‘It may, if she is careful. The bone did not come through the skin, so the leg will not go bad. I would be grateful if you would forget that she asked for a rosary. There are those who think this hospital still stinks of the old religion. Francis was once a monk here, by the way. He helps here still, through Christian charity.’

I looked at Guy in surprise. But there was no reason why his assistant should not be an ex-monk; there were thousands in England now. I replied, frowning, ‘You know I would never do such a thing as mention that child’s rosary to anyone.’

‘It does no harm to put you in remembrance that it is not just radicals who have to be careful these days in what they do, and what they say.’

‘I do not forget it.’

He gave me a hard look. ‘And for myself, I take no note of words spoken by patients who sound impiously radical. As you will shortly see.’ I took a deep breath. There was no give in my old friend nowadays.

HE LED ME INTO A SIDE WARD. Like the main chamber it was but poorly equipped, a little room with a small window containing only a truckle bed with an old thin blanket and a stool. The window was open to let in air; the sound of voices drifted faintly in from Smithfield.

I recognized the man within at once: McKendrick, whom I had last seen running from the wharfside. He had been a physically powerful man, and had proved himself to be a fierce fighter. He looked utterly different now. His square face was covered with sweat, white as paper, and his cheeks were sunken. He tossed uneasily on the bed, making it creak, his lips moving in delirious muttering. Guy closed the door and spoke quietly. ‘He was fetched in the day before yesterday. It is a strange story: a group of apprentices were hanging about outside one of the taverns near Cripplegate, around curfew, when all of a sudden a man rushed out of an alley into their midst. He was covered in blood and they caught a glimpse of two men pursuing him. Whoever they were, they turned tail when they saw the crowd of apprentices. They brought him here. It is a miracle he lived at all: he had been stabbed, thrice. He must have fought his pursuers and managed to run away. But the wounds have gone bad. He cannot live long; I think he will die tonight.’ Guy gently lifted the blanket and under the man’s shift I saw three wide wounds on his chest and abdomen. They had been stitched, but around two of the wounds the skin was swollen and red, and the third had a yellowish hue.

‘Dear God,’ I said.

Guy replaced the blanket gently, but the movement disturbed McKendrick, who began muttering aloud. ‘Bertano . . . Antichrist . . . Pope’s incubus . . .’