There’s to be a memorial service for those lost in the storm, and it’s too big and grand for the little chapel in the bailey. We’re on our way to the church in town.Beatrix insists on keeping the curtains closed—in respect for my grief, she says—as we rumble down the road, across the bridge, and through the narrow streets of town. We come to a stop, and I hear Edward say, “We have arrived, my lady.”I step down from the wagon, and Beatrix comes after. Villagers line the square, jostling one another to get a better look. Beatrix sees someone she knows and lifts her hand to wave, then remembers herself and pretends she was just adjusting her wimple. The men-at-arms form a human tunnel for me to walk the distance to the church door.As I look out at the sea of expectant faces, I realize that whatever I’m feeling about this service, it isn’t enough. I’ve seen dead bodies, shuddered as I touched them, but they were strangers to me. For Lady Matilda they were servants, companions, perhaps even friends.
