The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  Alex Borodenko, representing the king, bowed and greeted new ambassador. “Good evening, Your Excellency. Bulvania welcomes you, and on behalf of his majesty so do I.”

  P.T., in black tie and tails, looked not merely like a fish out of water but like a stranded dolphin on the verge of panic. He tried his best to cover his discomfort not just at wearing formal evening dress but at being fussed over in this grand manner. “And I hope his majesty will be joining us soon.” So far there had been no sign of him.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. It is an old Bulvanian tradition. The king makes no public appearances till his coronation.”

  “But surely everyone already knows who he is. Don’t they?”

  “Secrecy is not the issue, sir. Tradition—and even the wording of the coronation ceremony—holds that the coronation constitutes a kind of marriage between king and country. It wouldn’t do for the bridegroom to be seen by his bride before the wedding.”

  “I see. When will we meet him and present our credentials?”

  “After the coronation, sir, one week from Sunday.”

  Alex greeted the rest of the American party and made certain they had everything they wanted. There was instant rapport between him and Logan, and Logan began to realize to his delight that Bulvania was hardly the gay wasteland he’d imagined.

  “This is quite an affair, captain. There can’t be a court in Europe that could outdo it.”

  Alex was self-effacing. “We are only a small country, sir. We do our best. And please, call me Alex.”

  “Alex, then—if you’ll call me Logan. I was just thinking I should have brought a camera. This is all so impressive.”

  “You are a photographer? I understood you to be the ambassador’s personal assistant.”

  “I’m both. I’m not at all sure why our delegation needs an official photographer, but I’m it. You guardsmen all look terrific in your dress uniforms. I’d love to get some pictures of you. Can we arrange that?”

  “I’m afraid we only wear them for formal state occasions. Perhaps someday.”

  He decided to be bold and trust his instincts. “Then perhaps I can get some shots of you out of them.”

  “Logan!” Alex feigned shock, then laughed.

  A few minutes later at one of the food tables Logan found himself talking to Peter again. “Your Captain Borodenko is quite a striking man.”

  “Everyone says so.”

  “I’m not usually attracted to fair-haired men. They’re too much like myself. But he looks damn hot in his uniform.”

  “I’m afraid you’d be wasting your time. He is not, how would you say? available.”

  Logan was shocked. He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and whispered, “Do you mean to tell me he isn’t gay?

  “Not at all. Far from it. But he is in mourning for the late King Raymond.”

  “Is that all?” Logan chuckled. “I’ve been known to cruise funerals before now.”

  “And you propositioned the widowers?”

  This was unexpected. “What do you mean?”

  Peer lowered his voice. “May I tell you something in strict confidence?”

  Logan nodded.

  “Captain Borodenko and King Raymond were lovers. The king’s death left Alex devastated. He is only beginning to be himself again. It will take a while, I think.”

  “I see. Well, in that case—but—but I was told the king died in his mistress’ arms.”

  “That is the official story, yes. You know diplomacy. Everyone must be discreet about everything. I’m afraid I’ve said too much myself, just now. I really should not gossip.” His tone made it clear that he loved gossip and was simply saying the thing that was proper and expected.

  “No, no, I’m glad you told me. I’d feel so foolish if I hit on him. But I simply have to ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve heard that a lot of Bulvania’s kings have been gay. Or bi, I guess—or the royal line would have died out.”

  “That is what our historians say, yes. Or rather, it is what they whisper. Officially, of course… Going all the way back to the first king. There have been some who were completely hetero, as well. But every county has its lavender history.”

  Logan laughed. “A few of our presidents, too. But tell me.”

  “Hm?”

  “The new king. Is he—?”

  Peter sipped his champagne. “No one knows. He’s only been here such a short time. He was in a monastery, you know.”

  “So he really is gay.”

  “His majesty is, shall we say, in need of a bit of polish. The life of a monk—what is always called ‘the contemplative life’—doesn’t tend to produce men who are out and proud. We have our suspicions, but, well, you’ll meet him next week at the coronation. As I said, he needs polish.”

