From the twelfth strike of midday, the bells of the great clock tower tolled continuously for an hour. Guests retreated to their rooms to prepare for the ceremony that evening. Raghnall paced in his chamber contemplating the ignorance of, or perhaps the indifference to, the villagers’ squalor which played out in hundreds of luncheons served throughout the castle.
Late afternoon, there was a knock at his door. Raghnall shook from a trance, sat upon his bed, crossed the floor to answer. His appearance was haggard as he opened the door to a young maid. She curtseyed and handed him a small stack of folded clothes while a servant boy placed a jig of water by his wash bowl.
“These are for me to wear to the funeral?”
“Yes Sir. Complements of your host. They should be a good fit.”
“Very well, thank you.” The maid again curtseyed and disappeared down the spiralled stairs. No doubt she was extremely busy, thought Raghnall. He inspected the clothes, black and austere.
Raghnall had not long been washed and changed when another knock came at the door. He opened it ready to tell the maid he would be but a little while longer; however before him Raghnall beheld an unfamiliar thin man in a fine dark green suit with a frilly white shirt. Despite his tall stature, he seemed to be hunched. His greying, greasy hair flat against his head, down to his tall starched collar. His deep-set eyes were like two wells of ink in half-light. The man smiled thinly and bowed.
“Faolan at your service, sir.” He fixed his hair with his palm as he rose. “I am Lord Malaegar’s aide, and I am at your service. Regrettably, my Lord has been busy of late. In order that he might remedy this, he requested that I escort you personally to the chapel.”
“Honoured, I am sure.” said Raghnall, unsure.
“If you will follow me, then we shall away.” Faolan gestured with a flourish of his long fingers. Raghnall closed the door behind him and followed with some unease. As they walked, there was little conversation, though Faolan did bark orders at servants here and there. Raghnall quietly observed Faolan scratching his neck as he walked ahead of him, his skin was flaky, collecting upon the green shoulders of his jacket. After a while they came to a long, low hallway. Hollowed into the black walls on either side were arched alcoves with white marble statues of previous Lords of Ravensholme. Here the floor was smooth and black with a red carpet leading to double doors at the far end. Along the spine of the arched ceiling, green and gold lengths of silk had been hung and a green banner featuring an embroidered golden raven hung to each side of the doors.
“We are a little late I am afraid. So silence is a necessity.” Faolan grinned with yellow teeth as he invited Raghnall to go on ahead.
As is often the case in these situations, the quieter Raghnall attempted to be, the more attention he attracted. Opening the door, though it was well oiled and silent, drew the attention of the attendants nearby. Raghnall slipped into the room with an apologetic nod, closely followed by Faolan who closed the door behind them.
A cloud of sweet smelling incense greeted them and Raghnall’s attention was immediately drawn down the central aisle which parted the gathered attendees sat upon pews. At the far end of the chapel was a great stained glass rose window. The fan vaulted ceiling high above gave the impression of a canopy of trees whose trunks were twelve tall pillars on each side of the hall. Between those were tall, stained glass windows through which late afternoon light streamed, casting colourful images of saints and miracles throughout the smoky incense above their heads. Below the windows, Raghnall noticed myriad statues and plaques in memory of the long dead. Green and gold banners were hung throughout the nave.
In the sanctuary below the rose window, a polished, dark wood coffin, trimmed in silver, rested before an altar upon which stood a bright icon of an oak tree rendered in gold leaf. To its right and left, gilded stands supported hundreds of shallow candles. They in turn were in the midst of ornate choir stalls, with a simple wooden pulpit and a large black pipe organ looming close by.
There came a tutting and Raghnall noticed a frowning woman sitting on the back row to his right. Her tall wig bobbed as she shook her head disapprovingly. Raghnall felt Faolan’s hand upon his shoulder and he was guided to a pair of empty spaces half way along the aisle to the left. Raghnall smiled at the gentleman he was placed next to as Faolan seated himself to Raghnall’s right, a slight smell of sweat and onions accompanying him.
