by John Hulme
Chapter Three
Adventure
Keeping close to the wall, Alain paused for a moment in the deepest shadow and listened. Out in the woods, beyond the village, a wolf howled and was answered by the rest of it's pack some leagues off. He had no idea what time it was, but the National Guards in his house had been asleep at the table for many hours, and the moon was full and high in the night sky. It was a cold October evening and even the local dogs were staying indoors. He shivered and pulled his coarse woolen jacket around him.
"Rest, my little one," his mother had said as she put him in her own bed that night.
"But Mother," he had protested, "they are going to take the Saint. What can we do?"
"Nothing, little one. Nothing," she had told him vehemently, shaking him by the shoulders, "we must do nothing. These men are animals; scum from the pits of hell, where they will surely return when God is ready. But while they are here they have the guns and the will to use them. We must do nothing to annoy them or cause them to become angry with us."
"But, Mother," Alain protested, "if they take the Saint tomorrow, what am I going to do? I'll die the next time the devil sends the shakes to attack me."
His mother hugged him hard to her bony body and the pair rocked back and forth on the bed. This woman had survived much recently; childbirth, starvation, loss of property and the recent loss of her husband. But she never lost her spirit.
"You will survive, my son, God will be merciful and send you help, even if these thieves take the Saint."
They had hugged more and then Alain's mother had laid him on the bed and commanded him to sleep. Later she had returned and crawled into the other side of the bed, and together they had waited in uncomfortable silence. Crowding into Alain's brain as he lay there, were a thousand thoughts, but time and again his imagination brought him to his next attack of the shakes. Each time when he went for help from the Saint, all he found in the church was a filthy sans-culotte. Instead of the bones of Saint Hugh, the twisted face of the man on the cart greeted him by throwing chicken bones from his meal on the floor of the church and telling him to fine a cure among them. He awoke sweating. He must do something.
It had not been hard to slip out of bed, find his jacket and wooden clogs and climb out of the window at the back of the house. Now he was approaching the center of the village and keeping in the shadows as he got nearer and nearer to the church. He had no plan and he had no idea what or if he could do anything to rescue the Saint, all he knew was that he had to try.
Across the square of open ground he could see the church door and the detachment of National Guards sitting and standing on the steps. Unlike the ones in his house, Alain could see that all these men were awake and sober; at least as sober as they could be after drinking a large jug of Rouge between them. From the puffs of steam around their unshaven faces, he could see that they were cold, and one of them had found some wood to make a small fire. But such was their fear of the dreaded Citizen Representative, that only half of them sat near the fire at any one time, while the rest moved around, and checked the door and windows of the church at regular intervals.
It was clear the Saint was well guarded. Stepping back into the shadows, Alain cautiously moved around the side of the square where once he had watched the pig squealing and where now the portable guillotine was ready for its morning's work. Even more cautiously he felt his way past the few remaining occupied houses at the far end of the square and down to the tiny stream that trickled along behind the church. Perhaps this way was less guarded.
Trying not to make a sound on the hard ground with his wooden shoes he crawled the last few yards from the stream to the graveyard and peered over the low, crumbling wall. To his left the stone crosses and grave markers lay in the deep shadow cast by the moon over the church. At the front of the church the soldiers still sat around their fire and walked up and down the square, but they rarely came around the corner and into the graveyard. Only the sergeant occasionally came this way, and even he spent as little time as possible among the dead. Although these men were all supposed to be atheists, their fear of the spirits was real enough.
As he lay there, a tiny trickle of an idea came to him. Deep in the dark side of the small village church was a large oak tree whose branches spread almost to the wall and towered high above the roof. Some villagers claimed that the tree was older than the church and had been worshiped in the village for far longer. But, for Alain, it also suggested a way inside.
Since the start of the revolution, the clergy and the churches in France had been steadily persecuted and driven to desperation. Here in Avallon, as elsewhere, at first the priests had been made servants of the new Republic, and, for a time, had been paid for their work. But as the extremists of the Mountain in the Convention had increased in power, so had the anti-clerical sentiments. Attacks on the church had grown stronger and more open. By the time that Joseph Fouche arrived in Avallon, the village Cure, or priest, was a wanted man. It had only been the loyal protection of people like Alain's mother that had kept him safe and his church, and its meager store of treasures unlooted. Until now.
For years the priest had quietly held secret services for those in his flock that dare attend them. He had blessed, baptized, married and buried all those who still needed his ministrations, but the church had not been maintained. Much needed repairs went undone; there was no money and no one willing to volunteer to be seen re-building a church when the local Jacobin council was, at least in public, anti-Catholic. As a result the church roof was in a bad state of disrepair and in places the slate tiles had become loose and had fallen into the graveyard. Alain knew of one spot where at least five of the large roof tiles were either loose or missing, making an easy entrance for a small boy.