  There was a very nice rapport growing between the two of them. Logan was about to suggest they slip away from the reception for a quick, private encounter. But before he could say it, the orchestra stopped dead. Then after a moment’s pause, they broke into a loud military fanfare. Everyone in the room turned toward one of the doorways and froze.

  It took Logan a few seconds to find the focus of everyone’s attention. Through the ballroom’s largest door came a procession of liveried servants followed by six men in what looked like royal guardsmen’s uniforms—except that they were green and white, not red and white, and there were no plumes on their helmets. Behind them regally, magisterially, came a woman in an elaborate gown dripping with jewels and gold. Some in the crowd, the major domo or some other minor official, intoned, “For the greater glory of Bulvania!”

  Logan whispered to Peter, “Who—?”

  “Her majesty, Queen Theodora.”

  Everyone in the room bowed to her. It seemed to Logan they weren’t bowing quite as low as they might, but he shrugged the thought off; this protocol stuff was still so new to him. But from a half-bow he eyed the queen.

  She was all woman, dignified and, well, queenly. Her hair was bright blond; Logan wondered whether the color was quite natural. A diamond tiara sat atop her head, and the jewels seemed to blaze. More jewels—a diamond and emerald necklace, matching bracelets on both arms, an over-ornate diamond bustier—gleamed almost ethereally. Her gown was deep black velvet; the skirt seemed almost to billow around her. She was a queen out of a fairy tale or a movie. She made a slight gesture with her right hand and everyone in the room straightened up out of their bow.

  “So that is Queen Theodora.”

  “Yes, Logan.”

  “She cuts an impressive figure.”

  “Yes. A woman has to do that, to attract a king’s eye.”

  Logan smirked. “Even a gay king, eh?”

  “As you know, his majesty died without an heir. We’ve often wondered whether it was because there was no—how do you say?—sexual chemistry between them or whether it was simply an unfortunate circumstance.”

  “Doesn’t Captain Alex know?”

  Logan watched as his father was presented to the queen. He found himself hoping P.T. really would curtsy instead of bowing. But the ambassador bowed properly, the queen nodded in gracious acknowledgment, and Logan relaxed. He was disappointed, but there was no way to let it show.

  Something hit Logan. “Shouldn’t she be in mourning? I mean, other than the black gown, she doesn’t seem to be—”

  The orchestra blared out another fanfare, this one slow, almost lugubrious. Minor harmonies verging on discord filled the sir. Logan leaned close to Peter and whispered, “Who now? I thought we’d already seen all of the royal family.”

  “More than royal.” Peter shushed him.

  Into the ballroom swept a tall, dark, heavily bearded man. He was dressed in robes of brilliant gold lamé. His fingers sported ten rings, each of glittering gold with a large—very large—gemstone. Even from the far side of the ballroom Logan could clearly make out an emerald, a ruby, a sapphire and what must have been the largest diamond anywhere outside a museum
. The man walked with a gold staff, like a shepherd’s crook with an ornately curved top. Around his neck hung a jewel-encrusted crucifix almost as large as his head. He crossed directly to the queen and bowed to her.

  Surrounding the man was a score of teenage boys, all of them fresh-faced and well-scrubbed, all of them blond, all dressed as altar boys in cassock and surplice.

  Logan whistled softly. “That simply has to be the archbishop.”

  “Exactly right. He is Josiah Defilippo, Archbishop of Flausenthurmopolis and head of the Church of Bulvania.” He lowered his voice even more. “An ally of the queen.”

  “He likes his boys young and fair. I’m glad I’m past 20.”

  “Logan!” Peter chuckled softly. “You’re right, but it doesn’t do to say so.”

  Immediately there followed another grand entrance, but this time there was no fanfare. A tall, thin, almost gaunt man with jet black hair, obviously dyed, ghastly pale skin, dressed entirely in black walked straight to the queen, bowed to her then kissed her hand.