As the room once again hushed, Raghnall leaned slightly to and fro seeking a glimpse of Lady Aaralyn towards the front, to no avail.
“May I ask where the lady Aaralyn is?” He reluctantly whispered into Faolan’s greasy ear. Faolan put his finger to his lips, gesturing to the front of the room as it stilled and the distant tolling of bells halted.
After a moment, Raghnall saw a figure emerge from the front of the congregation and approach the coffin. The figure placed a rose upon the coffin lid and produced a black handkerchief from their sleeve. Not to dab their eyes but rather the cloth was draped over the icon of the oak tree on the altar, obscuring it. There were murmurs throughout the chapel and then silence as they turned to face the congregation and ascended the pulpit. It took him a moment to recognize through the forest of tall wigs but now Raghnall could see that it was in fact Malaegar dressed all in black. Beneath a long, black coat with a high, stiff collar, the black pearls on his silver trimmed waist coat winked as they caught the light. His fringe partially curtained his right eye and Raghnall detected a flicker of a smile.
“Friends.” Malaegar paused. “We are gathered here today to mourn my great father.” From a high gallery at the back of the chapel, unseen musicians began to play out long, sorrowful notes upon violins. Raghnall cranes his neck, looking up in astonishment, waiting for Malaegar to be outraged by the interruption. To his surprise however, the entire congregation began to applaud. The gentleman to Raghnall’s left was especially enthusiastic, his round face wobbled as he clapped. Malaegar closed his eyes and nodded his acknowledgment, signalling with his hands for a hush. The music continued.
“Long, he served his people and they did love him in return.” The music stopped and the unseen performers began to laugh and cheer, throwing confetti and flower petals into the room from on high. Again the congregation clapped their approval. Again the gentleman next to Raghnall clapped, he smiled at him and leaned in to be heard above the applause.
“The young Lord promised nothing short of the avant garde in honour of his father. How innovative! How human!” Raghnall smiled politely, nodding despite his confusion.
“Now they mourn him” Malaegar called out. The petals ceased, the last of their lot gently falling to the sound of wails and crying from the troupe above. Almost in unison the congregation produced their handkerchiefs and began to dab at their eyes. Raghnall noted that while some indeed were tearful, others were simply partaking in the ritual which to him was straying into theatre.
Suddenly, black curtains fell, covering the chapel’s windows, plunging the room into darkness save for the candles which flanked the coffin. There was another pause. Here and there, members of the congregation could be heard mumbling or coughing. After a while a low hum rose, almost inaudible at first, it began to resonate within Raghnall’s breast. Soon it became clear that the pipe organ had come to life.
“You honoured the oak trees, the wolves and the ravens”. Malaegar shouted in the darkness. “You trusted the fields, the roads and rivers.” He wailed. “You blessed the coming of the sun and the inevitable procession of seasons.” Malaegar’s voice cracked. He paused, before continuing quieter, but clearer and forcefully “For all the good it did you.” There was a ripple of excitement and scandal through the congregation. “For all the good it did us.” He shouted as the organ crescendoed.
Through the dark, the light of a single candle became apparent. It hovered in the space where Malaegar had been a moment ago. It disappeared briefly then reappeared as Malaegar descended from the pulpit. The candle rose and in its light Malaegar’s face glowed.
“We. Honour. Thee.” Malaegar shouted in a strong voice above the drone of the organ. “We honour thee, Lord of Ravensholme.”
“We honour thee!” Came the response from the gathered.
“We trust in thee, Lord of Ravensholme.” lit candles were revealed by attendants all around the nave.
“We trust in thee!”
“We bless three, Lord of Ravensholme.” Malaegar blew out his candle as did the others. Again the room was dark.
“We bless thee.” the congregation said in unison.
Suddenly, a shaft of light cut the incense and the smoke of the extinguished candles. Raghnall looked up to see a small oculus window, yawning in the height of the nave. The light embraced the coffin of Lord Ravensholme. Slowly, the coffin began to rise into the air. Raghnall could just about make out four strands of silk rope, hoisting the casket.
