One

      The funeral mass for Sybilla de Bonvile was held in the cathedral of Lincoln on a day of high clouds and gusty wind. Nell de Bonvile walked with her parents behind the coffin of her only sister as it was carried by six knights up the aisle to the altar rail. The archbishop himself waited with holy water to sprinkle on it before he turned with majestic slowness to ascend to the altar where he would begin the funeral mass.

      Nell knelt next to her mother and listened to the familiar Latin words, her eyes on the coffin that contained the eighteen-year-old remains of Sybilla. She felt immense sorrow engulf her as she thought of her sister’s life, blown out like a candle by a fever and coughing illness.

      If only they had called upon Sister Helen, perhaps she might have been saved, Nell thought. But Sister Helen, one of the nuns at the convent where Nell had lived since her eighth year, had not been called upon, and Sybilla had died.

      Next to Nell, her mother raised a handkerchief to her face and began to sob softly. Nell wanted to comfort her mother, but hesitated to touch her. She wasn’t sure if her mother would want comfort from her sole remaining child. Nell knew she could never take the place of her beautiful sister or her brilliant brother. Perhaps her mother would be hurt by the reminder that they had gone and all that was left to her was Nell.

      She looked beyond her mother to the face of her father. The Earl of Lincoln’s face was like stone. He made no motion to comfort his wife.

      Tentatively, Nell reached out and touched her mother’s arm. The countess gave no sign that she felt Nell’s fingers; she continued to sob quietly into her handkerchief. After a minute, Nell removed her hand and folded it in prayer.

      Dear