“The funeral procession is ready for you, madam,” said a maid servant. Bebeth and another maid arrayed her in the traditional mourning veil of a Mirayan woman, a huge piece of black cloth which covered her body completely. The only gaps were a latticework of embroidery through which she could see and slits in the front through which she could put her heavily gloved hands at necessary moments. She looked like a black ghost. Jindabyne had entered a calm, empty place where she was looking at herself as if from the outside. It was less painful place to be.
As she stepped out into the courtyard, Serge came over and drew her hand through his arm.
“How are you?” he asked. His face was pale and strained - all his joyful liveliness gone. Poor Serge, who had expected to lead the life of a loyal servant following Paulus’ orders, now found himself master of a very unruly domain. She must try to remember to tell him that she had faith in him. He was very clever, perhaps the cleverest of all Wolf’s sons.
She and Serge joined the funeral procession going into the darkness of the chapel. Only the women of the deceased’s immediate family attended a Mirayan funeral. Wolf’s mother and his daughter, Sasha, lived a long way away on other islands and could not attend, so aside from her, it was an all-male occasion as were so many of the rituals in Mirayan life.
Hierarch Taddeus wearing his finest vestments lead the procession, swinging the sun shaped incense burner. Jindabyne loved the dignified old priest, who had always nurtured her relationship with Wolf. A choir of acolytes followed him singing the funeral dirges of old Miraya and behind them came the mourners, Wolf’s comrades and vassals, tall and splendidly dressed in shining armour, all walking in time to the rhythm of the dirges.
She did not shame the Madraga family by publicly breaking down, but several times during the service she wept secretly under her all-encompassing black veil, especially when they lowered her beloved’s coffin on ropes through the floor of the darkened chapel into the crypt. So far down. She wanted to jump up and protest that he was not really dead and must be kept close until he awoke. But he was dead. She had felt the absence of life from the moment she had first seen his corpse.
At last the choir of acolytes began to the sing the final dirge in their deep bass voices and the service was over. Serge came over and took her arm to lead her from the chapel and as he did so, he pressed a piece of paper into her hand. Something about his face told her this was a secret. She pulled her gloved hand back though the arm hole of her veil, but it was too dark under this cloth to see what the note said. She put it inside her glove for safe keeping.
Next came the feast. This was also a man’s occasion, but traditionally the ceremonies began with a ritual toast to the soul of the deceased by one of his female relatives. Bebeth had already told Jindabyne what to say. Now, whispering last instructions, Serge lead her up to the dais and helped her sit upon her usual stool at the foot of the Ducal throne. The throne itself would remain empty during the feast. The heir to the throne and the guests would all sit at the tables which lined the room and as the day went on they would make toasts to the throne and to the man who had once sat there.
Light streamed in through the huge arched windows on either side of the room, illuminating the rough stone walls from which the hangings had been stripped for the funeral, making the dais where she sat bright. Her huge veil made a little private world. Remembering the note, she slid it out of her glove and surreptitiously held it up so that she could read it by the sunlight coming in the latticework in her veil.
‘You and Olga are in danger. Be prepared to flee the fortress tonight. Destroy this note.’
She stared at the note unable to comprehend it. Then her hand began to tremble and as quickly as she could she stuffed the note back inside her glove.
Olga in danger! She fought down panic. Life spirit protect us all!
At that moment Lev Madraga came up to the dais bearing a cup of wine.
He bowed before her.
“Honour to you, sister-in-law,” he said.
Jindabyne took an iron grip on herself, determined not to appear weak in front of this horrible man. She took the wine from him and was immediately so shaken she could not help gasping.
The wine was deadly! It did not have the life giving nature of wine, but a dark absence that indicated poison.
“Now, now.” Lev smiled at her. “Be brave! You must show us how strong a Tari can be.”
He put his hands over hers pressing them around the cup. His smile seemed kind but his blue eyes were cold and in them she saw an enemy. He knew he was giving her poisoned wine.
For a moment she was paralysed with fear. Then she realised that he could not see her face through the veil and could not know she had realised.
Sweet life. She couldn’t drink it and yet custom demanded that she drain the cup. Even though she must drink the wine under the veil everyone would notice if she spilled a whole cup. She scanned the room desperately looking for help. There were no Seaganis here! Only Mirayans. How could that be? To not invite Wolf’s Seagani vassals to his funeral. Such an insult...
Lev was very much in control here. Now he was giving orders to the servants to fill the cups of the guests while Serge simply sat sadly at his place staring at the table. Jindabyne felt the jaws of a trap closing round her. Lev was popular with the Mirayans in Wolf’s domain. She was not. If she accused him of giving her poisoned wine, would they believe her? A mere woman and a non-Mirayan at that. Or would they just say that she was a hysterical woman bringing shame on Wolf Madraga’s funeral feast and have her locked away. Away from Olga.
The room fell silent with expectation as she stood. With a trembling voice, she said the toast and then she stood just there helplessly holding up the cup until the men below waiting with their glasses raised began to look uneasy.
Serge came to her side.
“Are you unwell?” he hissed. At that moment an escape plan came to her.
“No, no!” she screamed. “He’s dead! He’s dead!” and dropping the cup, she threw herself down on her knees, screaming and wailing, ignoring the murmur of anger from among the men.
“Just like a native,” she heard one of them sneer quite loudly.
Serge, bless him, did not waste time disdaining.
“Call her women!” he cried, lifting her up.
“Step-mother!” he whispered. “Try to calm yourself. This does my father no honour.”
She ignored the anguish in his pleas and clung to him still wailing so that without waiting, he helped her from the room. Outside, as her women gathered round her, she continued to cling to him, so that he was forced to help them carry her up to the women’s quarters. Not knowing who among her servants to trust, she kept up the humiliating farce of hysteria all the way. Only when they were climbing the narrow staircase to her quarters, her women strung out on the stairs behind them, and only Serge and her trusted Bebeth level with her, did she stop screaming. She let herself go limp as if she had fainted so that Serge had to take even more of her weight and hold her closer.
“Do not drink the wine,” she whispered to him then, “it’s poisoned.”
“Jin...” he stammered and then he looked over his shoulder and dropped his eyes.
“I hear you,” he said softly. “Be ready. If something goes wrong, go to Hierarch Taddeus.”
“I will,” she murmured.
In her quarters she allowed Bebeth to pretend to revive her and then sent the rest of her women away. While Bebeth packed a small bundle of belongings, Jindabyne put on her favourite locket, which had a lock of Wolf’s hair in it, and dressed Olga in her travelling clothes. That done, she and Bebeth set about sewing the rest of her jewels into the hem of her travelling cloak.
That fiend Lev Madraga! Had he had Wolf killed? Now she considered it, the story of an undetected Mori