  Logan looked inquiringly at Peter.

  “Count von Schlutow, the most powerful man in Bulvania after the king. He wanted the throne himself, but the Privy Council decided to go with Raymond. I’m glad they did.”

  Logan eyed the count for a moment. “How uptight is he? He looks like he hasn’t been to the bathroom for weeks.”

  For several minutes Peter had been inching closer and closer to him. Logan became increasingly aware of the warmth he radiated; and his own body began to respond. Bulvania was not very different from Washington D.C. after all. At length their hands touched. Whether it was the champagne or genuine electricity Logan didn’t know; but he knew he wanted Peter, wanted him badly.

  They looked at each other. For a long moment neither of them smiled. Then they simultaneously broke out in wide grins. Logan whispered, “Can we get away from here for a few minutes? Or are you actually on duty?”

  Peter squeezed his hand briefly, then let go. “Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  The night was dark, and so was most of the castle. Strains of music from the ballroom came through the night, touching everything in the palace grounds. The light blazing from its windows lit the palace grounds sufficiently to let them to see their way clearly. The darkness was unexpected; Logan asked Peter, “You do know where we’re going, don’t you?” Before Peter could answer Logan ran a hand up and down his back and stroked his cheek.

  Peter smiled in the darkness. “Of course. We are going to the Frederick the Great Building, where we royal guards are housed.”

  “Frederick the Great? Wasn’t he German or something?”

  “Prussian, he was Prussian.”

  “Then why on earth would Bulvania name its prestige military quarters after him?”

  Peter stopped walking and kissed him. “Lord, you are a beautiful man. Like all the Americans in the movies.”

  And Logan kissed back. “You’re not so bad yourself. But about Frederick the Great… ?”

  Their kiss was perfect. Peter was wildly aroused. He took Logan’s hand and led him along the way. “The story goes that Frederick’s officers came to him one day, complaining that their men hadn’t had leave in too long and were grumbling that they needed sex.”

  “And so you named your dormitory after him?” Logan was lost.

  “Don’t be snide, Logan. Frederick told his officers, point-blank, ‘You know where the men can find their sex—in the barracks.’ When our new quarters were erected. Back in the 18th century, someone decided it was fitting to name the building in his honor.”

  “Nice. But are you saying that all of the royal guards are… And that you have always been… ?” It didn’t seem probable. But Logan decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  He tried to kiss Peter again, but Peter whispered, “Not all of us. That would be silly.” He pulled Logan on. In only a moment they were at the barracks.

  The inside was dark. And empty—the entire cohort of guards was on duty at the ball. Peter switched on a small lamp, not much more than a nightlight. “My room is on the second floor.”

  “Why wait? There’s no one around.” Logan pushed him against the wall, kissed him and began undressing him. In a flash they were both naked, having sex on a nearby table.

  Chapter Twelve

  Raymond stood in his room at the top of the palace’s highest tower, naked and still wet from a bath. It was a huge bedchamber, and the bed was wide, plush and well worthy of a king. The carpet—an elaborately patterned Persian carpet, was likewise plush. Genuine antique Tiffany lamps lit the room. But his mood called for darkness, and he switched them off one by one. He walked to the window, toweling himself. Strains of the “Emperor Waltz” reached him faintly from the ball far below.

  Wanting to be alone, needing time to think, he had given his personal servants the night off; all the others were performing duties at the ball, which was fine with him. The only one still on duty was an elderly man named Gustavo who had fallen asleep in a chair just outside the king’s bedchamber. Raymond had lived most of his life in the monastery and was used to solitude and quiet. Part of him wished he had been able to go to the ball, but a bigger part was pleased to be alone. The sound of Gustavo snoring softly mixed with the Strauss.

