Children of the Knight (52 page)

J
ENNY
sat on a newly refurbished bench, courtesy of Arthur’s crusade, in Eucalyptus Park under a mournful crescent moon, lamenting the fact that she hadn’t even spoken with Arthur, or Lance, since the night of their first interview. She gazed sadly at a brand-new mural painted on the retaining wall before her. It depicted Lance proudly holding up the banner with Arthur on horseback behind him.

She knew she’d made a connection with Arthur. She’d felt it, and so had he, and she’d been hoping he’d call her, ask her to help, make her part of his campaign, not because she needed the attention, but because
he’d
want her near. Because he felt… well,
something
for her. But she hadn’t even spoken with him and had only seen him on television.

She knew she could call him—she’d called many men in her time. If she wanted something, she went after it. But it’s not like Arthur had a cell phone… or did he? She supposed he might now, so his kids could keep in contact with him. And it’s not like she didn’t know where he lived. With all the media hovering about, she marveled that his hideout hadn’t been discovered. The police had been called off; she knew that. The sleazy, oily mayor had assured the public that the incident at the pizza parlor had been “an unfortunate misunderstanding, and would not happen again.” Yeah, Jenny had snorted at the TV,
because he made you and the LAPD look like idiots.

Arthur was busy too—that was more than obvious.
Swamped
would be a better word. He just didn’t have much time—no, he didn’t have
any
time for socializing. That must be why he hadn’t called on her. She’d give him a little longer, she decided. Then, if he still didn’t call on her, well, she’d just have to call on him.

T
HE
following morning, Lance drifted out of sleep into an uncertain wakefulness, forgetting for a moment, where he was. Then he felt the heavily muscled arm draped around him and remembered. He nudged Jack, and the older boy awoke, his face still streaked with dried tears. Disengaging themselves stiffly, they rose to stretch their legs, and Jack flexed and unflexed his arms to get the circulation going.

As Lance stood up, two envelopes dropped from his tunic and fluttered to the ground by Jack’s bare feet.

Jack noticed also. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Lance replied as he stooped to retrieve them. “Two letters. One’s addressed to Arthur, and the other… to you.”

He handed Jack the plain white envelope with “Jack” written in florid, almost calligraphic style on the front.

Jack gasped. “That’s Mark’s writing!” He tore open the letter and began to read, his mouth dropping open in shock, his face dissolving into sorrow.

“What is it?” Lance asked breathlessly, fear gripping his heart like a clenched fist.

Fresh tears dropping from his eyes, Jack silently handed over the letter.

Lance took the paper and quickly read it. He could almost hear Mark’s gentle voice as he did.

Dearest Jacky,

I know you’re gonna be pissed at me for ditching you, but I gotta get out, and you know why. I just can’t be around him no more. I’m goin’ back to the streets where I’ll get treated like the lousy stinking faggot I am. That’s all I deserve. My parents were right about me—I’m worthless. Arthur was way too good for me. But you, Jacky, you’re a real somebody, and you got a home there with him and the rest. You got a future. Oh, and Lance, tell him I’m sorry, too. He’s a good friend, like you, better’n I deserve. And he’s really awesome, and I know you think so cuz you told me. So if it turns out, you know, that he’s gay, you two would be good for each other
.

Lance blushed at that part, but Jack didn’t even notice.

Have a good life
.
I love you, too, Jacky. You’ll always be my hero. Never ever forget that.

Your best bud, Mark
.

Lance slowly dropped his arm and looked at Jack, his eyes welling with grief, his heart smothered in sadness. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry. We gotta go tell Arthur.”

Jack nodded but didn’t move. Lance gently put a hand to his friend’s bare back to nudge him along, but Jack whirled and enveloped Lance in a crushing hug, sobbing into the smaller boy’s tunic, holding on as though fearful of falling. Lance held him and comforted him and allowed the tears to flow. His own regrets filled his heart and pressed him into Jack’s body more tightly, almost with desperation. Guilt washed over him in waves of anguish as Jack’s tears brushed against his neck and soaked into his tunic like rain.

Lance thought of Mark, of the boy’s gentle, shy little smile that had always tickled something deep within him, thought of the way Mark had so readily kept his secret, even from Jack. He’d come to genuinely love Mark for that loyalty, that goodness, but had never said it, had never truly made the blond boy a part of him.

So he stood, feeling empty and heartless, clutching tightly to Jack, supporting the boy’s profound sorrow, and allowing his friend some time to cry out the pain before they had to go and tell the others about Mark.

I
N
T
HE
H
UB, there was the usual bustling activity of boys rushing around, grabbing items of clothing, prepping their weapons, gathering supplies for the day’s march. A number of them were polishing armor or swords, while others hung wet laundry on the lines or took dry laundry down, folded it, and passed it out to those just emerging from the sleeping tunnels.

Arthur sat on his throne enjoying a calm moment, tossing a football to a delighted Chris.

Lance and Jack entered soberly, Jack still shirtless and tear-streaked, Lance rumpled and sorrowful and afraid.

“Arthur, Mark’s gone.” Lance announced, and his desperate tone immediately sent a chill down Arthur’s back. He stood and handed the football to Chris.

“Go on and get ready, Sir Christopher. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“Okay, I doth go,” chirped the small boy. He looked at Jack and saw the boy crying. “It’s okay, Jack, I was just playing with Arthur cuz I couldn’t find you. You’re still the best player I ever saw.”

Lance nodded to the little boy. “Thanks, Chris, but he’ll be okay. Go get ready now.”

“Sure, Lance.” And off he went.

Arthur eyed the two boys with concern. “What hath happened to Mark?”

Lance glanced at Jack, but the older boy remained silent. “He took off, ran away,” he explained, quashing another wave of remorse. “We found these letters when we woke up this morning.”

He held out the letters. Arthur’s eyebrows shot up with worry. “We?”

Suddenly realizing what Arthur might be thinking, or perhaps just feeling his own paranoia that Arthur
might
be thinking it, Lance blushed and flipped his hair from his eyes so the man would know he wasn’t lying. “We just fell asleep talking, that’s all. Mark left this letter for you.”

He handed the letter to Arthur, who slipped out the paper and gazed a moment at the beautiful flowing script, suddenly realizing he’d never known Mark had such a gift. The writing was almost artistic. What else had he missed about that boy?

He sighed heavily and read the letter aloud:

Dear Arthur,

I never met no one like you. You got me offa drugs, which I was glad about cuz they really dragged me down. And I know you love me like a friend or a nephew or something. But I love you more than that, see, and it hurts so much to be around you knowing you can’t feel the same way. So I gotta bail, Arthur, an’ I’m sorry. Methinks thou hast been the best thing in my life, and the worst. I love you, Arthur, with all my heart. Farewell.