Slowly, and now without his wooden sabots, he pulled himself up into the lowest branches of the oak tree. Whenever he could escape his mother, which wasn't often these days, he had climbed with his friends in this tree and dropped acorns on the heads of unsuspecting villages who had come to visit the graves of their relatives. He had been caught once and soundly beaten by his brother, who was the one who had taught him this trick originally.
Curling his toes around the wrinkled bark of the tree branches, even in the darkness he had no great problem moving through the tree like a squirrel. Pausing only once, when the sergeant came to check and saw nothing, Alain reached the church roof and looked for a branch that would take him close to the opening. It was surprisingly hard to find. There was no moonlight on this side of the church and he did not want to make a noise by disturbing the heavy slate tiles.
Eventually his toes found the opening for him and he felt along the edges of the huge wooden beams that had originally supported the missing tiles. Carefully, so carefully, he eased his thin body between the two nearest beams, and wriggled his feet until he found the cross purlin that held the trusses in place. Then he was inside. He rested on the truss while his eyes adjusted to the almost total darkness. Small French village churches had no large stained glass windows, like their English counterparts. This church was illuminated during services by a crude iron candelabra standing on the floor and by rush lights suspended in brackets from the stone walls. During the day, the only light that reached inside came from tiny slit windows high up on the sides of the church.
But there were enough holes in the roof on the moonlit side, that, after a few minutes, he could see to reach down, grasp one of the iron brackets that were cemented into the wall, and swing himself onto stone floor. His bare feet crackled among the dead leaves that had blown inside and never been swept out. There were no benches or pews, all the congregation stood throughout the services.
He listen for a while, but no soldier opened the church door and demanded to know what was going on and why was his heart beating so loud. Gathering his failing courage, and hoping his heartbeat would not give him away, he crept to the altar. It was bare!
For a moment Alain panicked; he was too late. Then h
e remembered what the priest did with the church valuables between services, and he ran his hands along the thin cracks that separated the irregularly shaped stones on the floor by the altar. Between two of them he found a place where the crack widened into a handhold, and, grasping with both hands, he pulled the stone upwards. It came easily and without a sound.
Inside the opening, Alain felt the shape of the cross and the outline of the monstrance, but he left these alone and felt deeper until his fingers brushed across the top of the reliquary. When the Bishop of Dijon had left the bones of Saint Hugh, he had also left a small ebony and cedar box braced with silver chasing and topped with semi-precious jewels in which to house them. Reverently, Alain removed the box from its hiding place and put it on the stones beside him. Even now, just touching the box made him feel better, and his dwindling courage started to return.
After replacing the covering stone and hiding the rest of the church property, he wrapped the box in his jacket and started to think of a way out. A quick test showed that it would not be possible for him climb back out the way he came in. The iron bracket was too high on the wall and there was nothing on which he could stand to reach it. Another way would have to be found, but what?
There was only one possibility, and that was not a good one; the main door. He moved across the dried leaves as silently as possible and put his ear to the double oak door that separated him from the soldiers outside. To his surprise, the doors moved, and if hadn't quickly taken his ear from the oak panel, the door would have swung open and his adventure would have been disastrously over. Clearly the doors were not secured, the iron and brass lock having been stolen several years ago.
Lowering himself to the slab of granite that acted as a doorstep, he peered through a small, mouse sized hole that had worn in the place where the bottoms of both doors met. Outside he saw the fire and the shadows of the soldiers. Many more were now seated around the flames, drawing as much warmth as they could, the night being cold and getting colder. A pair of large feet in ragged sabots stood close to the doorway, however, showing that there were still people awake and on guard outside. Now what?
For an half of an hour Alain lay on the granite slab getting very cold himself. During that time he wracked his brains without any good ideas coming to him. How was he going to get himself out of this predicament? Although the soldiers became more lax as the night progressed, there was never a moment when one of them, armed with a musket was not awake and alert. There was no way Alain could open the door and slip past them without being seen. Unless ...
Across the square, at a point where two unoccupied houses met the small stream, he suddenly noticed a glow, which, as he watched, became stronger and stronger. One of the houses was on fire! At the moment he reached this conclusion, one of the soldiers also noticed the flames and brought them to the attention of the sergeant. Animated discussion followed, but in such atrocious Parisian slum argot that Alain could not understand what was being said.
Then came something that none of the soldiers could ignore. A large sack flew out of the house next to the flames and landed with a 'thud' on the dirt of the square. Quickly the men scrambled to their feet and began to run across the square in the direction of the flames and the sack, which lay near the pool of light cast by the burning straw. Alain saw his opportunity at once, pushed open the church, gathered up his jacket with its valuable cargo, and slipped outside. To his relief, no one was watching, so he slid along the wall of the church away from the square and away from the soldiers who were now all standing round the sack. One of them had begun to tear it open.
