One year later, the sun that flashed from Ely's towers flashed from
the points of a thousand spears, from as many burnished helmets
and glittering coats of mail, from the polished wood of hundreds
of crossbows, from the resplendent surfaces of emblazoned shields,
and from shining battle-axes, swinging against the glossy haunches
of war-horses. It lit up splendid sword belts of rose, azure, and
vermilion, tabards superb with armorial bearings, tunics and surcoats
gamboised and interlaced with silks of yellow, blue, and flame color;
it illumined waving pennons and guidons, and the more stately banners
with their oft-repeated device of St. George and the dragon, or the
golden keys of St. Peter.
There at the head of his troops rode the proud figure of the fighting
Bishop, Spencer of Norwich, his closely wrought suit of mail and helmet
of finest blue steel rings, his surcoat of blue velvet, his gorget of
the same, draped from the helmet. Blue flashed against blue, the clever
handiwork of man and the illimitable cerulean of the sky.
Every reason had Spencer of Norwich to be proud, for the Pope had
appointed him special commissioner to raise and conduct a crusade in
succor of brave Ghent against the minions of Antichrist at Avignon.
Even now he was on his way to join the rest of his army to set sail
later from Dover. For once the Pope's war was the people's war. For
once the interests of the nation and the Papacy were one, and the
wealth of England need not be squandered in the support of two opposing
armies. Not only was England asked to fight its hereditary enemy,
France, but it was asked to succor a brave people who had thrown off
the sway of a ducal ruler and had gathered about a simple Flandrish
burgher. No wonder that the plain people responded enthusiastically
to this call. The very severity that Bishop Spencer had displayed in
putting down the Uprising of the summer before now redounded to his
credit--served to strengthen their confidence in him as a military
leader.
Urban, thoroughly in earnest in striking a telling blow against
Avignon, now outdid himself in his concessions to those who poured
their wealth and treasure at his feet. Not alone was absolution granted
them, but during this great emergency it became possible to obtain it
for dead friends and relatives. Here was a masterly stroke indeed; for
who could hesitate to sacrifice a paltry string of jewels, or a golden
goblet or two, to put out the flames that encompassed a beloved one? It
would seem that, did the treasure cease pouring from castle and manor
for a single day, a few well-directed sermons dwelling somewhat fondly
on the tortures of hell-fire were sufficient to make the streams gush
forth again!
Yet, notwithstanding the enthusiasm with which this army was raised and
equipped, there rose through the land some bold voices protesting that,
when the Lords and Knights and Bishops assembled at Westminster, it
would have been better had they redressed the wrongs of the peasants,
and restored quiet and order to the realm by wise internal regulations,
instead of turning their eyes across the seas and voting moneys for a
war that would neither raise up ruined manor houses nor restore wasted
lands. Indeed, Wyclif and his fast-growing band of Lollards cried out
in no uncertain tones that the whole quarrel between the contending
Popes had to do only with worldly power and mastery, which was entirely
unbefitting a Pope and wholly contrary to the example of Christ.
"Neither the slaying of men nor the impoverishment of whole countries
can be the outcome of love to the Lord Jesus Christ," solemnly
enjoined the great master, who, even with the hand of Death upon him,
remained undaunted, suffering only his body to be conquered.
While the people of Ely had shouted themselves hoarse, and swung
banners, and waved kerchiefs, two quiet figures had looked sadly,
silently on, a man and a woman. They had watched the triumphant army
pass, setting the dull fenland ablaze with color as it moved. When
the last thread of scarlet was caught up in the blue haze where the
sluggish river made its last bend, the couple turned their faces to
the Cathedral. As they looked, the swamp at their feet suddenly burst
into flame and then as suddenly darkened as the red sun sank. The low
sparse trees, rising from the water, blackened against the horizon; the
orange and the rose slowly faded from the sky, the violet-gray pallor
of the night creeping over it. The rapture of day's meeting with night
was over, and all the passion burned out. A few scattered groups of
villagers passed them by, chatting eagerly, and then all was still.
The man sighed heavily. The woman turned to him a quiet face, full of
resolute courage. If there was anything to mar her perfect happiness,
it was that the people had apparently been oblivious of their
dissenting presence. Not a jeer had sounded, not a stone had been
thrown. Sweeter far to her than an ardent meeting of their own Lollard
followers was any opportunity--however small--to suffer martyrdom for
the sacred Cause. She marvelled greatly when news came to her from time
to time of comrades recanting in the face of torture. She would have
counted it a blessed privilege to die for the Truth, smiling into the
eyes of her tormentors.
