Duke Rupert’s funeral was held three days later. Raymond issued a proclamation declaring it an official day of mourning in Bulvania. Banks, businesses and schools were closed; flags flew at half-staff. Despite the disruption of life and usual, the people went about their business as close to normally as they could. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, about the duke’s death, but they had never really known him. He had lived most of his life in exile, after all, and since returning home he had lived a life confined to his tower. People acknowledged the loss of a member of the royal family, but only in a detached, formal way.
Raymond also proclaimed that all the country’s leaders—the Privy Council, important businessmen, clergy and so on—were to attend the funeral. Despite the royal decree, Archbishop Defilippo announced that his faith prevented him from attending the funeral of a “sodomite,” and he ordered that none of his clergy attend either, much less officiate at the services. Tradition decreed that Bulvanian royalty be buried in the cathedral’s crypt, but Defilippo denied that, too. Arrangements were made for the funeral to take place in the city’s largest public cemetery. Raymond, confirming his reputation as “the priest king,” officiated personally.
Protocol demanded that representatives of other nations attend the burial of a royal. So P.T., Logan and the rest got back into their formal attire and went. All the other ambassadors were there with their people. Despite Bulvanian indifference and the hostility of the church, the funeral blossomed into quite an event.
It was raining that morning. P.T., inevitably, grumped. “Why couldn’t he have died during a drought?”
Defilippo refused to let his cathedral be opened for the funeral service, so the rites were held in an older, smaller church. It was packed to the rafters with dignitaries, members of the government and some elderly Bulvanians (the few of them who were old enough to actually remember the duke). Raymond, in is monk’s robes, led the prayers and ceremonies.
Then there was a formal funeral cortege to the burial ground. All the most important officials rode in open carriages, as was traditional. Carriages were crowded not only with officials but with servants holding umbrellas over them. The whole thing could easily have turned into a farce, but happily there were no awkward incidents.
Alex’s royal guardsmen were everywhere, overseeing all the happenings and making sure there were no untoward moments. They were of course in their dress uniforms; Logan was beginning to think they wore them all the time, at the drop of a hat, and that their reluctance to pose for him in them was more a matter of coyness than of tradition. Alex himself, as was usual, rarely left the king’s side. It was clear that he had become Raymond’s right-hand man.
When the funeral party reached the cemetery there was a fortunate break in the rain. Raymond’s robes were already soaked despite the guardsman hold an umbrella over him. The umbrella was blazoned with the royal crest of Bulvania. Marge whispered to Logan, “Maybe the gods got a look at the royal insignia and were intimidated into turning the rain off.” Constantine shushed her.
Raymond took his place at the graveside, flanked by Alex and Evgeny. Queen Theodora, Count Schlutow and their party formed a group a few feet away from them. Raymond stood at the head of the grave, prayer book in hand. Six guardsmen, acting as pallbearers, placed the coffin carefully so that it could be lowered into its grave.
Alex scanned the crowd. When his eyes fell on Logan, he immediately waved, signaling him to come and stand at the king’s side.
Logan’s heart sank. Raymond was clearly fixated on him, and that was the last thing he wanted. He decided to play dumb. He pointed a finger at himself and mouthed the word, “Me?”
Alex nodded. Beside him, Raymond realized what was happening, spotted Logan and broke into a huge smile. Alex gestured again that Logan should join them.
Constantine nudged Logan in the ribs and whispered, “The king wants you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want him.”
“Be human, Logan. The poor man is in mourning.”
“Then why is he grinning like a fool?”
The rain started again, a heavy downpour. P.T. grumbled, “For God’s sake go and stand beside him or we’ll never get out of here.”
Marge was enjoying Logan’s obvious discomfort. “Go over and give him a hug.”
“Shut up.”
Alex waved to him again, emphatically. The whole business was beginning to attract notice from the rest of the crowd. Realizing there was no way around it, Logan went and stood by the king. Raymond glanced at him fleetingly, then focused his attention back on the grave. But he inched toward Logan and pressed against him. The rain stopped again. P.T. wished it would make up its mind.
It was too public, too embarrassing. In an urgent tone Logan whispered, “Your majesty, you’re getting me all wet.”
“Sorry.” Raymond blushed and stepped away.
Finally, the funeral rites proceeded. Raymond read from his prayer book, intoning the solemn words that had been spoken at gravesites for centuries. Logan felt terribly self-conscious and wished it would end.
Then he noticed the queen. As she had on coronation day, she was watching him quite fixedly. Good God, he told himself, another one. I have got to get out of this godawful country.