Keeping his back to the wall, he rounded the corner and was just about to run, when a large pair of hands clamped down on his shoulder.
"Now, my lad, where do you think you are going?" It was the voice of the sergeant, and he was chuckling. "Ah, a little rat has escaped from the church, has he, and what, may I ask, was this little rat doing in Citizen Fouche's church?"
The sans-culotte swung Alain around roughly and shook him. His jacket and its box fell to the ground, and the sergeant grunted with pleasure. "And what have we here, theft of the Sate's property. Let me see."
He bent over and was about to pick up the reliquary and the bones of the Saint, when, from deep in the shadows a large cudgel swung with some force and landed directly on the red bonnet the sergeant was wearing. The sound of contact was muffled by the thick cloth, but the effect was dramatic; the sans-culotte was driven down to his knees and fell forward onto his face.
"Quick," hissed the cudgel owner stepping out of the shadow, picking up the reliquary and grabbing an astonished Alain by his sleeve. "Come, hurry now."
Gasping at the sudden turn of events, all Alain could do was stumble along beside his rescuer into the darkness and safety of the houses along the Place d'Armes. Behind them he could hear the sounds of the soldiers as they realized they had been tricked and that the sack was full of straw and stones. They would find the sergeant soon.
It was not until the pair of them were safely away from the church and hidden behind a tree on the West road out of the village, towards Vezely, that they stopped running and took stock of their situation.
"Who are you?" asked Alain between gasps.
"You don't recognize me?" asked the priest.
"Father d'Seze!" said Alain, even more astonished. It was the village priest.
"Yes," the Cure replied, "and what, might I ask, were you doing in my church this night?"
"I was saving the Saint, Father," Alain replied, pointing at the box the priest was still holding.
"So I see," said Father d'Seze, turning the reliquary over in his hands and checking to see if it had been damaged. "Why, boy? Why risk your life in this way? Don't you know what those Paris scum would have done to you if you had been caught?"
"Yes Father, there are two of them in our house right now." Alain was recovering his breath. "But what were you doing Father?"
The priest chuckled, "Like you, I wanted to rescue the cross before these spawn of the devil had a chance to desecrate it, but unlike you, I couldn't climb in through the roof."
Alain gasped, "You saw me!"
"I have been watching the church all night," said the Father, "and I saw you climb into the tree. I didn't see how you got inside, but it wasn't hard to figure out what you were going to do. I waited to see if you came out the same way, but, when you didn't, I realized that you could be trapped inside the church, and needed help."
"You are right Father," Alain said, "there was no way I could get back up to the roof from the inside, so I was stuck, until the fire started."
At this the priest allowed himself another grin. "Yes, poor Madame Louis-George. It was her thatch I used, but she will not mind. She has been dead these two years. Anyway, I didn't set fire to the whole house, I just started a small fire to distract the soldiers."
"So I could escape!"
"Exactly. I was hoping you would be clever enough to take advantage of the distraction, but I came to the dark side of the church, just in case."
"It was lucky you did. That man almost caught me."
"Yes, he was smarter than I thought. But we are away now and must make sure of two things."
"What?" asked Alain.
"We must make sure that the bones of the Saint do not fall into the hands of those fornicators of the Devil, and we must try and make sure than no one in the village suffers because of our little adventure."
"How are we going to do that?" Alain asked.
"First, you and I are going into the woods where I have a small shelter and where I have been living these last few days. Fortunately word came to our village from Auxerre several days ago that the Citizen Representative was on his way, so I was able to hide." He looked at Alain. "I'm going to trust you because I think that any boy brave enough to rescue the Saint also has enough courage to entrust with a secret."
Alain nodded his thanks at the compliment.
"Then," continued the Priest, "we will
remove the bones of the Saint from the box, and hide them in the woods with the document signed by the Bishops of Dijon, Paris and Lincoln."
Seeing the puzzled look on Alain's face, the priest explained. "When the bones of Saint Hugh left England the Bishop of Lincoln cathedral, were they were housed, sent a parchment along with them in which he certified that they were the real and actual bones of the true Saint. In France the Bishops of Paris and Dijon also signed this parchment stating that they had received these bones in good order and sworn to their origin. This parchment accompanied the Saint on his journey around France and has been countersigned by the Abbes and Cures in every parish they rested."
"But why is that important now?" Alain wanted to know.
"Because without it, how will anyone know that the few bones in this box are the real bones of the Saint," the priest told him. "This parchment proves what the bones are, even after we take them out of the box."
