Synopsis

In a mist-shrouded 17th century village, the crackle of a healer’s herbs mingles with whispers of impending doom.

Grace, a midwife with eyes that glint with ancient wisdom, moves through her community like a shadow, leaving trails of healing and hope in her wake. Her weathered hands, stained with herb-lore, offer solace to the women of the village – a balm against the rising tide of male-dominated medicine that threatens to wash away centuries of feminine knowledge.

Sarah Daniels’ Byrthrite weaves a tapestry of sisterhood in the face of creeping terror. As the ominous figure of the Pricker looms on the horizon, Grace and her allies – the vibrant Rose, steadfast Helen, and vulnerable Mary – cling to their craft and to each other. Each cup of tea brewed, each baby delivered, becomes an act of quiet rebellion against a world intent on branding their very existence as witchcraft.

Daniels’ script pulses with a raw, earthy power. Time bends and stretches like a midwife’s story, blurring the lines between past and present, reality and folk magic. Through vivid, poetic language, we feel the weight of the oppression bearing down on these women, even as their spirits soar with each small victory. Byrthrite is a battle cry disguised as a lullaby – a haunting reminder that the fight for women’s autonomy is as old as the herbs in Grace’s garden, and as urgent as ever.