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melted frost ran in a gully in the middle of the road and rats scrabbled among the rotting heaps of rubbish that had collected at regular intervals. The dwellings were of poor construction and their timbers had warped; here and there walls looked on the point of collapse and several of the roofs had gaping holes. Hoping that he was not about to breathe his last and suffocate beneath a mixture of wattle, daub, rotten vegetables and shit, Josse drew rein behind de Gifford’s horse and watched as de Gifford dismounted and – with an expression of disgust and stepping carefully in his highly polished boots – approached a low door over which had been hung, in touching optimism, a bunch of very ancient lavender to advertise the herbalist’s presence.
         While they waited to see if there would be any answer to de Gifford’s knock, the sheriff looked up at Josse and said, ‘He does most of his business at a market stall. I would imagine he’ll not expect callers at his door and he may well not—’
         At that moment there came the sound of bolts being drawn back. There were several of these, and Josse suppressed a smile at the thought of anyone bothering to fit so many when the flimsy fabric of the door would surely yield to one determined kick from a booted foot. A gap appeared between the door and the lintel and, with the air of a tortoise poking out its head, an old, creased and unshaven face peered out.
         ‘Whadyewant?’
         De Gifford eased the door open a little more. ‘I am Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge, and this is Sir Josse d’Acquin.’
         The old man appeared singularly unimpressed by the titles. ‘Aye?’ The word came out as a sort of bark. Deep-set eyes under prickly eyebrows stared out warily at the visitors.
         With a snort of exasperation, de Gifford said, ‘You’re not in any trouble, man; we’ve come to ask for your help.’
         ‘My help ?’ The old man made it sound as if it were the most unlikely request he had ever had, which was strange, considering his profession.
         De Gifford was reaching inside his tunic for the bag of herbs. ‘Did you prepare this remedy?’ he asked, holding it out to the old man.
         The apothecary took the little bag gingerly, as if expecting it might burn his fingers. ‘What’s in it?’ he demanded, scowling ferociously up at de Gifford.
         The sheriff glanced at Josse, who began to enumerate the ingredients. ‘Er – rue, rosemary, myrrh—’
         ‘I don’t do myrrh!’ the old man objected. ‘Can’t afford myrrh, it’s far too expensive. They charge you a king’s ransom, y’know.’
         ‘. . . vervain—’
         ‘Don’t do vervain neither!’ protested the old man. ‘That’s magical, that is, and the church don’t hold with magic.’ He nodded self-righteously, then opened the neck of the bag and peered suspiciously inside. ‘Here’s a bit of mandrake root!’ he cried. ‘Now that’s a tricky one, is mandrake, you mustn’t touch it with iron, y’know, you has to delve for it with an ivory staff and it flees from an unclean man. It—’
         Cutting short the discourse on mandrake, de Gifford said, ‘You did not prepare this potion, then?’
         The apothecary thrust it back at de Gifford, shaking his head so violently that he dislodged the tight-fitting black cap that covered his head, ears and most of his neck. ‘No! No! No, I never!’
         Josse grinned. One no would have sufficed, he thought, and, given the way in which the old man’s clear gesture of renunciation had spoken, even that was superfluous.
         ‘Can you think,’ de Gifford said, with what Josse thought was remarkable patience, ‘of anyone hereabouts who might have prepared it?’
         The old man thought. He screwed up his face, scratched his head under the black cap, sniffed, frowned. Then he said, ‘No.’
         De Gifford thanked him and, remounting,