The Squire's Tale - Prologue. Prologue

The three travelers on the Qantas flight from Melbourne to New York sat in silence in the business class lounge of the Airbus A380.

Finally, Harold Smith-Tawes spoke, “That’s quite a story, Bill... I think I have known one or two priests like Peter Ruxton.”

“And I’ve met a few who should have done what he did,” Charles Rolfe added.

Bill Martin smiled. “Well, like Harold, I won’t reveal how much of my story is based on real-life...”

The flight attendant came into the deserted bar.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you’ll need to return to your seats. We are about thirty minutes out, and we’ll need to prepare the cabin for landing in Los Angeles.”

As the three men rose, Freddie added, “From the snatches I overheard of the first two stories, I’d love to hear the whole things.”

They all smiled and finished their drinks. They shook his hand and thanked him for providing them with the ideal spot to share their tales. Everyone tipped him generously, using their own currency.

“Thanks, mates. I go to all these countries on my international flights.”

The landing at LAX was uneventful. They proceeded through US Customs and were soon reunited in the waiting lounge for the second long leg of their journey.

“I believe it’s your turn to tell a story, Rolfe,” Harold said with a smile, as they settled down into comfortable seats.

“It had better be good,” Bill kidded.

“Oh, I think you gents will find it very stimulating.” Rolfe grinned wickedly.

Bill laughed. “Can’t wait.”

Once they were onboard the A380 and the fasten seat-belts light was turned off, Harold rang for the flight attendant.

“Yes, sir?” It was not the same man who had served them on as they crossed the Pacific.

“Oh, I say. We were wondering if we could sit in the bar lounge up front. We were in the midst of a long conversation, and we’d like to continue it, if possible.”

The flight attendant chuckled. “Freddie, your previous flight attendant, told me all about your racy ‘tales along the way.’ I can’t guarantee no one else will want a drink, or that the captain won’t turn on the fasten seat belts light, but there’s a quiet corner of the bar where you can sit, and I’ll do my best to keep it private for you.”

“Thank you, my good man.” Harold nodded to the other two. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

“I just wish I could sit with you three and hear at least one of your bawdy stories.”

“Oh, I have an idea about that,” Bill Martin winked at him. “Maybe we’ll have some news for you before we land in New York.”

When they were seated with two drinks apiece, Rolfe straightened in his chair and regarded the other two men with a serious expression.

“First of all, I need to make it absolutely clear that the young men in my story are all of legal age, at least here in the States—meaning they are 18 or older. I wouldn’t want there to be any notion that I’m talking about ankle biters or rug rats! Also, they use protection whenever it’s possible to do so. In the rare instances when it’s not available, they are as careful as they can be under the circumstances.”

“Understood,” Bill replied. “And now that you’ve got us both very interested, please tell the tale.”

“With pleasure, mates.”