The Virgin King Copyright ©John Michael Curlovich 2011
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Digital ISBN: 9781626015517
Print ISBN: 9781626015500
First edition published by Ravenous Romance by Jon Jockel, 2011
Second edition, March 2020
It seems to me there are other men in other lands,
yearning and thoughtful…
And it seems to me if I could know those men,
I should become attached to them,
as I do to men in my own lands;
O I know we should be brethren and lovers,
I know I should be happy with them.
—Walt Whitman

Prologue:
Brother Juniper
It might have been a scene from some other dark, epic fantasy novel. But it was quite real.
A chain of dark, jagged mountains loomed. Dark clouds swirled. It was summer and the peaks weren’t especially high, so there were no snowcaps crowning them, but they were forbidding nonetheless. In the foothills surrounding them, shepherds and goatherds tended their animals. Lush, green, cultivated fields yielded food for the peasants who dwelled there, and there were even vineyards. Mountain streams provided cool, clear water.
But higher up, the mountains were stark and black. Some of the peaks were so steep they had never been climbed in living memory. Even on a sunny day the mountains seemed shrouded in dark mists and storm clouds.
So it was with a lot of apprehension that a contingent of eight of the Bulvanian Royal Guardsmen, in full dress uniform, made their way up the east face of the tallest and sharpest of the peaks. Their bright red and white dress uniforms gave the landscape its only color, and their polished brass helmets and buttons gleamed in the mountain light. Curious farmers and herdsmen watched as they passed, but the party never stopped. Their mission was too important.
The leader of this band was Captain Alexander Borodenko. He was of medium height and average build, but he was quite strikingly handsome, and he wore his uniform well; he had always been a favorite of the royal family. His hair was light brown and his blue eyes scanned the mountain continuously, always alert for signs of potential danger. In other, less taxing circumstances he cut a dashing figure, but the climb was draining him, as it was all of his men.
His lieutenant, an athlete named Peter Skonsin, put a hand on his shoulder. “Alex, this mission is crazy. This climb is killing us. Let the Privy Council come and get him or let them find someone else.”
“You mean to tell me that Bulvania’s star wrestler isn’t up to this climb?” He didn’t try to hide his amusement.
Another of the men, Sergeant Evgeny Petrovich, spoke up. “It isn’t just Peter, sir. We’re all winded.”
Peter added, “We don’t have any reason to think he’ll accept this offer. And for that matter we can’t even be sure he’s there.”
“All his aunts say he is. We don’t have anything else to go on. And he has to accept—it is for the greater glory of Bulvania, after all.”
Peter pointed at the mountaintop. “If he cared about Bulvania he wouldn’t be living up there. He might as well be a hermit.”
“Or a beachcomber on an island in the Black Sea.” A gust of wind blew up, and Evgeny wrapped his arms around himself. “Besides,” his manner turned serious, “We’ll never find anyone who can fill Raymond’s shoes.”
“No one knows that any better than I do.” Alex’s voice was tinged with sadness. For a moment he seemed to withdraw inside himself. Then he snapped out of it and in his best command voice he said, “That’s enough, both of you. Just be glad we thought to wear thermal underwear. We have our orders. Forward!”
The climb was arduous, and there wasn’t much more talk among them as they ascended. By midday, hours after they’d set out, their goal was in sight: the centuries-old monastery of St. Dymphna, cut into the living rock of the mountaintop.
None of the guardsmen had ever visited the place; there had never been any need. None of them even knew anyone who’d ever been there. But the guardsmen had a mission, an important one, and they climbed filled with a sense of duty and purpose, despite the occasional bouts of grumbling.
* * *
The entrance yawned before them, and the interior was pitch black. It might have been a natural cave except that the corners were cut to make it a perfect rectangle; and there was an ornate cross cut into the stone above it. Peter groused again. “Alex, we’re wasting our time. This place is deserted. No one could live in there, not even a bat if it had a shred of self-respect.”
“Besides,” Evgeny chimed in, “even if he’s here, he may not want to leave. I mean, marriage, the need to produce an heir.” He wrinkled his nose. “Even this might be preferable.”
“I wish the two of you would stop it.” Alex was relieved at finding their goal and increasingly annoyed with his two subordinates. “The prospect of an arranged marriage and the need to father a son may be just the inducement he needs. Not all men are like us, you know.” His voice was hard—the voice of a seasoned commander—but it was tinged ever so faintly with sadness. “Let’s go in and see what we find. Everyone who knows him says he’s here. We have to try.”
They lit torches and went in. The darkness was complete, and the torchlight barely seemed to penetrate the gloom or brighten the dark stone walls. Only a glow far ahead of them gave them any reason to think they should keep going. But 50 feet on, the corridor took a sharp leftward turn, and the guardsmen found themselves in a wider passage lit brightly by torches in sconces along the wall. The walls were polished and they reflected the torchlight; after the gloom of the first corridor it was almost blinding.
