Prologue
Lancrel, Normandy â August 1681 â GĂ©dĂ©on
Papa put his arms around Madeleine and my shoulders and pulled us aside at the sound of approaching hooves. Too late. The gig raised a stinking spray as it raced past and pulled up outside the gaudy Catholic church.
âThatâll be PĂšre de la Rue,â Papa announced. âHe said he would come to the meeting tonight.â
âThat stuck-up priest?â I kicked a stone from the road. âComing to our culte?â
Madeleineâs mouth hung open.
âYou know very well that Jesus told us not to judge others, GĂ©dĂ©on.â
I struggled from under his arm; I wasnât a baby.
âHeâs a Jesuit professor and is doing what he believes is right.â Papa wore a stern expression. âWe have to allow Catholics to attend our cultes if they want to.â He mused. âIt might even do them some good.â
âI still donât like him.â I stamped my foot. âHe wears silly clothes. And he says weâre not allowed to do what we want on all their Holy Days.â
âPĂšre de la Rue believes we Huguenots should renounce our faith and join the Church.â
âWhat?â I tilted my head. âThat makes no sense.â
Papa sighed.
As the priest stepped out of the gig, his green stole flapping in the wind, he was welcomed by a group of black-cassocked priests. But what alarmed me were the rough-clad peasants arriving from all sides, some carrying hay forks and other dangerous looking tools. Hostility on their faces. My breath came in gasps as I imagined what they might be planning. At least it wasnât much further to our beloved temple.
I glanced at Papa as we hastened on. âPastor Benoist had a row with PĂšre de la Rue, didnât he?â
âYou could say that.â Papa chuckled. âDe la Rue is an eloquent speaker, but our pastor is more learned. And he knows how to argue â with logic â and from the Scriptures.â
âHis sermons are rather complicated.â I shook my head, thinking of the many times his explanations had baffled me.
âThatâs true. But he has a gentle heart.â Papa nodded, and we walked on. âHe encourages us to read our Bibles every day and pray for courage and wisdom.â
âDonât they have Bibles in the Catholic church?â
âWell, yes, they do,â Papa replied. âBut in Latin. Most people donât understand that. Since theyâre not allowed to have any at home, they canât read Godâs Word for themselves, like we do.â
âI read a psalm this morning.â Madeleineâs eyes lit up. âI canât remember which one. About God being like a shepherd.â
âPsalm 23.â I snickered. ââThe Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.â Everyone knows that.â Even I knew that. My holier-than-thou sister could be such a show-off sometimes.
Madeleine leaned forward and stuck a pink tongue out at me.
I was about to slap her, but Papa held me back. âDonât squabble, children. Weâre going to meet with the Lord. Our hearts should be clean.â
âIs that why weâre fasting?â
âWell... things have got more difficult since PĂšre de la Rue came here. He is determined to enforce the new royal decree.â His voice took on a serious tone. âItâs quite troubling.â He gazed first at my sister, then at me. âIt even says they can take children from Huguenot parents and teach them to become Catholics.â
Madeleineâs jaw dropped. âThey would never make me a Catholic.â She clasped her fists. âI love Jesus.â
My sister had always been sure of her faith, like Papa and Maman. I wished I felt the same. But I couldnât understand why the king thought everyone should be Catholic. What was wrong with being a Huguenot?
âIâm pleased to have you two with me tonight,â Papa said, interrupting my thoughts. âWe will ask God to deliver us from these attacks on our faith. And help us remain steadfast.â
âWhat about Rachel?â I asked.
âSheâs only six. Half your age, GĂ©dĂ©on.â I straightened up as Papa put his arm around my shoulders. âWe canât expect her to fast. And, anyway, she wouldnât understand. Sheâll be praying at home with Maman.â
Our people were arriving at the temple from all sides, many of them carrying sticks. I had never seen that before. My body tensed. It looked as though they were expecting trouble.
Two deacons at the courtyard gate greeted Papa. âBonsoir, Samuel.â
Nodding acknowledgement, we entered the sanctuary and took our places â men on the left, women on the right. Madeleine sat next to her godmother, the matronly Tante ThĂ©rĂšse.
At the sound of raised voices, I glanced back at the huge double doors. Sure enough, PĂšre de la Rue and half a dozen grim-looking priests had arrived. A deacon ushered them to the section reserved for visitors.
It was a Sunday evening in August. Although it was still light outside, a deacon moved around the plain wooden walls, lighting the lamps fixed high on the side beams. A pleasant smell â was it lavender? â filled the room.
About a hundred of us had responded to Pastor Benoistâs call to fast and pray. From nine-year-old Madeleine to our grey-haired neighbour. This was the third culte that day. As people entered, I relaxed a bit and watched the men lay their canes on the floor under the benches.