  Since coming to the castle, and particularly since the Privy Council had chosen him to be the next king, he had scarcely had a moment to himself. Life had been a whirlwind of introductions, quick-study courses in Bulvanianthe embassy itself

  history and tradition, and tours of various parts of the palace and the smaller buildings surrounding it on its grounds. He passed at the window and finished drying himself, and he found himself swaying gently in time with the music. He loved music and would have liked to be closer to it, but…

  He walked to the full-length mirror on one wall. Most of the monks at St. Dymphna’s were on the plump side. Compared to them, he always felt skinny, even spindly. In point of fact his body was lean and good, fit but not over-muscled, but he couldn’t see it that way. His hair and beard were still wet. He toweled them vigorously. On a chair in a corner were his monk’s robes. He loved them and found them comfortable, but since his arrival his various servants and retainers had insisted he had to wear more modern things. Tonight, there was no one to tell him what to wear. He climbed into the robes and went back to the window.

  Far below he could see the ballroom ablaze with light. He could even make out a few people in the windows. The rest of the palace was dark. That main building, the guards’ barracks, the stables and various other outbuildings were perfectly black, perfectly blank. Except…

  At the top of another tower of the palace, one window shone with light. It wasn’t bright, but it was bright enough to be unmistakable. It was a residential wing, he knew. Who lived there? he wondered. Someone had probably told him, but amid all the other information he had to digest it got lost.

  On a table in one corner of his bedchamber was a large wooden table. On one end of it sat his microscope; he had been studying the organisms that live in rainwater. At the other end was a stack of books—history, philosophy, theology. But he was feeling a bit too restless for anything scholarly. He got dressed and sneaked out of the room, past Gustavo and down the spiral staircase. This was his first chance to explore the palace on his own. Who knew what was waiting there for him? He had found one friend in Alex, or at least he hoped they would become close friends. Maybe that room in the tower held another kindred spirit.

  Now and then as he moved through the halls, he could hear the faint sounds made by the skeleton crew of servants who were still on duty, tending fires, cooking for the ball-goers and so on. He was careful not to let them see him. The sounds of the ball were closer now and easier to hear. One waltz followed another; now and then the monotony would be broken with a polka or other dance.

  The palace was quite dark and, to appearances, quite empty. The only sound was the ticking of cuckoo clocks. Moving through ro
om after room, being careful not to make a sound lest the remaining servants hear him, Raymond explored his new world in a way he hadn’t been able to before. Passing a leaded-glass window, he noticed a faint light flicker on in the guards’ barracks. Part of him wanted to go up that second tower and meet its occupant. But that light… maybe it was Alex. He had to go see.

  The courtyard was as empty as the palace—even emptier, since there were no servants he had to duck. The shortest way to the other tower was directly past the guards’ barracks. He glanced up, and that light was still on in the tower. It would wait, or at least he hoped so. The barracks was close at hand; it was the obvious first place to check out.

  By faint light from the ballroom he could see the inscription over the barracks door: Frederick the Great. He hadn’t noticed it before, and it struck him as odd; he knew that Frederick had been Prussian not Bulvanian. Why would they have named… ? It didn’t seem worth worrying about. He shrugged and went quietly inside.

  The main corridor was blacker than the night outside. He moved slowly and carefully, past one darkened doorway after another. At the far end of the corridor he could see a dim line of light coming under one door. If he remembered right (and he wasn’t certain he did, since his tour of the barracks earlier had been quick and short) it was the arms room. Why, of all places in the barracks, would someone be there?

  As he approached he heard voices, muffled, indistinct voices. He tried to make out what they were saying, but they seemed to be just a series of groans and moans. By the time he reached the door he was quite positive—these were the sounds of passion, not conversation. And he realized they were both male voices. Raymond stood there, transfixed by the thought of what was happening on the other side of that door.

  Slowly, gingerly he touched it with a finger. It swung open an inch. He knew, his ethical sense told him, that he should simply walk away. But he was 19. The sounds of lovemaking swept him up. He put an eye to the crack in the doorway and looked.