Into the Bishop's chamber the Legate entered, smiling. There were
many things in the turn of events that went to make up his scarce
concealed satisfaction. To be sure, the times were troublous, and a
grave uneasiness was over the land, yet to Pietro Barsini the end in
view ever justified the means, and there was no denying that the old
enemies of the Church, the Barons, were becoming wonderfully meek and
approachable under the pressure of their present difficulties.
The discontent and threatened rising of the people against their
overlords had thrown the Aristocracy--Bishops and Barons--into a union,
or semblance of union. Both were landowners, and were absorbed in the
problem of putting a man behind the plough and keeping him there.
Untilled lands and rotting corn became of more importance than Rights
of Mortmains, Spiritualities, Peter's Pence, Rights of Investiture, or
other trifling matters over which Churchmen and Barons had quarrelled.
Thus it came about that at that time for a brief instance the lion lay
down with the lamb. A true Churchman, such as was Pietro Barsini, could
find much indeed to relish in the situation. Not only was the mighty
English Baronage turned from an enemy into an ally, but there was the
unregenerate past to do penance for. Therefore rich gifts and many
altars and chantries and noble additions to cathedrals began to find
their way to the Church from the repentant sinners. Many and profitable
were the Plenary and Special Indulgences granted to undo the direful
Past; and if perchance to the contrite purchaser redemption seemed to
come a trifle high, a sight of his rotting corn, or bleating sheep, or
distressed kine, speedily brought him to terms.
The Cardinal could find it in his heart almost to love some of those
hardy, obstinate Barons, his new-found friends, but for the Bishop
of Ely he had only unmitigated scorn. He could understand an out and
out enemy, but these half enemies and half friends, these Churchmen
who are ever prating of reform from within, and who one minute are
as fiercely denouncing the head of the Church, as the next they are
anathematizing the heretics and would-be robbers of the Church,--these
he frankly could not understand at all. Thomas of Ely was his special
detestation; he had no patience with his absurd strictures regarding
the conferring of benefices only on worthy and pious Churchmen. The
Hierarchy in the eyes of the Nuncio was a vast and powerful machine
of intricate workings. If one delicate part of the machine refused to
work, there must be plenty of oil to lubricate it,--oil in the shape of
emoluments was vastly more important to the usefulness of the machine
than such abstract qualities as piety or chastity. There were certain
crowned heads to be soothed, certain fierce Barons to be placated,
certain wily Counts to be won over, here and there a Queen to be
flattered, or a rival to be disposed of at a safe distance; therefore
there must be benefices to bestow with wise discrimination, here one in
Sicily, there one in Burgundia, there one in Flanders or in France, or
maybe in England.
The Cardinal inquired most considerately into the Bishop's state of
health. His greeting was as smooth and affable as ever, yet the Bishop
could read the malicious triumph that bubbled beneath the calm surface.
"Too bad, too bad," began his visitor, in suave tones, "that a hempen
rope should be the end of so promising a youth."
"How say you?" exclaimed the Bishop, startled.
"I say that, though we thought so cannily to have put salt on the tail
of our bird, yet having left him alone in the gilded cage, he hath
found it in his power to fly away."
The Bishop's dream-structure in which he had just been wandering fell
to the ground with a crash. The thought of that beautiful youth by his
side, enthusiastic, eloquent, fearless, assisting him, brightening his
declining years, had been very sweet. Momentarily he had been expecting
his arrival to be announced. And this was the end of his hopes! He was
too profoundly chagrined not to show it.
"H'm!" he said, half to himself, "I had thought to bring him home with
me."
"Doubtless," insinuated the Cardinal Barsini, "had he come to my Lord
Bishop's hospitable mansion, he would have found the cage altogether
too heavily gilded to have stirred his wings."
"He was deep in prayer. What could I?"
"Ill it behooves me to suggest. However it might have been, since it is
true that he hath slipped from between our fingers, Holy Church will
have to limp along as best she can without his valuable aid."
His listener winced at the irony, but returned it with interest.
"Tell me all about it, _you know all_," he said, with quiet emphasis.
For well it was known that nothing happened in all the length and
breadth of the land without the cognizance of the Legate. The "Pope's
spy" the people nicknamed him.
"I know only that the mad priest whom you have refused to place in
irons, John Ball, appeared yestere'en at the cross-roads, and as he
had but just arrived and never has been known to keep his tongue long
between his teeth, he straightway gave one of his seditious, incendiary
harangues (though he doth call them sermons), urging his hearers to
hold together against the just decrees of Parliament and the King's--"
"I know, I know," interrupted the Bishop, impatiently, "I know all you
would say against this Ball, for I have heard it many times; but tell
me what did take place that concerns this young Annys."
