Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘So you went back in the dead of night, opened the coffer and paid yourself.’

‘In a word, lord, yes.’ Mouseman’s eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘But I was a skilled tradesman, I served my apprenticeship. I had a wife and family.’

‘How long ago did this happen?’

‘Oh, at least two summers. Sometimes I went back, but on one occasion I was nearly caught, so never again. The Prior of St Albans would love to hang me from his gibbet.’

‘Have you been tried before the King’s justices?’

‘They haven’t caught me yet, lord.’

‘So what do you want now?’

‘A full pardon, some money, a belly full of food and permission to return to St Albans and live in peace.’

‘So pleads everyone who lives in Sanctuary,’ Corbett joked. ‘How can you earn it?’

‘Lord, I drifted into London. I became involved in this mischief and that. Eventually I joined the coven of Hubert the Monk. He needed a locksmith like me. Parish coffers wait to be riffled. I had no choice. Hubert said that if I didn’t work for him, he’d hand me over to the sheriff’s men. So it was either steal or be hanged for stealing. I chose the former.’

Corbett stared hard. There was something about the man’s voice, his steady gaze, the certainty with which he held himself that reassured the clerk. Edmund Arrowsmith, also known as the Mouseman, was good-hearted, a desperate man eager to break free from the trap in which he found himself.

‘Just tell me then,’ Corbett said quietly. ‘I may not give you a pardon, yet you’ll have coin enough to buy a full belly of food. No lies, though.’

‘I heard about your offer to anybody who could provide information about the riot at Newgate or the deaths of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Oh yes, we heard about them in Sanctuary — there’s been some rejoicing. Waldene and the Monk were feared, not liked. They were bully-boys, well protected by. . well, how can I put it. .?’

‘Lord Evesham?’

‘And others. The city sheriffs often took bribes to look the other way.’

‘And you are going to claim to be the innocent in all this.’

‘My lord, I never said that. I’ve done my share of mischief but I was rounded up with the rest.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Well, when Waldene and Hubert the Monk were arrested, the sheriffs decided to make a full sweep. It’s easy enough to catch us. We assemble at various taverns or inns, and of course, rewards and bribes were offered.’

Corbett quietly agreed that was the way of the world. Once a gang-leader fell, his followers were vulnerable to capture or betrayal.

‘So we all ended up in Newgate.’ Mouseman stretched out his legs, knocking the broken heel of one of his boots against a paving stone. ‘We weren’t given much to eat or drink. Waldene and Hubert were moved from the Common Side and put in the pits; a living death, lord?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Very few survive,’ Mouseman continued. ‘You’re usually dead of gaol fever within a week, a month at the very most. Now, on the morning before the riot took place, rumours swept the gaol that Waldene was going to be pardoned and that it would be extended to his followers on condition they turned King’s Approver.’

‘You mean they would all turn King’s Approver?’

‘Yes, lord. They’d go in front of the justices, take an oath, and where possible convict Hubert the Monk and his followers. We would all have ended up dancing from the gibbet outside Westminster or at the Elms. Feelings began to run high. I don’t know how, but weapons were found, knives and clubs. We were marshalled in just before the noonday bell to receive our food, the usual slops and platter of dirt, and that’s when the riot began. We found doors unlocked and burst through into the great yard. A postern gate was prised open. We fled into the city, but,’ Mouseman held his hand up, ‘there was also a whisper, a rumour, that we should all assemble at St Botulph’s Cripplegate.’

‘Why that church?’

‘We were told it had a secret passageway that would take us out of the city and away from the sheriff’s men. They said-’

‘Who’s they?’

‘The people who passed the rumours. They claimed it would give us at least a day’s start ahead of the bailiffs.’

‘Why didn’t you go there?’

‘Lord, I may be an outlaw but I’m no fool. My companions were bloodthirsty men. I knew it would end violently.’

‘There was something else, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes, my lord. The escape seemed so well planned. I’d been a member of the Monk’s coven for at least a year. I’d heard of riots at Newgate, prisoners escaping, but that one? So many were involved, and the way clubs and knives appeared, the ease whereby doors and gates were forced. . I suspected a trap. Moreover, once we broke free, Waldene and Hubert’s men began to attack citizens, fresh crimes that would certainly not go unpunished. I decided it was best to slip away. I fled to Sanctuary here at Westminster, and since then no one has troubled me.’

Corbett leaned back against the stone and stared up at a gargoyle’s face, a monkey with devil’s horns; next to it was a jester, bauble and stick in one hand, eyes protuberant, lips parted in a carved stone grin. Mouseman’s news confirmed his own suspicions. Waldene and Hubert the Monk had been moved to the pits to die and then their followers had been deliberately agitated. Somehow or other they were given weapons and easy passage out, as well as false information that a secret passageway from St Botulph’s would take them to freedom. Or was it false?

‘Well, my lord, what have I earned?’

‘Mouseman, you are well named. There’s many a door you can enter, and you’ve just entered by the most narrow one.’ Corbett patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the light.’ He opened his purse, and took out a silver coin and a wax cast of his seal. ‘For your comfort,’ he advised. ‘Tomorrow, around the bell for sext, present yourself at the Chancery Chamber of the Green Wax, give your full name, show them the seal and ask for Ranulf-atte-Newgate. ’

‘I’ve heard of him.’

‘He will prepare the necessary letters. Then, Edmund Arrowsmith, also known as Mouseman, I suggest you visit a barber. Have your head and face shaved, buy some new clothes and, once your pardon is sealed, go back to St Albans and live in peace.’ He patted the outlaw on the shoulder and, with his thanks ringing in his ears, escorted him out of the palace back down the path to the Sanctuary. Mouseman was about to step out of the light when he turned abruptly.

‘Evesham?’ he called out. ‘The judge who proved to be a bigger sinner than all of us?’

‘What about him?’

‘We heard of his death. According to rumour, Waldene and Hubert the Monk were deeply troubled.’

‘Why is that?’ Corbett followed him into the night air.

‘Apparently they had been comrades of Evesham for many a year and a day. People said it was time all three of them fell, that’s all,’ and Mouseman disappeared into the darkness.

Corbett hurried back up the stairs and along the gallery to the oyer and terminer chamber, where Chanson was sitting just within the door gnawing a piece of bread filched from the kitchens. He chewed the crust like some angry dog. Ranulf was laughing at him while sorting out the manuscripts on the table. He immediately told Corbett about the King’s visit. Corbett stood chewing the corner of his lip, studying Ranulf intently. His comrade nourished burning ambitions, which Edward was always eager to exploit.

‘Is that all, Ranulf?’ he asked.

‘Why yes, Sir Hugh. The King seemed in good humour,’ Ranulf replied evasively. ‘Why do you ask?’