The Cold Ground.

Being the Story of How the Bones of the English Saint Hugh Came to a Church in Brno;

or;

The Highlights of the Life of Alain Duroc, Wine Merchant.

Alain Duroc, soldier in the Grande Armee of Emperor Napoleon Bonepart, was dying.

At least, that is what he thought, and he had good reason for thinking it was so. Moments before he had been a fit, active, but very scared foot soldier of the 4th Brigade under the Emperor's brother Joseph advancing up a hill in the Austrian province of Moravia. Now he was lying on frozen ground with a very large lead bullet in his side and an ugly saber cut across his head.

Surprisingly he felt very little pain. Shock and the icy soil beneath his face had numbed him of any external sensation, and all he could feel was the steady oozing of blood from his head wound as it ran across his face and into his eyes. That, and the memories running through his damaged brain.

His earliest memory was of a warm day in the summer of 1788, when he had been about 6 years old. His whole family had left their house early that day, walked the half league into the village of Avallon, and found a good place from which to watch the parade. But the start of the Fair had been delayed and young Alain had quickly become bored and had fallen asleep on the warm grass at his sister's feet.

When he awoke it was to the sound of drums and the excited stirring of the villagers as they pushed their way forward to see the arriving dignitaries. Marching along the main street of Avallon were the local fife players and drummers of the military garrison, but that was not what the crowd was waiting for. Behind them, on a flatbed dray, pulled by four horses, was the Bishop of Dijon seated uncomfortably on a large chair and carrying a small be-jeweled box. This was what the crowd had come to see.

"Look, Alain," his mother said excitedly as the Bishop's carriage came near, "those are the bones of the Saint!"
All Alain saw was the red faced man, over dressed in elaborate robes who was trying to look dignified despite the warm temperatures and the cloud of flies that were swarming everywhere.
"Where, Mamma?" he remembered asking, somewhat disappointed. For weeks now his father had been telling his children the story of Saint Hugh, and how, after 550 years, his bones were finally coming back to his place of birth. In his mind Alain had been expecting a skeleton, or at least a skull, certainly not a red-faced bishop and a box.

"Saint Hugh was born here in Avallon," his father had said, "a long time ago in the 12th century. He was the son of the Lord of Avallon, and became a very holy man who was sent to England to serve an English King. There he did many great deeds, and when he died his bones performed miracles, so he was made a Saint; our Saint, and now he is coming back to us."

Alain jumped up and down trying to get a better view. Taking pity on him, his eldest brother, Simon, swept him up in his arms and placed him on his shoulders.
"There, little brother, look at the Second Estate in all its glory. Fat, drunken priests who steal from the poor to keep themselves in luxury."
"Hush," his mother said nervously looking around at her neighbors. Her eldest son was always getting into trouble for his Jacobin tendencies.

"But why is the Saint coming back to Avallon?" Alain wanted to know. He was too young to appreciate the anti-nobility and anti-clerical sentiments that had been building throughout France in the last few years.
Simon answered him, "Our great and noble Bishop recently made a deal with the English to import some of their woven cloth, and as part of the deal, the English agreed to send the bones of Saint Hugh on a tour of France."

"It is a great honor," Alain's mother said piously, crossing herself.
"Huhh!" snorted Simon, "ask the Brion family how much of an honor it is. Thanks to this fever for all things English, they have lost their lively-hood. The Brion family used to make the best cloth in Burgundy, now everyone is buying cheap British materials and the Brions are bankrupt."

In his analysis, Simon Duroc was absolutely right. During the middle of the 18th century all things English became very popular throughout France. In 1786 a treaty was signed by France and Great Britain removing trade restrictions between their two countries. This resulted in the continent being flooded with cheap industrial goods. Thousands of French laborers were thrown out of work, adding to the growing unrest.

"Saint Hugh's bones were sent by the Bishop of Lincoln in England," his father added, "They started their tour in Paris, and now they are coming here to Avallon where they will rest in the Priory of Villard-Benoit. It was here that the Saint was born. Later next year they will be moved to the Chartreuse in Grenoble for the 550th year celebrations of the Saint's birth."