"But won't everyone know the moment they touch them?" Alain said, shaking his head. To him this was a needless complication, you only had to be in the presence of Saint Hugh's bones to feel their holiness.
"Alas, not all are as favored as you," said Father d'Seze, "there are many who would doubt and many who would question the authenticity of a few bones if it were not for the parchment. So we must hide both."
"But why take them out of the box in the first place. We could hide the box and the bones and then everyone would know what they are," Alain said.
"But we cannot keep the reliquary," said the priest. "Although it has some value to us, the real value lies in its contents. The box, its woods, silver and jewels are nothing compared to the value of what it holds. However, to Satanists like Fouche, the bones are nothing and the jewels everything. This box is worth its value in silver and precious stones to him, and nothing more. If we return the box, even if it is empty, the Devil's spawn will gloat and carry it off not worrying about Saint Hugh, who will remain with us here."
"Where will we lay the Saint. He cannot go back to the church?" Alain wanted to know.
"Come, I will show you," said Father d'Seze, and led the boy deeper into the woods. Far away the wolf was still howling, but by holding onto the priest and the Saint, Alain did not worry.
He was led to a small clearing not far from the woodcutters track he had sometimes used with his father and brothers. At one side of the clearing was an exposed rock ledge and under the ledge a scree of loose stones that the priest began to clear. Alain helped him and in short order exposed a dry hiding place where the priest had stored some food and a sharp knife.
"Here," said Father d'Seze, and he sat on one of the larger stones, "Let's get the reliquary open."
This turned out to be more difficult than it looked, but eventually the rusted hinges creaked and the lid squealed open to reveal the last mortal remains of a 550 year old Saint.
Tenderly the priest reached into the box and drew out part of a skull and two small pieces of what could once had been a thighbone. A strong smell of oil and incense accompanied the bones and their surface was shiny and brown as if covered in varnish. Alain held a soft white cloth, that had at one time been part of a nobleman's shirt, and the priest reverently placed the pieces of bone in his hands. When the transfer was complete the cloth was folded many times with the bones in their center, and then the package and the parchment were put inside a leather satchel and wrapped in straw. They were then placed inside the opening and covered once again with rocks and stones.
"Now," said the priest, "we must get the box and its jewels back to the village before Fouche knows it has gone."
"But won't those soldiers have told him?" Alain asked.
"Possibly, but if we bury the box in the graveyard and then let him find it, the Citizen will think he has beaten us. He will crow that he has once again discovered the treasures of the church and confiscated them. He'll be so pleased at his own cleverness that he will go on his way leaving the most valuable treasure behind."
"But what if he starts killing people.? The soldiers in our house said he was going to cut off the head of Mayor Carthoun tomorrow."
"We must be brave and trust in God. He will protect us and his Saint," said the priest, crossing himself. "Only you and I will know where the Saint is hidden. If I am killed, then only you will know, and it is on you that the Saint will depend."
"Will Saint Hugh continue to cure me of the shakes, even if he is buried in the ground and not in a church?" Alain wanted to know.
"Of course, he will," said Father d'Seze earnestly. "The Saint does care where he lies so long as he has his own followers to look after him." But then the priest paused, and a thoughtful look came over his face.
"But, little Alain, there is something we must do if we live."
"What is that Father?"
"We must both promise that, if we live and the Saint stays here in Avallon, when this curse of the revolution has passed from our land - as it must if there is a true God in heaven - one of us must return the Saint to his homeland."
"England, Father, why?"
"He is an English Saint and it was among the English that he carried out all of his ministry. After his death it was in England that all the miracle cures were performed that made him into a Saint. His bones must eventually rest in his chosen land and the place chosen for him by God. It would be wrong if it were to be any other way."
"But, the Saint is now back where he was born, what can be wrong with that?"
"Nothing," he was told, "the Saint was visiting the country of his birth, which is only right, but one day he must return to where God sent him. We cannot defy God and his judgement. Evil is triumphant in poor France at the moment, but there will come a day when justice strikes down these Godless creatures and sanity will return. At that time we must be ready to do justice to Saint Hugh and get him back to England."
He looked hard into the boy's face. "And you must promise me, here on the bones of the Saint, that one day, if you are the only one left, that you will return Saint Hugh to Lincoln cathedral in England. Will you do that?"
Staring into the face of the priest, Alain Duroc could not do less, and so he swore an oath to God and the Saint that, in the future, he would do all in his power to get the Saint home. Such was the intensity of the oath, that he shook as he said it.
"No matter what the cost," the priest insisted.
"Yes Father."
"Good, now let us return the box to the village, it is already getting light."
So it was that Saint Hugh rested in the woods of Avallon where he had played as a boy five and half a centuries before, while Alain and the priest returned to their fate in the hands of Joseph Fouche.
(return to Table of Contents)
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