The Legate's beady eyes snapped. "And it befell that the young protégé
of your Reverence was among those that listened," he concluded.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Bishop, with a long-drawn-out sigh. Well he
knew how strong an influence such a man as Ball would have upon the
high-spirited young priest just at that point in his career.
"And then just as Ball bade them all farewell, and announced that he
was walking straight into the arms of the Archbishop's men at Kent,
this hot-head of ours boldly flings himself from out the crowd, and
throwing himself at Ball's feet, proclaims himself Ball's successor,
and swears eternal allegiance to the Cause."
The Bishop groaned aloud: "Why are they so misguided as to persecute
this Ball? It will cost Sudbury his head, this action, mark my words.
If they clap him into gaol he will but come forth stronger than ever.
Can they not or will they not see that their methods of repression
are but heaping fuel on the fire? Can they not or will they not see
that all may yet come well without violence, if their leaders are not
suppressed, if there be talkings and gatherings, ay! and marchings if
they will? The people have some just grievances, though, to be sure,
they are greatly and criminally exaggerated; but let them talk of them,
and, mark me, they will not bite near so deep. Let me tell you, and
the Primate of England, ay! and the King himself, that the people are
now in a mood to accept small concessions; let this go farther, and
persecute them more, and thrones may tremble ere they cry 'Enough!'"
"What concessions?" asked the Legate, angrily. "Make concessions to
the wild, turbulent mob that, given its way, will yet plant a burning
torch on every palace and castle in the land!"
"Nay," gently interposed the Bishop, "it is to prevent such a rebellion
that I would make just concessions _now_."
"_Just_ concessions, indeed! Basta!"
"Ay," reiterated the Bishop, "_just concessions_! For it is true that
the wages doled to the workers are scarce enough to keep body and soul
together, and the Poll Tax, which hath been taken three times these
past four years, falls heavier upon the very poor than any others. For
well is it known that the rich have an argument in their purse that
goeth straightway to the heart of the tax-gatherer. And mark me, my
friend, you may think the people get used to the raping of their women
by these same insolent tax-gatherers and sheriffs and King's men, as
eels get used to being skinned. But, after all, praise to the Most
High, man made in the image of God is not an eel. The nobles cannot
hope to go on with impunity treading down the most sacred rights of
human beings. For the spark of divinity in man cannot let him remain
long at the level of beasts; and it is a spark that neither you nor
Baron can quite stamp out, because it is from God."
The old man paused, and rested for a moment with his head on his hands
as if weary and discouraged; but the Legate paced up and down angrily,
holding his arms tightly folded before his breast, as if to shut in
the bitter words that rose within him. When the old man spoke again it
was at first gently, and slowly, and then, as his indignation voiced
itself, the words came bubbling up hot from him, faster and faster.
"Do you not see," he said, "that the greatest danger is to be
apprehended from a martyr? It was the worship of the martyrs in
the secret Catacombs that knit firmly together the bones of young
Christianity. Could the Holy Catholic Church ever have grown into the
most powerful body in the world, had it from the very first been fed on
opulence and power?"
"Yea, I have heard," sneered the Legate, trying hard to hide his rage,
"that the Bishop of Ely holds it Christlike to stir up the people
against all authority."
The Bishop's face grew cold and hard. "On the contrary," he began
severely, "I deprecate the teachings of Ball just so far as they give
rise to rebellion and disorder. I hold that the people are not ready
to rule themselves; I firmly believe that were the mandates of Ball to
be obeyed there would follow disruption and chaos, for I remember the
words of Paul:--
"'I fed you with milk, not with meat, for ye were not yet able to bear
it; nay, not even now are ye able; for ye are yet carnal, for there is
among you jealousy and strife.'
"I hold that the people should be fed for yet a while with milk. I hold
that they are not yet ready to bear meat; yet, Pietro Barsini, that is
precisely what Ball is feeding them with. He is giving them strong meat
whether they can bear it or no. Beware, Pietro Barsini, beware, for
the time is coming when, once having tasted of the meat, they shall no
longer remain satisfied with the milk, and, when it is held to their
lips, they shall turn from it. When that time comes, look you, look you
to it well, for the foundations on which such as you rest will crumble
away, and not so much as one stone shall remain."
Exhausted by his vehemence, the old man's head fell wearily on his
breast, and the Italian stole noiselessly away.