One day near unto a hundred years before the birth of Robert Annys, Sir Humphrey Sculton found himself in the middle of the river Trent, with his good horse struggling under him against the icy flood that was rushing down upon them, and carrying them always farther and farther from the ford. Sir Humphrey's distress was not relieved by the sight of the neglected bridge which should have borne him safely from shore to shore, but to whose crumbling stones he had not dared trust himself. While in this dire predicament, it is related by himself, he swore a great round oath that by Our Lady in Heaven if ever he should see again his castle and his good wife Eleanor smiling down upon him from the terrace, he would not only repair the bridge which the lazy monks had allowed to rot, but he would erect upon it a fine chapel to the Virgin, that all passers-by and wayfarers might appreciate her protection and seek after it. So, straightway the force of the flood having been miraculously stopped, and the horse having found its way without further difficulty to the ford, and borne its master in safety to the opposite shore, the knight was as good as his word; and across the river he caused to be built a fine bridge of stone of nine arches, while on its east end arose the beautiful chapel of the Holy Virgin.

But, notwithstanding this eminent example of piety and service to mankind, the end of the fourteenth century again saw the bridge fallen into sad disrepair, those having received the pontagium, or right of bridge toll, having been well content to collect it, together with the offerings to the Holy Virgin, without stirring hand or foot to put the pennies to use. There were now places where the deep ruts made by the heavy carriages and carts had worn through almost to the very last inch of stone; indeed, here and there one might peer between the loosened cobbles and see the gray water flowing beneath.

Many were the petitions sent to the King, complaining that "this one, Adam Fenere, warden of the Chapel of the Holy Virgin, received and took away all manner of offerings and alms, without doing anything for the repair of the bridge or the said chapel as he was bound to do."

The parson of the neighboring church protested that it seemed hurtful to God and to Holy Church that offerings should be appropriated by any one except the parson within whose parish the chapel is found. Wherefore he prayed "for God and Holy Church and for the souls of our lord the King's father and his ancestors, that he may have the keeping of the said chapel annexed to his church, together with the charge of the bridge." And he further promised "that he will take heed with all care to maintain them well, for the profit and honor of Holy Church, to please God and all the people passing that way."

To this strange medley of the human and the divine the King made his usual cautious reply, "Ly roi s'avisera," for this Adam was not without powerful friends at court; and, before the matter was satisfactorily adjusted, there came along this bridge one day a short, rotund traveller who, although in pilgrim's garb, yet rode a most excellent mount. This fellow drew in his rein and looked in frank amazement at certain clear signs of repair which were going on about him.

"What then! by Our Lady, hath the old skinflint yonder of his own free will taken to yield some of the silver from his maw, or hath he been forced to?"

"Nay," replied one of the laborers, pausing for an instant in the placing of a heavy stone, "Nay, trust Adam Fenere not to give up aught of what is once between his fingers; nay, 'tis him yonder that did set us all working, 'tis him yonder."

The pilgrim looked in the direction indicated, and was surprised to see a poor priest, of delicate build and saintly aspect, of the kind that attracts women to the bosom of the Church (or, as this fellow Stott was accustomed to put it, to the bosom of the Churchman), who yet was directing the work of repair with great vigor, even carrying and placing stones that seemed all too heavy for his strength.

"H'm, h'm," murmured the pilgrim to himself. "Seems better fitted to be a boudoir saint than a builder of bridges."

"Good morrow," he cried to the poor priest, who now looked up wearily from his task, pressing a lean hand to his brow, "good morrow! How comes it, Sir Russet-priest, that I find you doing this work? Surely those hands have been accustomed rather to the turning of the pages of a breviary than to the placing of stones."

The young poor priest flushed deeply, and there shot from his eyes that flash which in certain men is more compelling than the flash of steel; yet he answered quietly, "I do the work of my Master, wheresoever it leads me."

"And do you hold the building of bridges in greater repute than the saying of Aves, or is it mayhap that you wish to become a famous pontiff?" the fellow chuckled.

The play upon words evoked no smile from the earnest young poor priest, whose retort, however, waited not an instant. "Nay, but I find the land overflowing with those who will say 'Hail Marys' from Matin to Vespers, but I do not find over many ready to cut stones and repair the highways."

"Why not get down and help us?" asked one burly fellow of the traveller. "Wot you that the Bishop hath granted sixty days' indulgence to all who do the pious work of repairing roads or bridges?"