“We bid thee farewell, Lord of Ravensholme.” Malaegar bowed his head as the coffin tilted backwards and proceeded foot-first above the congregation, the silver trim catching the light as it passed over their heads. No doubt upon some theatrical pulley contraption thought Raghnall, stunned, verging on disgust as the crowd gasped and clapped in awe and approval. The coffin came to the rear of the nave where it was lowered onto a metal grate on the floor. Malaegar had followed its flight along the aisle and circled the casket, un-hooking the ropes. The congregation had stood and turned to watch solemnly as in a final moment of drama the grate began to retreat below the floor, taking the Lord’s remains with it.
Malaegar led the congregation in ritual wailing, lightly tearing at his clothes and dropping to his knees with a drama befitting the stage. To Raghnall’s further astonishment the whole room began screaming and ripping at their finery too. The women toppled their byzantine hair as the men tore buttons off their frilly fronted shirts. Faolan, far too vain to destroy his finery, took a handkerchief from his pocket and with little ceremony, tore it in two. Looking back through the crowd of frantic banshees, Raghnall finally caught sight of Aaralyn. She stood very close to where Malaegar had emerged from the congregation at the front of the chapel, but now at the very back of the crowd as everyone had turned to follow the coffin. She wore a simple black dress, her hair tied back with a black ribbon. She was not wailing. She stood silent and unnoticed as tears rolled down her cheeks.
A hush fell upon the room. Silently, the congregation began to file out of the nave, ushered by attendants, they passed Malaegar where he knelt, his face still screwed up in sorrow and smattered in mucus as the iron grill rose again, the coffin gone. Again Raghnall felt as though he were on a stage without the script which everyone else had a copy of. Faolan eased him into line as they left the pews and when out of the chapel, they followed the red carpet.
As they silently proceeded, servants of the various Lords and Ladies lined the way. As their respective employers approached they emerged from alcoves and shadowy corners, brandishing needle, thread and beauty products to tend to the ceremonial damage done in the chapel. The walk was long and after twenty minutes at a processional pace, the head of the line came to the covered way which ran out to the great hall. Lords and Ladies leaned for a last dab of blusher, a final comb of hair from their servants, like lovers lingering in a final embrace before the procession’s momentum carried them away.
Faolan licked his palm and spread saliva over his hair, combing it flat with an ivory comb he had fished from his jacket pocket. He checked his immaculate green jacket for the hundredth time and as they passed into the narrow passage for good measure, checked himself in a pocket mirror.
“What is this?” Raghnall distracted Faolan from admiring his reflection. He turned looking annoyed, as if even looking up might have dislodged his carefully combed hair.
“This is a procession, of course” he smiled thinly, blinking quickly, in a patronizing manner.
“To what purpose?” Raghnall replied, unsurprised by his guide’s sarcasm. He had come to terms with the fact that he had no authority over Malaegar, but he certainly was not going to be talked down to by his aide, especially one so vain.
“The Waking Ball.” Faolan sighed at Raghnall’s blank expression. “It’s a ritual. All who knew the recently departed Lord, along with his household, bring life to the castle by feasting and through dance. In doing so, we attempt to stir his Lordship’s venerable ancestors into welcoming him into their great halls.” He gestured forwards and back along the covered way. “ The scarcely repaired garments of the Lords and Ladies signify a reversal in stature, so that next to the pristine servants’ uniforms, all seem more equal.”
“A heart-warming endeavour” mused Raghnall, slightly taken aback by Faolan’s enthusiasm.
“It is also the one time we may approach whom we will to dance, without fear of reproach.” Faolan stood on tip toes vying for a peak ahead. “I have my eye on a young girl from the kitchens. One of Pewtreth’s pudding girls.” Faolan’s deep eyes glinted.
“I see.”
Raghnall sighed and looked out across the river valley far below. The sun was casting long shadows as the procession came to a halt at the doors to the Great Hall.
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