The Midwife's Tale (Sister Frevisse Medieval Mysteries) by Margaret Frazer

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    The light from the yet unrisen sun flowed softly gold and rose between the long blue shadows of the village houses and across the fields and hedgerows full of birdsong.  Ada Bychurch, standing in the doorway of Martyn Fisher's low-eaved house, shivered a little in the morning's coolness and huddled her cloak around her, hoping for more warmth from its worn gray wool.
    She wished she could as readily huddle away from the sorrow in the house behind her.  She was village midwife and had done what she could but it had not been enough and now there was nothing left but the hope that after Father Clement's ministrations, Cisily's soul would go safe to whatever blessings she had earned in her short life.  But despite her faith Ada could not help the feeling Cisily's mortal life had been too short.  Far too short for the motherless newborn daughter and the grieving husband she was leaving behind her, however fortunate Cisily was to be so soon free of the world's troubles.
    Martyn Fisher's house was at the nunnery end of the village, just before the lane curved and the houses ended and the road ran on a quarter mile or so between fields to the nunnery gates.  Cisily had often said how she loved there were no houses across the way from her, that she could see through a field gate to the countryside from her front doorstep.  And she had been pleased, too, that just leftward not so very far was the village green and all the village busyness.
    Priors Byfield was a fair-sized village, with all a village's interests and pleasures.  Ada looked toward the green where the last drift of smoke from last night's Midsummer bonfire was a fading smudge across the sunrise.  The reveling had gone on nearly to dawn as usual, and she doubted anyone would be out to the early plowing and knew for certain that the reeve would be hard put to bring folk to the haying by late morning or maybe even afternoon despite the fact it looked to be a second fine, fair day after a week of damp and drizzle.  It had been taken as a sign of God's favor when yesterday had early cleared for the young folk to be off to the woods and ways to gather Midsummer greenery and the older folk to build up the bonfire for the evening's dancing and sport.
    Father Clement had given his usual sharp sermon last Sunday against what he felt was such unchristian ways, but the Midsummer bonfire and other such reveling through the year were like the bone in the village's body: no one could imagine doing without them.  And Ada doubted that even Father Clement would have begrudged Cisily Fisher her midsummer reveling this year, if it could have replaced her slow bleeding to death in childbed.  Hardly a year married and now this, and her husband still so in love with her he had dared, when it was clear there was nothing else the midwife could do, to go to the nunnery and beg for their infirmarian's help.  He must have pleaded most pitiably because the infirmarian had not merely sent some mix of medicines but come herself and was still here, though there was no more hope for Cisily's life, only for a painless death and nothing left for anyone to do except give comfort.
    "I pray you, pardon me," someone said softly behind Ada's shoulder.  She looked around, then moved out of the doorway and aside on the broad, flat stone that served as step beyond the low doorsill, out of the way for the nun who had accompanied Dame Claire, the infirmarian, from the priory.
    With an acknowledging bow of her head, she stepped out, raised her face to the lightening sky and drew a deep breath.  Her face was almost as pale as the white wimple that encircled it inside the black frame of her veil, and Ada guessed that, like her, she had been unable to endure the stiffling, blood-tainted air inside the house any longer.
    Ada thought she remembered her name and hazarded, "Dame Frevisse, aren't you?"
    The nun inclined her head again, politely, but said nothing.  And that was only right, Ada