'Get someone to replace this each day under a new pad,' he advised. 'It's getting better slowly, so it'll not turn into a purulent abscess now. In a week it will be entirely gone.'
John pulled up his hose and lowered his grey tunic back to calf level, then looked at the pot suspiciously. 'What's in this stuff?' he asked.
'It's quite innocuous,' said Lustcote reassuringly. 'Strong sea salt to draw out the poison, together with pounded leaves of marshmallow, cabbage and a little myrrh.'
As John was fumbling in the scrip on his belt for the two pence that was all that the apothecary requested for his fee, he asked him where he obtained all the raw materials for his medicaments.
'Most come from the fields and woods of the countryside,' replied Lustcote. 'I send my apprentices out to seek them, but others I buy from dealers whose trade it is to collect them. And of course some have to be imported. They can be very expensive, like the myrrh that's in that salve I gave you, which comes from Africa.'
John was intrigued by the notion that some exotic substance from the almost mythical continent of Africa could find its way to his left buttock. 'How in God's name do you get hold of such rare products?' he asked.
'There are some dealers who supply me at intervals but I also give lists to certain merchants who have ships trading across the Channel. They bring me certain goods I need - I don't ask how they get hold of them.' He winked and tapped the side of his nose as if half revealing some secret.
A small warning bell rang in John's head. 'Do these marvellous substances carry any levy or tax when they come into England?' he asked.
Richard shrugged. 'I don't ask. I just pay the price demanded. Merchants and ship owners in this city pass on the lists to their traders, and in the fullness of time the packages arrive.'
'And which merchants would be involved in this trade?' queried John, wearing what he hoped was a guileless expression.
Richard Lustcote began to wonder what earthly interest the coroner could have in the means by which he obtained his medicaments, but he had no reason to prevaricate. 'There are a few of them. Edward of Yeovil for one - and some come on the ships of Robert de Helion, whom I know quite well.'
This name cropping up again made de Wolfe decide to call upon the merchant at some early opportunity. Though he had no idea if medical supplies carried any Customs duty under the new financial regime of Hubert Walter, the rather secretive manner of the apothecary made it worthwhile to enquire, as Luke de Casewold had seemed convinced that Axmouth was involved in some dubious business.
With his bottom now more comfortable, John bade his friend goodbye and walked back to Martin's Lane in the gathering dusk. After his supper, the usual silent meal opposite a morose Matilda, John sat for a while staring into the glowing logs of a small fire in the hearth. He had his customary cup of wine in one hand, the other fondling Brutus's ears as he squatted beside his master's knee. Predictably, it was not long before Matilda called for her maid Lucille and went off to her solar, to be undressed for bed after a long session on her knees in prayer.
John gave her another half-hour, then rose and, with his hound padding expectantly after him, took his sword and a short cloak from the vestibule and stepped out into the lane. When he turned right into the Close, the two great towers of the cathedral were dark silhouettes against the remaining pale light in the western sky, which was clear enough to give a chill to the evening. One of the bishop's proctors was lighting the pitch-brand that hung in an iron ring over Bear Gate on the other side of the wide burial ground that fronted the great church. John walked across towards it, past the imposing West Front of the building, Brutus ambling from place to place, cocking his leg against any projecting structure.
The Close was a warren of overgrown burial mounds, piles of rubbish and a few open grave-pits, ready for tomorrow's corpses. Beggars crouched in corners, and respectable citizens were loath to walk alone there at night, for fear of the cutpurses that often lurked in the darkness. John had no fear for himself, as it would be a very bold robber who would tackle this tall, formidable man with a sword at his belt and a large hound at his heels.
He strode the familiar path out into Southgate Street , and then across to the smaller lanes that sloped down towards the western wall and the river beyond. Crossing Milk Lane, he went down Priest Street, where Thomas lodged, and then turned into the short lane that joined it to Smythen Street, where the iron workers had their forges. This lane had almost no buildings, as they had burnt down in a fire some years earlier, and the empty ground around the Bush Inn gave it its name of Idle Lane. The tavern, itself substantially rebuilt after a fire the previous year that had almost claimed the life of its landlady, was a whitewashed stone structure with a steep thatched roof that came down to head height. A low door flanked by two shuttered window-openings graced the front, with a large fenced yard at the back containing Nesta's brew-shed, kitchen, privy and pigsty.