There was still no one in sight. But when the passage turned again, to the right this time, they found themselves face to face with two men. They were, from their dress, monks of the Church of Bulvania: they wore heavy black robes and large iron crosses around their necks, and they sported thick black beards. They might have been twins.
For a moment the guardsmen stopped cold, startled. No one said a word. Then Alex saluted the monks and opened his mouth to speak. But Peter grinned at them and spoke first. “We’re here to read the gas meter.”
“Peter!” Alex barked. “Attention!” He turned back to the two monks, who were staring in obvious confusion. “My apologies for my subordinate’s sense of humor, gentlemen, or what he thinks is one. I am Captain Alexander Borodenko of the Bulvanian Royal Guards. We are here on official business. We come in search of Raymond von Flausenthurm. We are informed that he—”
Before he could finish, the monks went into a quick, whispered huddle. Finally one of them smiled and said, “I am Brother Hawthorn, and this is Brother Filbert. You are welcome here, sir. Let us take you to Abbot Beech.”
* * *
The brothers led them through a maze of corridors, each with highly polished walls, each lit brightly by torchlight. The polished stone reflected and multiplied the light as if it were a hall of mirrors; the interior of the monastery was a good bit brighter than the world outside. Af
ter several twists and turns, they reached the entrance to a room at the end of the last passageway. Brother Hawthorn asked them to wait for a moment while he announced them to the abbot, then went inside.
As they waited, Peter turned to Evgeny. “Do you notice anything really strange about this place?”
“Other than the obvious?”
“Listen. You’ll hear what I mean.” He paused for an instant. “Or rather, you won’t hear.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Peter.”
“Doesn’t the silence, the stillness seem incredibly odd to you? No clocks. There are no clocks here.”
“You’re right!” Evgeny looked around as if the sudden realization was the weirdest thing he’d ever experienced. “No wheels, no gears turning, no works unwinding, no birds chirping. I can’t remember ever hearing anything like this before.”
“God is timeless,” Brother Filbert explained patiently. “And so are our lives, to honor him.”
Alex tried to engage him in conversation. “I notice that the ceilings of the corridors aren’t stained by smoke. Cleaning them must be a big, ongoing job.”
“Not at all, sir.” The monk was serene. “There are enough tiny cracks in the mountain to create drafts. They waft the smoke gently away and keep our air from getting stale.”
“I see. Do you—”
“I am in charge of cleaning and maintenance for the entire monastery, and I am constantly grateful that God has given us such wonderful cracks.”
“Uh, of course.”
Brother Hawthorn returned. “The abbot will be happy to see you, gentlemen.”
“Excellent.” Alex turned to his men and told them to remain while he dealt with the abbot. Taking Peter with him, he went into the office.
Abbot Beech was a slightly plump, middle-aged version of the two monks they’d already met. Black robes, black beard, iron cross. His face was deeply lined with age, though. As they entered, he watched them without smiling or betraying any emotion at all. His desk, like everything else in the abbey, was carved out of the mountain’s stone; it was a monolith growing out of the floor. So were the visitors’ chairs that faced it. He gestured to them, and Alex and Peter took a seat.
“Welcome, gentlemen. You are members of the king’s guard, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I saw the king’s guard once when I was a boy, before I ever came here. You are a sign of tradition, stability and continuity, like our mountain. But it is so rare for the secular world to take note of us. How may we help you?”
“We are here on official government business, sir. The Privy Council has sent us in search of Raymond of Flausenthurm, and we understand he may be here.”
“Raymond.” The abbot’s manner couldn’t have been more sober or serious. “It is years since he used that name. He is known to us as Bother Juniper. May I ask what you want with him?”
Alex took an envelope bearing an official seal out of his tunic and handed it across the desk. “This will explain.”
He took it and read. And as he read, he frowned more and more deeply. “So the king is dead. We had not heard. I am afraid news does not reach us very often.” Before Alex could respond, he added, “And we prefer it that way. But I will have the monastery’s historian make note of this.”
He went back to his reading and finished the document. He looked up from it at his visitors, seemingly uncertain what to say. After a pause he told them, “Brother Juniper has been with us for six years, since his 14th birthday. He has always been happy here. I am not at all certain how he will feel about this.”
“Never the less, sir, we have our orders. The nation requires—”
“I am afraid we are part of the Lord’s nation here. We recognize no other.”
“Still, sir, we are under orders. If you could please take us to him.”
“Could you be patient and let me explain, gentlemen? Brother Juniper is, well, something of a prodigy. You might even say he is a genius, in his way. He has revolutionized our accounting and bookkeeping procedures; St. Dymphna’s is operating more smoothly than it has in 500 years.”
“The nation could well use those same talents, sir.”
“Let me go on. It is not simply accounting. In everything he touches—science, music, name it—Brother Juniper shines. We have a small observatory up at the very peak of the mountain, and Juniper has done marvelous work there; his studies of binary stars have been published in international journals. He is a marvelous musician; his compositions for the organ are being performed across Europe. He has devised new techniques for copying and illuminating manuscripts. At this very moment he is in the scriptorium working on a manuscript of Thomas Aquinas. In short, he is a marvel. Intellectually, that is. Otherwise… ”
“Yes?”
