1
The day of the state funeral dawns uncharacteristically sunny. Soft white clouds scud in the sky, occasionally hiding the cheerful ball of yellow sun. The entire nation of Moldavia is either out in the streets or watching the proceedings on TV. The stores have all closed. Flags are flown at half-mast. The mood is somber as is fitting for the death of a King who has served the people for well over forty years.
My heart is leaden in my chest.
Although the old King had no fondness for me, he was a good man. I bore him no ill will. He was the father of the man I love, after all. He would not have been glad to hear of Alex’s proposal to me. Most likely he would have keeled over dead. So in essence, I’m secretly glad he won’t be around to be murdered by our announcement. I would have keeled over from a heart attack if I’m held responsible for the death of Alex’s father.
People line both sides of the street. They are unanimously dressed in black. Black hats, black veils, black gloves, black dresses. Many shades and hues of black. There’s misty black, charcoal black, blue black, raven black, shimmering black. Even in mourning, the Moldavians are a fashionable lot.
Some people are openly crying. The King must have been dearly loved. The royal hearse rolls slowly down the streets from the palace. It is laden with flowers. Even from where I stand, I can smell their cloying, sickly sweet scent.
The Queen, Alex and his sisters have chosen to walk behind the hearse. The procession is slow, plodding. As I am not yet part of the family, I walk behind the royal guests and dignitaries – twenty rows deep. Tatiana and her father are just behind the Moldavian royals. Yes, I’m well aware of the contrast between her status and mine.
Royals from all over Europe have flown in to attend the funeral. The news crews from every continent are out, filming the entire procession. No flash bulbs today. Photos are taken discreetly and digitally.
My consolation is to be placed beside Madame Fournier, who is elegant in a flowing black dress and a black turban wrapped around her head.
“You look very nice,” she says to me.
“Thank you.”
I am dressed in various shades of harmonious black. My head is crowned by a black hat. My face is shadowed in a lacy and netted veil.
“I heard about the proposal,” she says.
There has been no formal announcement. Alex and I both agreed that it would be crass to tell anyone outside immediate family.
“Who did you hear it from?”
“Jasper.”
Figures. Jasper walks behind us, probably listening to our every word. Although he has been kinder to me of late, I still hold him in suspicious regard. I bear no illusions that he would not hesitate to ship me on the next flight out of Moldavia if his Queen wishes it so. I raise my head. Since coming to Moldavia and being labeled Public Royal Enemy Number One, I have gained considerable backbone.
I think.
Anyway, I love Alex and I will do whatever it takes to weather tornadoes for him. And I can smell them hurling in like thunderbolts from the near distance. I’ve developed quite a nose for them since spending a month in Indonesia.
I find myself drifting back to that wonderful time Alex and I shared on the sunny beaches. Just the two of us . . . in the outskirts of the village. Making love on the sand. It was a simple, uncomplicated time. Oh, how I wish –
I shouldn’t wish. I can’t reverse time. Alex is King now. He has his duties, and as the woman he has asked to marry, I must do my duty to him.
Madame Fournier says, “How did the Queen take it?”
“I don’t know.” My black shoes are starting to hurt. “She has not spoken to me since the hospital.”
It’s true. I don’t blame her. The last three days have been very trying on the family. I’ve hardly seen Alex.
“I suggest not making your engagement public for at least six months,” she says meaningfully.
Yes. Everyone would hate me even more, just when I thought I had reversed a little of it. I’m sure the public doesn’t hate me so much anymore, especially since I’ve embraced their culture. Even the dress and shoes I’m wearing are Greta Havre, a Moldavian designer. I’m sure all this would not be lost on the tabloid press.
Still . . . six months! Six months to wait before we can proclaim our commitment to the world. A lot can happen in six months.
Our procession walks down the main street of Moldavia. Once we reach the end, a bevy of sleek black limos are waiting to take us back to the palace grounds, where the old King’s body will be interred.
The ‘burial’ takes place in the Imperial Crypt. The mausoleum is larger than a house. Its external walls are festooned with winged angels and cherubs and saints – all carved in black granite. The huge twin iron doors bear Latin inscriptions and two large crosses on either side. Only immediate family is allowed inside the crypt, and so the ceremony is conducted outside.
The royals and dignitaries all throng the open casket, which will be wheeled into the crypt. I am once again three rows deep. I am told that the old King’s body has been embalmed and he will be put together with his ancestors, who date back to the sixteenth century. One day, Alex will grow old and die, I’m morbidly aware, and he too will be interred here together with his father, who once disapproved of his choice of a wife.
The Archbishop of Moldavia is the highest cleric in the land. He prays in Latin, something I reckon most of the audience does not understand. He is a man of seventy, with shocking white hair and stern eyes as piercing as the sky. As he prays and blesses the casket with holy water, his gaze rakes over the audience.
Although I’m behind two bodies, I swear his eyes alight on me for a tad longer than usual. They blaze with derision. So, they seem to say. You are the one who has caused such grief.
And then the moment passes and his eyes flit away.
I swallow. Could it have been my imagination?
It is Alex’s turn to say something. In black, he is somber and serious and very handsome, as befitting a young new King. He speaks in French, something I will have to learn if I am to be his wife. I don’t understand most of what he’s saying, but I believe he is asking for forgiveness.
Forgive me, Father, for hurting you.
Forgive me for not being at your side when you were first taken ill.
Forgive me for failing to be the son you wanted.
Forgive me for constantly disappointing you.
Although I am not sure what Alex is saying (nor do I intend to ask him), my mind runs over with things he may be saying.
Forgive me for choosing to marry a woman so far beneath my station and bringing this family shame. Now that I am King, I will rectify this, Father. I will cast her aside and take Tatiana to be my one true bride.