It is probable that he was fast asleep when the steward of the grange court,with an appropriate apology, ventured into the chapter-house and stood waitingthe abbot’s permission to speak. He was certainly awake when the stewardreported: “My lord, here in the great court is the provost of the town, with adelegation from the Guild Merchant, asking leave to speak with you. They saythe matter is important.”

Abbot Radulfus allowed his steely, level brows to rise a little, andindicated graciously that the fathers of the borough should be admitted atonce. Relations between the town of Shrewsbury on one side of the river and theabbey on the other, if never exactly cordial—that was too much to expect, wheretheir interests so often collided—were always correct, and their skirmishesconducted with wary courtesy. If the abbot scented battle, he gave no sign. Butfor all that, thought Cadfael, watching the shrewd, lean hatchet-face, he has apretty accurate idea of what they’re here for.

The worthies of the guild entered the chapter-house in a solid phalanx, noless than ten of them, from half the crafts in the town, and led by theprovost. Master Geoffrey Corviser, named for his trade, was a big, portly,vigorous man not yet fifty, clean-shaven, brisk and dignified. He made some ofthe finest shoes and riding-boots in England, and was well aware of theirexcellence and his own worth. For this occasion he had put on his best, andeven without the long gown that would have been purgatory in this summerweather, he made an impressive figure, as clearly he meant to do. Several ofthose grouped at his back were well known to Cadfael: Edric Flesher, chief of