Anne was upon the bed, writhing, her face, sweat-misted and clenched in pain. Her skirt was blood soaked. “Have you sent for the midwife?” I demanded. “Midwife?” “Yes. Midwife. The girl is plainly miscarrying.” “But she . . . that would . . .” “Master Corlett, send a boy to fetch the midwife, before this child bleeds . . .” I was about to say “to death” but I bit back the words, seeing the fear in Anne’s face.