"But where are the pigs?" Alain asked, becoming bored with all this talk of Saints he could not see.
His brother laughed aloud. "Good for you little Alain. At least you have your priorities right." He pointed to the stragglers following the priests and fermiers in the parade. At the end of the line were some of the local farmers each with a pig tied up with rope.

"You are not to go," his mother shouted with alarm.
"Mamma, please," Alain begged.
"NO, certainly not. You are coming to church with me. We must ask the blessing of Saint Hugh."
"But Mamma, Simon promised me we could go and see the pig squealing after the parade."
"Simon is an evil boy who will certainly be punished in hell," his mother said with venom. "His soul may burn for eternity, but yours must be saved. You are not to go to the pig squealing, you are coming with me." She lifted her youngest son from the shoulders of her eldest and held him tight.

Simon just laughed good naturedly at his mother, ducked a blow she directed at him, and skipped away through the thinning crowd in the direction of an open area behind the village square. Stopping occasionally to exchange a word or two with other young men, he made his way to the site of the annual pig killing. Purchasing a skin of wine for a few sous, he pushed his way between the gathering throng and found himself a good position. Already some of the pigs were arriving.

Paganism in rural France was flourishing. Churches were half-empty and villagers, such as Simon's neighbors in Avallon, were just as likely to participate in Satanic rituals as they were in Catholic ceremonies. Local Abbes and Cures were still respected members of their communities, but those higher church hierarchy were bitterly resented for the way in which they collected their one-tenth tithe from the peasants.

"There will be a meeting this evening," said a voice behind him, and Simon turned to see one of his friends from winery.
"Good," said Simon, "it is time to act."
His friend continued, "I have word from Auxerre that the captiation tax is to be collected early this year, and that the village leaders of Auxerre are preparing a Cahier to be sent to the King asking him to put Monsigneur Necker back into the Ministry of Finance.".

Simon nodded at the news. Far away in Paris the growing bankruptcy of the French government had been a discussion topic for over ten years, but the news was only just reaching some of the rural areas. In 1777 the King, in a brave move, had made the Swiss Protestant financier Jacques Necker the director of the Treasury. During the following four years the King had, under Necker's prompting, instituted a series of minor reforms, and denounced the corvee, a much hated labor law.

Against Necker's advice, France had become involved in financing and supporting a distant revolution in the American colonies, an involvement that had cost the almost destitute French people some $240,000,000 that they could ill afford.
"Prere Justin, at the Temple in Auxerre, told Robert yesterday that he had heard that the King was going to authorize a calling of the Estates General," Simon's friend went on. "If that is so, we here in Avallon must be ready to elect our own representatives." There had not been a call to the communities of France to elect and send an Estates-General to the King since 1614, so this event, if true, was of great significance.

A shout went up from the crowd as the first pig was dragged into the open area. A rope tied around its back legs restricted its movements while two youths took out their knives and approached cautiously. Grunting and struggling, the pig ignored them at first, until one of the youths lunged forwards and sliced the blade of his knife across the pig's rump. Squealing in pain, the pig twisted and stumbled, much to the enjoyment of the crowd.

"Carthoun is with us," said Simon's friend, "but he wants to know what your father will do before he acts."
Simon took a long drink of his wine before replying. His father was a modest Censitaires, or seigneurial farmer, in this wine growing region of Burgundy. He held from the feudal landlord certain rights and properties for which he paid a tax or cens. Around Avallon the land supported, among other things, the growing of wine grapes. Monsigneur Duroc held this land from the landlord, and in turn rented the slopes to lesser farmers and growers.

When the grapes ripened other peasants would be hired to pick them and bring them to the presses that M. Duroc controlled. Here he supervised the making of a crude red Burgundy wine that formed the staple liquid drunk at every table in the region. His power, patronage and duties made M. Duroc someone of small consequence in the village.
"If he could be persuaded to vote for Carthoun, then the election is ours," Simon's friend persisted.

