She holds the sponge in place as the three men roll Sir John over and sit him up. His head lolls as if he is drunk. Thomas holds him. Sir John’s face is very pale and she can feel his breath on her blood-damp hand. He is wheezing, but is still alive – for the moment, at any length.

‘Get his trunk,’ she says. ‘Put it on the bed and sit him against it.’

Richard and William lift the old chest on to the bed and set it behind Sir John.

‘How did it go, do you think?’ Geoffrey asks.

‘The cutting was easy. Now is the hard part. To stop the bleeding and hope for no putrefaction. It is why I put all the instruments in hot wine.’

Geoffrey nods.

‘And what does that do?’

It is a good question.

‘I don’t know,’ she answers.

Geoffrey grunts.

They wrap a blanket around Sir John and put his hat on his head so that he does not catch a chill. His eyelids are blue, his pouchy cheeks chalky, each bristle catching the candlelight.

‘Poor old bugger,’ Geoffrey says.

Time passes. The shadows deepen. The dogs come back and are chased away. Sir John’s breathing flutters. Katherine bites her lip. She can feel his heart beating and a surge of fear comes with every irregularity.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Roll him back.’

They carefully let him down on to his back and then turn him. She dares not peel away the sponge though she wants to. She stares at it. Though it glistens, nothing moves. She thinks the blood has stopped coming.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Let’s get him comfortable.’

When he is lying on his front with his head canted to one side, the sheets pulled up to his ears and two blankets across his back and legs, she wipes her hands on a strip of linen.

Goodwife Popham arrives with more candles, some wine and a cut of beef, and leaves them on a sideboard while Geoffrey gathers together the blood-soaked rushes. Neither can look at Katherine.

‘We’ll have to watch him,’ she says. ‘Someone’ll have to be with him all the time now. And keep that sponge handy. The pain will be bad.’

‘He can stand the pain,’ Richard says. He is staring down at his father with the linen bandages piled in his hands. ‘He’s a tough old bird.’

Katherine nods.

‘Thank you for what you’ve done, Kit,’ he says. ‘You are a natural leech. You should be out making your fortune, instead of wasting your time here looking after us.’

‘We’ll see,’ she says. ‘If he can get through the next few days without putrefaction, then, well. We’ll see.’