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travail and something has gone terribly wrong. Her midwife knew that you had come to the neighborhood, and sent me to find you. She needs your help.”
    By now Martha had rolled out of bed, and we exchanged a worried glance. While we’d encountered no problems in Hereford, the last birth we’d attended in York had ended in disaster. As we dressed I prayed that we would be able to help Mrs. Ramsden. We followed Mrs. Evelyn as she led us south to Pissing Alley and then toward Little Saint Thomas. As in York, the rough cobbled streets did their best to trip us with every step, and the shadows loomed about us menacingly.
    Just before we reached Little Saint Thomas, we passed the Horned Bull. I looked up at the darkened windows, wondering which one might be Will’s. As we walked, Martha and I peppered Mrs. Evelyn with questions about Mrs. Ramsden. She was around thirty-five years old, and married to a blacksmith.
    â€œHow many children has she borne?” I asked. Knowing about Mrs. Ramsden’s earlier travails would make it easier for me to help her. Mrs. Evelyn’s answer brought me up short.
    â€œThis is her first,” she said.
    â€œHer first travail?” Martha asked in astonishment.
    It was not uncommon for a woman Mrs. Ramsden’s age to give birth, but quite strange that this would be her first child. A husband and wife who went so long without children were most likely barren, and that did not change with age.
    â€œAye,” Mrs. Evelyn said. “She was ever so eager for this one, too. It would be a terrible stroke if she lost him so close to her time.”
    I murmured my agreement. It would be an awful end to an unlikely pregnancy.
    â€œIt is here,” Mrs. Evelyn said, leading us down a side street. When we reached the Ramsdens’ door I noticed a pair of wood signs above it. One was an anvil and hammer; the other was a cradle with G RACE R AMSDEN painted on it. We entered the house and climbed the stairs to Grace’s chamber. I said a prayer that God would protect Mrs. Ramsden and her little one and stepped through the door into the strangest travail I’d ever seen in my life.
    *   *   *
    In an instant I knew that something had gone terribly wrong, but not in an ordinary fashion. The woman I took to be Mrs. Ramsden squatted on a birthing stool next to her bed. Strangely enough she was not supported by her gossips, but sat by herself. More curious still was that she held a fire iron in both hands and waved it before her like a sword. Her gossips had retreated to a far corner of the room where they stared at her uneasily. Mrs. Ramsden moaned and lowered the fire iron as she was struck by a labor pang, but none of the women moved to help her.
    â€œHave you all gone mad?” I demanded. Martha and I strode as one toward Mrs. Ramsden.
    â€œYou stay away,” she screamed, and swung the fire iron at us with such fury it nearly pulled her from the birthing stool. “Step closer and I’ll knock your brains out.”
    Martha and I edged slowly toward the other women.
    â€œWho is her midwife?” I asked. “And what is happening here?”
    One of the matrons stepped forward. She was a small woman of perhaps fifty years. She seemed as delicate as a sparrow but had the sharp features of a hawk. But what I remembered long after our first meeting were her eyes. At first glance they might be taken for blue, but in truth they were a piercing gray, and they flashed with more energy and intelligence than you’d find in a hundred men.
    â€œI am Katherine Chidley,” she said. “You must be Widow Hodgson.”
    â€œKatherine Chidley,” I repeated, doing my best to hide my surprise. How was it that we had so quickly found Mr. Marlowe’s rebel? As I looked at her more closely, I was surprised that such a slight woman had frightened him so completely. I would later learn that his fears were not entirely misplaced, for