"I don't know," Simon said at last, watching the pig slowly being sliced by the knives and squealing heartily as it was bled to death. "He is a staunch Royalist, and I have never heard him say a good word about Carthoun."
"We are all Royalists here," he friend said, "Every one I know supports the King, it is his advisors we want to change, and some of the taxes. The gabelle must go."

An ancient and much hated aspect of feudal France was the salt tax or gabelle in which all French peasants were required to buy their salt at fixed prices from merchants that held the monopoly from the State.

Simon felt a sudden tugging at his leg and looked down to see his little brother Alain.
"How did you get here?" he asked with a grin, picking up the boy so he could see over the crowd.
"Mamma put me down so she could talk to Tante Adelle, and I ran away," he boy said proudly. "I saw you come here and I followed you."
"You know that you will get into trouble for this," Simon said.
"I don't care," was the reply from a boy who was clearly his mother's favorite.

A second pig was led out to join the first. Smelling blood, this animal did not go quietly, and to the delight of the mob began to attack its tormentors. A large, rather drunk farrier took up a pointed stick and began poking the pig, prompting even greater laughter as the haunches of the animal began to bleed profusely and the squealing became louder and louder.

Suddenly Simon began to feel his tiny brother begin to shake. He took the boy down from his shoulders and to his surprise saw that the child had begun to convulse uncontrollably. His eyes rolled back into his head, his jaw clamped shut and his whole body became rigid and trembling.
"Alain, Alain!", he shouted, but the tiny body trashed even more violently.
"Get him away from here," Simon's friend yelled, and the two young men picked up the agonized shape and pushed their way out of the crowd.

Beyond the open ground used for the pig killing the Place d'Armes, or Parade Square, used for everything from the local market to the current Fair, was occupied by stalls and tables; a lively business was being carried out. Among the strollers a worried Madame Duroc was looking for her youngest son, and she spotted Simon immediately. With a cry she ran towards them and fell upon the tortured body of Alain.

Advice was promptly given by a small circle of Fairgoers who gathered around the epileptic boy.
"Rub Guttete Powder on his chest," was one suggestion.
"No, he must be placed under a holly bush in the graveyard," was another. But it was the local Cure, priest of the tiny village church, who had the most practical suggestion, "Bring him to the vestry," he said, helping the mother pick up her son from the dirt, "it is cool in there and in God's sight."

Hurriedly Alain was taken inside the stone church and placed on the floor where, a short while ago the Bishop from Dijon had laid the bones of a 550 year old Saint. A large number of the more penitent villagers were still in the church waiting their turn to advance to the altar and kneel before the casket from England. Seeing the disturbance, the Abbe from Auxerre, who had accompanied the Bishop on this stage of the journey, hurried to the back of the church to see what was happening.

"Bring him to the altar at once," he ordered and began pushing his way through the parishioners. Alain's tiny body was taken before the Bishop, who was completely at a loss as to what to do.
"Your excellence," the Abbe said, crossing himself and kneeling before the Bishop, "his boy is being attacked by a devil, he needs the purgative powers of the Saint." At which the puzzled look on the Bishop's face cleared. It was well known that Saints had remarkable powers to cure the sick. Saint Meen in Brittany was famous for curing leprosy, and Saint Sebastien was a certain cure for the plague.

"Here," he said in Parisian French, and reverently placed the jeweled casket containing the last known remains of Saint Hugh beside the shaking body of Alain. Madame Duroc, overawed by the company in which she now found herself, did nothing, but Simon, who had accompanied them, took his brother's hand and forced it onto the casket. Almost at once the boy's shaking and convulsing began to ease. A sigh went up from those closest to the group. His neck began to uncurl and his jaw relaxed.

Within minutes the seizure had lessened to the point that the boy could sit up and look around him.
"Praise be to God," said the Abbe from Auxerre, and kissed the cross hanging around his neck.
A chorus of praises to God and to Saint Hugh rapidly followed as the weak and frightened boy was led away from the altar and the Bishop.

Saint Hugh had returned to his hometown just in time.