A/N: A short prequel scene immediately before the events of the 1985 film "Ladyhawke".
Mouse Hunt
"There is only so much money in the world, and there likewise are only so many people. For a person to buy the things they need, they require money. You cannot create money, so therefore that money has to come from someone else."
"In order to have a meal, the Mouse has to steal," the other prisoner with the deranged look said with a slight cackle.
"My name is Phillipe Gaston," the young man responded "not Mouse. And I don't steal as such. After all, the Lord says not to steal. I simply make it change hands more quickly than it otherwise would - I don't KEEP it for myself." He stood up and paced across the space of the prison cell a few times before leaning against a wall. "I don't see any problem with that. The more that money changes hands, the more people get what they need and prosper. It's not stealing, I'm helping commerce."
"Innocent people they lock away, never to see the light of day."
"There is no such thing as an innocent person, from the lowest to the highest," Phillipe countered. There were stories of even the Bishop having had some un-Godly dealings of late. One did not say such things where they could be overheard, either from God or even worse the Bishop himself. Naturally, Phillipe did not partake of idle gossip - but it paid to keep your ears open just in case the information helped you out of a tight spot. This by far was the tightest spot he had ever been in. "I am in company with the rest of the world."
"He he!" The other prisoner looked around; they were two of a total of five prisoners left in the cell after three had already been taken out to be executed. The other three in the cell kept to themselves quietly, while several in the adjoining cells wept or moaned intermittently. There was only one way known out of the prison of Aquila, and that was by death. Theoretically the Bishop of the walled city could pardon a prisoner, but since it was he who passed the original death sentence on you then such an occurrence would indeed be a miracle. It had never happened in the memory of anyone, nor was it expected or hoped for. The other prisoner went on: "The world must be very small to be contained within these walls."
"Must you always talk in rhyme?" Although it was good to talk to someone, Phillipe had never let the lack of an audience stop him from speaking his mind - if nothing else, the Lord heard him and it was He who was often the target of the young man's soliloquies. It was times like right now that the only way to fight the dread that hung over the dark cells was to speak.
"Meh."
"I have nothing against rhyme, mind you, but why struggle to find an exact word when so many will do that don't rhyme? Nevertheless, I am not here for being a simple thief - as if any of us are here for being a simple anything. My only reason for being here is a poor choice on my part. You don't get water from a stone or meat from a turnip, and trying to pick the pocket of a poor person amounts to little more than practice of your skills. So naturally, I chose to relieve someone of their purse who stood a good chance of having something IN his purse." Phillipe paced across their end of the cell again. "Why did the Lord allow me to become good at what I do, and then place within my very grasp a purse that was being held for the Captain of the Guard? Men of the world should be more appreciative and understanding of skills such as mine, but did Captain Marquet ask me to share my skills with his men or use them in the service of His Grace? No. The captain complained and suddenly every soldier was on the lookout for a tall, thin young man matching my description with a promise of a reward for the one that captured me. A great Mouse hunt."
He shook his head. "Betrum told me I should leave. 'Leave Aquila. Here it is cold eleven months of the year and cool the other. Follow the Aterno River downstream and you will find a place where you will be warmed by the sun and not from the exertion of fleeing from soldiers.' Then he handed me a bit of mutton with that wonderful green sauce of his and I thought maybe not today and that maybe I would wait until the weather was warmer until I made my escape."
"Wisdom you were told, if I may be so bold, with value beyond gold." The face of the other man grew sad. "Now you will never grow old."
"Every trap has at least one way out, even it it's the same way you came in. Some call me a mouse because I shirk from danger or live off the crumbs of others. I grew up without parents and lived in a barn for some time until the farmer caught me and ran me off. I overheard him talking with his wife before my departure. It seems they were troubled with mice in their home. No matter how many holes he found and plugged, the mice still found a way to get in. I find those ways and make them my own."
The other prisoner brightened. "And where will the mouse go, if escape he does sew?"
"First things first. Perhaps the Lord has put me in here for a purpose, but he has not told me of such a plan so I must try to leave." Phillipe paced across the uneven floor again. "All I need is time."
He halted and was quiet as a guard passed by before removing three prisoners from an adjacent cell. One of the prisoners pleaded "Mercy!" as he was tugged away.
"His Grace HAS shown you mercy. You shall meet your creator this very day, which is more than some deserve," one of the guards by the name of Jehan said as they disappeared from sight and were cut off by the slamming of a heavy door in the distance.
"Time. You don't have much left," the other prisoner said.
Phillipe stared. "You didn't make a rhyme!"
The older man gestured for the young man to come close. "Maybe I'm not ALL crazy. But don't tell anyone," he whispered after the two were close enough for him to lower his voice. He winked and nodded.
Phillipe backed up. "I may be a liar, for the happiest times I've had came from lies. And I may be an occasional thief, but only as much as necessary. I, sir, am NOT a tattletale."
The other prisoner looked around and then spoke in a more normal voice. "After plague and war this world may seem dark and with no hope, but there may come a time to redeem yourself."
Phillipe walked a few paces and shook the wood that made the walls between cells. "I won't find the opportunity in here."
"Then seek it elsewhere. Ask yourself this, little mouse: What leaves this cell?"
"Soon to be dead men."
"What else?"
Phillipe looked around. "Hope? Love? The air from our breaths that will soon be our last?"
The other prisoner shook his head. "What of our waste or the little rain that makes its way down to us through the ceiling and walls?"
Phillipe looked down. At his feet was a rusty grate where a trickle of dirty water ran into unknown spaces below. "This?"
The other man shrugged. "Too small for me. Maybe a mouse could get through." Phillipe grabbed the metal to pull but his hand was stayed. "Do it when I speak." He raised his voice. "None shine like His Grace, whose mercy flows through this place, I never hope to see his face!" While this was being said loudly, Phillipe tugged mightily and the grate came free, revealing a small opening. He measured the width of the opening with his hands and very carefully held them up on either side of his head. It was just enough. It HAD to be enough.
"Many thanks, old father. With the Lord's help I shall repent and start anew, never to steal or sneak again."
"All in the proper time," the other prisoner said. "Now go, while you can!"
And the mouse was gone, visions of the nearby Apennine Mountains dimly playing in his head.
The End
A/N: I don't think I saw this film when it came out in theaters, but I DID watch it as soon as it hit the video market. Beautifully filmed, it was good to watch it again although I forgot how much I disliked some of the soundtrack music for not fitting the ambiance of the movie.
I started thinking that I would write a story based on what looked like a friendship that was ended due to circumstance. At the inn where the old Captain of the Guard Etienne of Navarre rescues Phillipe, he has a brief but obviously non-adversarial interaction with one of the soldiers, Francesco. That friendship must have been great to shine through the middle of a confrontation - all the more tragic when Marquet causes Francesco to die at Navarre's hand. But when it came time to write, this is what my muse provided; that other story is far separate from Mouse's tale, so it has no place in this one.