The fat pilgrim shook with laughter. "Water will freeze in May," he answered, "before you see Hugo Stott laboring in the highroad. And as for remittances of penances," he pointed significantly to the vernicle sewed conspicuously in his cap to show that he had but lately returned from a pilgrimage to Rome, "you see," he said, "I have seen somewhat of the world at the same time, and I have taken it leisurely and without toil, and, moreover, the Roman ladies are beautiful and complaisant." Then, catching sight of the scorn in the eyes of the poor priest, he hastened to add, "Besides, I am bent upon more important business, for what would the people do were I to fail them?"

"Fail them in what?" indignantly asked Robert Annys—for the bridge repairer was he. "To my mind you fail them indeed if you scorn to help them in keeping in repair the one means they have of communicating with one another, of hearing of one another and keeping up the bonds of fellowship."

"Well," replied the other, good-humoredly, "I do my share in keeping the roads in repair—thou in one way, I in another."

"How now," exclaimed Annys, fiercely; "I do not jest."

"Nor I. Nothing is simpler. Take a man who hath been ordered to make a pilgrimage to Rome, or even let us say Canterbury, I pardon him his pilgrimage at the expense of a few shillings, and by my help he hath at once saved his immortal soul and the road which he would have worn by his feet."

"And you thereby have lined your pouch with the shillings," said Annys, more amiably, for, much as he detested these pardoners who were living off the ignorance and superstition of the people, he could not resist a smile at the fellow's quaint logic.

"Ay! 'Tis an equal division. I take the pence and they get the peace. I do the wandering and endure the hardships of travel" (here he could not help a grimace as he saw the other's keen eyes fixed pointedly on the finely groomed horse with the luxurious trappings, a mount that scarce spoke very eloquently of hardships). "See," he continued, pointing to the various signs and amulets which hung in great profusion about his neck, "see, here are the ampullÆ from Canterbury, and this scallop shell I got all the way from the shrine of St. James in Galicia; and you see I must hunt up relics and medals from all parts of the world, while they bide peaceably at home and derive all the benefits from them."

There was something in the russet priest, notwithstanding his clear displeasure, that attracted the pardon seller. "See here, Sir Russet-priest," he began, approaching nearer and lowering his voice, "be thou not so sour-faced, young man. Thou hast thy way of bringing blessings to the people, and I have mine. And thou must grant that we pardoners have our uses. You long-visaged chaps may do more to uplift the people as ye call it, but drat me if ye leave them so merry as I."

"Ay! God wot, they have little enough to make them merry," groaned Annys.

"I satisfy the cravings of their souls by the transfer of a bit of sow's ear, or a few drops of calf's blood—so be it—or a bit of riband or a bead or two, and I go my way singing. And I come not with long face to prate of the devil and hell-fire, but of jollity and pleasaunce, and if perchance they will none of my relics, I am at no loss, either, for I have here in my bag what all good wives love," and he put one pudgy hand into the huge bag which hung on his saddle, and drew forth a couple of shining knives and some bright necklaces of cheap beads and a gauntlet or two.

"If so it chance that I meet with a customer that is not likely to be caught on the side of his soul, you see I am ready at a turn of the hand to land him with the needs of his body."

There came into the poor priest's mind what was commonly rumored of these peddling pardoners, how no maid was safe with them. Even then he noted the man's lascivious mouth, which parted to show ugly, yellow fangs, and the bloated body which spoke of every excess, the small roving eyes and the heavy knot of red eyebrows that met over them, the coarse, knobby nose with red and purple veins running through it and a great wart on one side,—a face for maids to shrink from.

And this man shrived sinful souls!

"How long, how long, O Lord!" he cried, as he watched the man ride away.

But before he was quite out of sight, the fellow turned and called, "I shall see thee at the Stourbridge Fair, doubtless," and Annys nodded an impatient yes, and resumed his labors, although already he staggered from fatigue.

But to stagger from a fatigue that was purely physical was a joy to Robert Annys. Often worn and unstrung from the sense of the awful responsibility that was upon him, he would plunge recklessly into some physical labor that was severe enough to absorb his every energy. Physical labor became his anodyne to the growing unrest and despair that was in his heart. In the task which he had taken up he suffered even as the Bishop had foretold. He never questioned the righteousness of his decision, he never faltered in his work, no matter how it taxed his slight store of strength, so long as he was upheld by the knowledge that it helped the Cause to which he had given his life. It was only when discouraged by the ignorance and folly and cruelty of those whom he hoped to serve that he questioned his own power to accomplish good. During the nine months that had followed since he had stepped into Ball's place, again and again had he been utterly cast down by the terrible dread that the actual Uprising would take place before the peasants were ready for it. And two dire results were ever in his mind: the one, that whatever would be gained would be lost again through lack of wise leadership and self-restraint; the other (and this became an almost daily horror to him as he watched the humor of the rustics daily growing blacker and blacker), that the few wise and true men who were working for an Ideal would be swept aside when the Uprising came, by the fierce and unruly majority, by men who had nursed their wrongs until they were no longer of the right mind, men who would wreak a fearful vengeance when their time should come.