“Well, I am afraid Juniper is… how can I put it? Less than polished. He is shy and quite socially awkward. I fear that out in the world, his talents would never be able to blossom as they have here. And… well, if you knew the websites we have had to block him from viewing! So you see, it is not merely that he might not want to leave his life here; taking him away from here would simply not be good for him.”
Alex took this all in, and it did raise concerns in his mind. Yet orders were orders. “I see. But you must please try to understand our position. That nation… well, the nation needs him, as explained in the letter you’ve just read. Believe me, sir, no one wants to do anything that will affect Raymond adversely. But I’m afraid we have no choice. I can certainly promise you he will receive all the support he requires to thrive in the outside world. I’m afraid we must ask you to take us to him.”
The abbot frowned. “And if I refuse?”
“Your monastery is quite secure on this mountaintop, sir. But it is hardly impregnable.”
Slowly, deliberately, the abbot said, “You would do that? You would violate the sanctity of this place?”
“If you are holding Raymond here when his country needs him, yes, we most certainly would.”
“I see.” He frowned, and the lines in his face deepened. Slowly, deliberately, he said, “Very well, then. Come along.”
He led them in silence through more and more long, torch-lit corridors. Alex began to wonder if he was intentionally stalling for time. From time to time they passed other monks, all robed similarly in black, all heavily bearded, who regarded the military party with plain curiosity. The abbot ignored them and moved purposefully though the halls. At length they came to the library/scriptorium, at the far end of another corridor.
The light inside was dimmer. The walls were not polished but rough and unfinished, and fewer torches burned. Shelves of manuscripts filled the room, and tables were stacked high with them. At the far end of the room, hunched over a wooden table lit by two candles, was a man. He much scruffier than his colleagues; his robes were smudged with dirt, grime and paint, and his beard was wild and scraggly. Several small pots of pigments were beside him on the table; he was indeed copying and illuminating a manuscript.
Evgeny leaned close to Pater and whispered, “God help us, he looks like Rasputin on a bad hair day.”
Alex quickly shushed them.
When he heard their voices, Brother Juniper got to his feet and stood beside his table facing them. They couldn’t help noticing his eyes, which were huge and expressive. “Yes, gentlemen? Abbot Beech, what is this about? I have work to—”
But before he could finish, the guardsman, all eight of them, got down on one knee. In his best command voice Alex intoned, “For the greater glory of Bulvania!” The guardsmen bowed their heads, and in unison said, “Your majesty!”
Chapter One
The National Mall and the Washington Monument could be seen from the large window behind P.T. Bockwein’s desk. The sight always pleased him. In summer the monument shone bright and clear; in winter it resisted the worst nature could throw at it. In P.T.’s mind it was a perfect symbol of American democracy and the capitalist syst
em, solid and upright, despite the fact that it had been damaged in an earthquake and was now surrounded by scaffolding for the repair work.
P.T.’s son Logan had no such romantic view of it; He always described the monument as “America’s most prominent phallic symbol,” much to his father’s annoyance.
P.T.’s office at Bockwein Tin & Zinc, Inc. (known popularly as Zinc, Inc.) was a bit of a monument to capitalism in itself—capitalism and American acquisitiveness. It was enormous, too—a fitting office for an industrial magnate. There were a dozen windows, thick plush carpeting, heavy brocade drapes, opulent furniture. Expensive art works covered the walls—Old Masters, Impressionists, and there were even some modern paintings by Warhol and Jackson Pollack. Three cabinets held dozens of objects of art, ranging from Ancient Egyptian statuettes and pre-Columbian figurines to modern works by Brancusi and Modigliani.
None of this reflected P.T.’s own taste; his penchant was for Norman Rockwell and the Saturday Evening Post school of art. His son Logan had selected the things in his art collection for him.
The only thing in the office that seemed jarringly out of place was an enormous cuckoo clock that ticked loudly on the wall behind P.T.’s desk. It was a huge thing, by wall-clock standards almost gargantuan, with elaborate carving on every square inch of its face. Vines, leaves, acorns, pine cones coiled everywhere across its face, and it was crowned by a magnificent, beautifully carved twelve-point stag’s head. And it ticked so loudly as to distract visitors from what they were saying to P.T.—or what he was saying to them. There was a theory among his associates that the clock was a form of one-upmanship on his part, a device to give him an edge over anyone he was talking to.
But his own explanation was much simpler. “It’s a reminder of my Bulvanian heritage,” he would tell people who asked. That was usually enough to stop any complaints. If anyone had bothered to look into the matter, they’d have found out that his Bulvanian heritage was so slender as to be almost non-existent: His great-aunt’s great-grandmother had come from that tiny Eastern European country; that was the extent of it. Yet P.T. was pleased as punch about it, and he claimed that the cuckoo clock was a proud reminder of what he called his “roots.”
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