“Please, your Worships, I know nought of their kindred,” said the gaoler scratching his head. “Jane Hiltoft hath the babe at this present.”
“What, is there a lesser babe yet?” asked Dr Chedsey, laughing.
“Ay, there is so: a babe in arms.”
“Worshipful Sirs, might it please you to hear a poor woman?”
“Speak on, good wife.”
“Sirs,” said the woman who had spoken, coming forward out of the crowd, “my name is Ursula Felstede, and I dwell at Thorpe, the next door to Johnson. The babes know me, and have been in my charge aforetime. May I pray your good Worships to set them in my care? I have none of mine own, and would bring them up to mine utmost as good subjects and honest folks.”
“Ay so? and how about good Catholics?”
“Sirs, Father Tye will tell you I go to mass and confession both.”
“So she doth,” said the priest: “but I misdoubt somewhat if she be not of the ‘halting Gospellers’ whereof we heard this morrow in the Moot Hall.”
“Better put them in charge of the Black Sisters of Hedingham,” suggested Dr Chedsey. “Come you this even, good woman, to the White Hart, and you shall then hear our pleasure. Father Tye, I pray you come with us to supper.”