However, there had not been much time wasted in wondering or prophesying, for there had been much to do. The people welcomed him eagerly everywhere; and before he had done speaking at one village, he had learned of another where they awaited him anxiously. And so he had tramped manfully along the highway, his valiant spirit making him press on often when the other travellers whom he encountered gave way before floods and snows. At times, he too was forced to yield when the storms rendered the roads utterly impassable, and he had known many a slow-footed day pass over his head while he waited impatiently at some wayside tavern, and looked out with anxious eyes at the snow falling and imprisoning him far from those that looked for him and counted on him. At such moments of dreary inaction it was that his fears for the future weighed heaviest.

Wherever he came, he brought news of the Uprising, and spoke of the great rendezvous at Blackheath for which all must get ready to stand before the King and tell him of their sore straits. There was something pitiful in the unquestioning faith which they all held that, their situation once known to their King, he could not but set them free. That a King could be unkingly did not enter their simple, trusting hearts. To the men in all the realm, to those of Kent as well as to those of Essex, to those of Suffolk as well as to those of Norfolk, the great plain at Blackheath was spoken of as the great rallying-place. To the men of those counties where they fared somewhat better than the others, he spoke of the dire needs of their fellow-brethren in some distant county, and how they must all hold together and take up the cause of those that were less fortunate than they. To those that were the most miserable of all, he spoke of their brethren of other parts of the land, who were going to help and uphold them. And so from village to village and county to county he went, always knitting closer the bonds of fellowship. For a while the Hierarchy had looked on and bided its time. Yet sooner or later it was obliged to strike a blow at this defiant poor priest who preached a doctrine fatal to the interest of the Holy Roman Church, and, moreover, who heartened the peasants in their absurd mutterings against their rightful overlords. Already the Barons were growing restive that the Church should move so slowly. If the powerful Hierarchy could not crush a dangerous sedition-stirring russet priest like this, then of small use was their costly ally.

So with all due pomp and ceremony at St. Peter's in Rome, the Anathema against Robert Annys, poor priest, had been duly launched by twelve Cardinals surrounding the Pope upon his throne. The solemn bells tolled as at a death, and all the Cardinals cast their lighted candles upon the ground as they cried "Fiat" to the mandate of their chief. Then the acolytes trampled upon the candles and extinguished their lights, even as the soul is extinguished that dwells in hell.

Annys had been filled with indignant scorn. "They would excommunicate Christ Himself, did He come upon the earth to-day!" he said bitterly. There was something horrible to him in the fact that the head of the present Church of Christ should cast a soul into perdition for going among the people and following the clear example and mandates of Him whom the Church still had the effrontery to call its Founder! What heresy had he been guilty of? He had but obeyed St. Paul, who put love above all else.

Love broke down many barriers, and solved many problems. What question, for instance, compared in importance in MediÆval days with the great controversy over the Treasury of the Church? Did or did not the Founder of Christianity mean what He said when He commanded that none should take heed of the morrow?

Upon this hung the establishments of sects, monasteries, entire orders, and also squabbles without end between the Commons and Bishops, between Popes and Emperors. Yet Robert Annys felt that the problem lay far deeper than either Franciscan or Benedictine or Papal Collector had put it; if the clergy really loved their brethren, their moneys naturally would slip through their fingers, none could remain either for pomp or display, or for Papal claims. If nobles really loved the poor workers in the fields, and wept over their poverty, their wealth could not roll up for the endowment of chantries, the embroidering of altar cloths, or the embellishment of the tombs of saints. The whole vexed question would soon solve itself. Yet Marsiglio, the Italian seer, and Robert Annys, the English poor priest who was inspired by his teachings, both had been banished from the Church!

Besides, the Hierarchy could not forgive the attempt to teach the common folk to read the Bible for themselves. For this were Wyclif and all his followers anathema. A most pious Churchman thus made to Rome his moan:—

Had this warm defender of the Church Hierarchical witnessed the reverence and tenderness with which the heavy folios were handled by those same lay men and women, had he witnessed something of the patient toil whereby they gained the knowledge of its contents, he scarce would have found it in his heart to pen that contemptuous metaphor!