voting against you.”

“I imagine they thought that they were safe enough.” The Gunner chuckled. “Or at least safe enough until Simpson came across with the money they needed to cover their malfeasance.”

“Which he won’t dare do.” Laurence poured a cup of coffee for The Gunner and himself. Wisely they had both decided that one night of debauchery was enough. “As for the other two, I would not care to be in their position.”

Laurence looked pointedly at The Gunner, who returned the look. They both knew Michael’s reputation and they both knew that it was better not to speculate on what form Michael’s retribution might take.

“I suppose our major concern is what impact this business will have on the Order. It cannot be good,” said The Gunner pragmatically.

“I would not be looking for an honorarium,” replied Laurence. He noted the strange look on The Gunner’s face. “You did know about the honorarium, didn’t you?”

“No, I did not know.”

“Well, it’s not all that much, but it does help with the expenses,” said Laurence. “In Germany, for instance.”

The Gunner held up his hand. “That is personal, Laurence and I can pay the shot. I would never use the Order’s money for personal business.”

“This boy, this Matt Greene, he must be very special to you.”

The Gunner thought a moment. “Matt is the type of kid you want to be your little brother. I cannot explain why everybody loves him, they just do. It may be that it is partly an effect of his brother as a catalyst, just as the Major described. It may be that he is just a kind, good kid who loves the world and everybody in it.” He shrugged. “He is very special to my Phantom and that means that he is very special to me.”

Laurence glanced over The Gunner’s shoulder at the small photograph that sat on the bedside table. It was the first thing that The Gunner had taken out of his suitcase and Laurence had a feeling that it would be the last thing packed away when it came time for The Gunner to leave. “You must miss him very much,” Laurence said.

“I do,” agreed The Gunner with a smile. “Still, I’ll see him tomorrow night.”

Laurence stretched, yawned mightily and looked at his watch. “God, 0130.”

Laurence’s yawn was infectious. The Gunner decided to call it a night. He wished Laurence a goodnight and then prepared for bed. He was very tired and thankful that there was nothing to get up for in the morning. He pulled back the covers and got into bed and, just