‘You’ll say the same to Sir Hugh, your grace?’
‘No, Ranulf, I said it just for you. You do understand?’
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘Good.’ For a moment Edward’s eyes turned sad. ‘I can’t say that to Hugh. God knows, Ranulf, he’s a better man than you, and as the Lord is my witness, certainly a better one than I.’ And spinning on his heel, the King left as quietly as he’d entered.
In the darkened abbey, Corbett was becoming restless. The words of the psalm echoed powerful and sombre.
Lions surround me,
Greedy for human prey,
Their teeth like spears and barbs.
Their tongues like sharpened swords.
He blessed himself, got to his feet and left, hurrying back along the cloisters. He could not understand his own anxiety; he knew only that he was restless, impatient to make some progress in the mysteries confronting him. He left the abbey, following the winding path through the monks’ cemetery and into the Sanctuary, where he strolled purposefully, sword and dagger drawn, the glint of the steel sending the creatures of the night scuttling out of his path. He’d almost reached the far gate when he heard his name called. He whirled round, lifting sword and dagger up as a figure stepped out of the gloom.
‘I mean no ill, Sir Hugh. I heard your proclamation.’ The voice was low, almost cultured.
Corbett moved forward.
‘I’ll not talk to you here, sir. You’d best follow me.’ The Sanctuary man seemed reluctant.
‘Don’t worry.’ Corbett smiled through the darkness. ‘You have my word as Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal that no harm will befall you. If we can do business then we shall; if not, you will be allowed to return safely here. The choice is yours. Follow me.’
He led the way into the vestibule of the palace, where he turned and surveyed the wolfshead who had followed him. The man was of moderate height, with lank, greasy hair, face pitted with scars, beard and moustache stained with food. His clothing, a cotehardie, leggings and boots, was scuffed and dirty, his fingernails thick with black, though the eyes he rubbed were sharp and alert. Corbett sat on a stone bench just within the door and indicated for the stranger to join him.
‘What’s your name?’
The man remained standing.
‘You may sit down,’ Corbett declared.
The man sighed and did so. Corbett tried to ignore the offensive smell.
‘They call me Mouseman.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there is not a door, chest or coffer I cannot enter. I was baptised Edmund Arrowsmith at the font of the abbey church in St Albans.’
‘And now you’re utlegatum,’ Corbett declared, ‘beyond the law. Yes? Picking locks when you shouldn’t have done?’
‘Only one,’ Mouseman retorted in clipped tones. ‘I worked at the Abbey at St Albans. The prior owed me money. He refused to pay.’
‘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.’