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

Father Clement might be a good priest, but he was rigid and had no gift for solace.  What Martyn needed was real comforting, a shoulder to cry on and someone saying how sorry they were, not a lecture on how priceless was the saved soul gone to God.
    Just as Frevisse had, Dame Claire lifted  her face to the clear, bright sky and drew a deep breath.  The early light had thickened to a flow of molten gold now, the thick dew on the grass was sheened to silver, and the birds were singing as if their songs were all newªmade.
    "The baby looks likely to live," Dame Claire said.
    "And the woman who's taking her to nurse seems clean and healthy."  Frevisse offered that comfort as gently as she could, knowing how much death hurt Dame Claire.  St. Frideswide's Priory was small, with only eleven nuns, and set lonely in the Oxfordshire countryside, so that all of them had to have as many skills as they could.  To that end, Frevisse had been set this past half year to assist Dame Claire in her duties as infirmarian and learn from her.  Though not so apt as Dame Claire at herbs and healing, she had done well enough, able to do what she was told and to grasp Dame Claire's admonition, "You have to try to understand what's happening inwardly as well as outwardly to a body, and you have to think about what it means or you can never well tend to anyone's hurts or illness, only pretend to."
    What Frevisse understood now was that Dame Claire was grieving for the woman she had not known until a few hours ago and had not been able to save.  Unable to say anything to mend or comfort that -- assuredly nothing so useless as "You did what you could" -- she held silent, both of them gazing out at the morning, until in a while Dame Claire sighed deeply, said, "Come then.  We'd best be going," and stepped away from the door, bound back for the nunnery.
    Side by side as much as they could while keeping to what there was of a grassy verge along the muddy road, they passed the last few houses of the village, walking quickly, partly to warm themselves against the morning's chill, partly in hope that though they were surely late for the office of Prime and its dawn prayers, they might be in time for breakfast and Mass.
    They were beyond the last house, with only the dawn-bright road and hedges ahead of them, their shoes and the hems of their black gowns already soaked through with dew, when a woman behind them called out, "Sisters!  Pray you, come back, please!" desperate and frightened enough that they swung around together.
    Elyn Browster was standing in the muddy road outside the doorway of the village's last house, her hands wrung in her skirt as she went on saying, "Come, please.  Hurry!" even as they came.  "He's hurt.  He's... "  The words she needed were not there.  "He's... "  She pointed at her open doorway. "There.  I can't... he won't...  Oh, please, my ladies!"  Her finger shifted its vague, stunned pointing into the house to the grassy patch beside the stone doorstep.  There were muddy footprints on the stone, but Elyn was asking them to wipe their feet clean.  Frevisse knew how desperately one could cling to the familiar to keep the frightening at bay, so she followed Dame Claire's lead and wiped her soft-soled shoes on the grass before following Dame Claire inside, Elyn behind them.
    The shutters had been slid down from the windows, letting in the morning light, but even so the room was dark to her eyes after the brilliant outdoors.  She and Dame Claire both paused, waiting to see better, only gradually able to tell more about where they were.  Like most village houses, the front door was near the middle of one long side.  To their left was the living area, with hearth and a large, heavy wooden table, two benches, a scattering of stools, a bed along the farthest wall, a large chest at its foot.  Rightward then should be where the animals were kept but there was no smell of them, and she realized that instead of stalls