And this was Ely! Ah, the wonderful old church! even in the gathering
darkness it still crowned the wide landscape. She divined the poignant
memories that were stirring in her husband's breast. Twice before
had he faced Ely Minster,--once proudly defiant on the threshold of
life, once stricken in the bitter consciousness of defeat. This time
in his heart was neither defiance nor despair. He could not defy, for
he looked no longer on the Cathedral as an enemy to be crushed, but
as a force to be yoked into service. If there was some condemnation
in his heart, yet there was reverence as well. Reverence, for he was
passionately responsive to the Mystery and Power before him. Impotent
indeed he believed the new religion would be if it reckoned not with
this Power, if it tossed it aside as worthless. Rather should it forge
to itself with imperishable links the mighty forces that dwelt in that
stirring Presence.
Neither could he despair, for while at one time he had worked with
feverish energy in the stirring sight of a fixed goal, now he had
learned the difficult lesson of working on in perfect courage and
perfect steadfastness for an end which he could never hope to see,
which he knew could be accomplished only by God in the fulness of His
time.
How much had taken place in the twelvemonth that had passed since he
had faced Ely Minster! He had not died on that awful night, although
he had thought it the end and had welcomed it. But he had gone through
a long and serious illness. Tenderly nursed by Matilda, and safely
hidden from those who were going about the land slaying all the poor
priests they could lay hands on, little by little he had regained his
strength until he could endure the telling of the terrible end of the
Uprising. As soon as he could, he made a pilgrimage to Lutterworth, and
there had a last solemn talk with John Wyclif. Once more he took up
the threads of life, once more under orders from his old master. And
with his bodily ills he cast off those of his moral nature. At last
wholly hers, he could ask Matilda to be his wife--no warring, clamorous
instincts now, his whole being in perfect harmony resolving itself into
love for her.
The Uprising was a thing of the past. It had taken more than forty
years to come, a few swift days had seen its end. For one brief moment
England had lain at the feet of Piers Ploughman, poor Piers never less
truly conqueror than then! The gaol at Maidstone had been broken into,
and John Ball placed again at the head of his people; the palace of the
most powerful Duke of the realm had been sacked and reduced to ashes;
the head of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of all England, had
grinned from the top of London bridge in grim companionship with the
murdered Treasurer of the nation. On the top of the pillory in the Bury
market-place, the lifeless lips of the Chief Justice of England pressed
those of the Prior of the Monastery in ghastly jest on the league
between Church and Law against poor Piers. Yea, all England at the feet
of its rustics--and to what end? To disperse to their homes, drunk
with joy over the roseate promises of their King. The true value of a
King's promise was to be learned later. Never again would a King be to
them quite so kingly, since one had turned the faith and loyalty of
his people against them as the weapon of their destruction. The scores
of clerks, busily writing articles of manumission while there was a
rioter to be seen, were soon as busily engaged in writing new articles
of bondage more galling than ever. The free pardon of all who had taken
part in the Uprising, which the King so readily promised, meant the
death of some seven thousands of rebels, among them beloved John Ball,
quartered and hung swaying on the gates of St. Alban's as an example to
all.
"_By their fruits ye shall know them._"
Again Robert Annys recalled that text as he stood this time before the
Cathedral. But no longer it agonized him as on that night when he lay
prone among the rushes. Now he saw deeper into the heart of things.
He saw that the fruit of the tree is the fruit not alone of the leafy
bough on which it hangs, nor alone of the strong, gnarled trunk, nor
alone of the roots, deep down and hidden; but that it is borne alike of
the kernel that has taken many seasons to reach the height of a man,
alike of the very rainfalls that have fed the roots with the salts of
the soil. Who indeed shall ever account for all the forces that have
gone to redden its cheeks and sweeten its juices?
The Uprising had failed because the people were not yet ready for
success. They had failed in self-command, and therefore had grievously
failed to command others. It was hard to look into the future with any
show of bravery when one realized how much, how much the people must
learn, how much work there was to be done by a few strong, patient
souls. And yet, to Robert Annys the very failure of the Uprising had
within it something precious. He believed that if no slightest seed may
fall to the ground unheeded, surely the earnest efforts of thousands
upon thousands of men could not be suffered to fall barren upon
Eternity.
And he was right. Who shall ever say all that was done or not done by
that wonderful outspeaking of the heart of the English peasantry more
than half a thousand years ago--that stirring voice sinking again into
silence as mysteriously as it arose? And yet who shall say that it was
hushed? Is it not nearer the truth to say that it was held in the air,
vibrating down through the centuries, silent unto Man, only until such
time as his ears were attuned to hearken?
Indeed, easier is it to trace the tall waving corn back to the tiny,
hard grain that was tossed upon the waiting earth; easier to trace
the proud mast that cleaves the air high up over the seas, back to
the pine cone's quiet fall; easier to trace the broad flowing river,
ship-studded, artery of great, toiling cities, to the hidden pool where
the trout leap and the deer come down to drink,--than to trace through
the remotest Past the mysterious ebb and flow, the wonderful crossing
and recrossing, of the springs of Human Action.
In truth no historian may ever tell of the end of the Great Uprising,
for it had no end, but it goeth ever on and on.