I had trouble sitting still as I waited for the culte to begin. Singing and praying together always warmed my heart, even though I rarely understood the preaching.
At last! Led by Monsieur Flambert, our teacher, we joined in singing Psalm 40:
Let those, dismayed, desert me
Who seek to harm and hurt me;
May they forsaken be...
The confident voices filling the sanctuary made me shiver.
We bowed our heads as Monsieur Flambert spoke a prayer of devotion, ending with a resounding âAmenâ. Then he pointed to the ornate panel with the Ten Commandments hanging next to the central cross.
While we recited them by heart, I frowned at the sight of some twenty visitors on the side benches; their blatant silence and scornful expressions felt like needles prickling me. Why do the Catholics hate us? What have we done to offend them? PĂšre de la Rue and his gang need to be taught a lesson.
Pastor Benoist mounted the pulpit, wearing a long black robe and a white clerical collar with bands. Although he was short and balding, and really very kind, we were all a bit afraid of him. Probably because of his powerful voice. He read out the first part of his chosen text, one of the prophet Danielâs visions, where a goatâs horn rises up to challenge the commander of heavenâs army, destroys the temple, and overthrows the truth.
As my mind whirled in confusion about what that could possibly mean, he began his sermon. He interpreted that prophecy as applying to our situation in France there and then.
I couldnât follow his explanation of the two thousand three hundred days before the sanctuary would be reconsecrated. I had never known the old temple in the town centre. It had been forced to close seventeen years earlier. 17 times 365 â thatâs a lot more than 2300! The numbers made no sense.
Pastor Benoist read on. âThen the angel Gabriel appeared to Daniel and prophesied: âA fierce-looking king will arise. He will cause astounding devastation and will succeed in whatever he does. He will destroy the holy people. He will cause deceit to prosper, and he will consider himself superior. When they feel secure, he will destroy many and take his stand against the Prince of princes. Yet he will be destroyed, but not by human power.ââ
Murmurs arose from the visitors when Pastor Benoist suggested the fierce-looking king in the prophecy referred to King Louis.
But what did it mean that âhe will be destroyed, but not by human powerâ?
Shouts from outside interrupted my thoughts. Angry shouts, getting louder. I gasped and snatched a glance at the doors. They were bolted. But they shook from violent pounding.
Pastor Benoist finished his sentence, then stopped. People froze in their benches, staring at him. As he closed his eyes and raised his arms, we fell to our knees. âLord, have mercy.â His confident voice calmed me somewhat. âWe thank Thee for Thy grace and protection over the years. Our desire is to worship Thee, to heed Thy Word and to serve one another ââ
A stone crashed through the high window. Women screamed as glass rained down on them. A cry from Madeleine made me jump up. A shiver ran down my spine as I noticed a deep crimson streak of blood trickling down my sister's cheek. I started toward her. But Tante ThérÚse drew her into her arms and pressed her handkerchief onto the wound.
The hammering on the door intensified. I bit my lip and risked another glance back. The bolt held. One young man rushed to check that the side door was locked.
Over on the left, PĂšre de la Rue muttered to his companions, then stood. Was he going to intervene? I trembled as Papa went over to him. They spoke in whispers. Both sat down hastily when another rock flew over the sill, bounced on the edge of the pulpit, and struck the pastorâs chest.
After a brief pause, Benoist continued his prayer, the congregation responding with sighs and cries of âAmenâ.
One attacker must have brought a ladder. A boy I recognised appeared at the barred window. âHa!â he shouted to his friends below, âGoody-goody GĂ©dĂ©onâs down there. Letâs see how he likes this.â He pulled a stone from his pocket and threw it at me.
I ducked.
Shouts of encouragement from outside goaded him on. Two more lads climbed up to the windowsill. They peered through the bars, sneering down on the hushed congregation. âFat old women!â one of them jeered and threw another stone. âLetâs see if God comes down to help them.â The other one mimicked each phrase the pastor uttered as he resumed his sermon.
I couldnât concentrate on the message. My breath came in bursts. I rummaged under the bench in front of me and retrieved the stone that had nearly hit me. Papa was still sitting near PĂšre de la Rue and couldnât see me. I swung my arm back, aiming for my assailant at the window. But a firm hand grabbed my wrist. I twisted round, my muscles tense, intending to struggle free. My eyes met the pained expression of an elderly friend of Papaâs. He shook his head.
Jesusâs words came to me: âIf anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.â My head sank, and the rock fell to the floor with a crash. I sat down but couldnât tear my gaze from the lads at the window.
The next stone struck the silver chalice, causing the visiting Catholics to rise in dismay. Gasps and screams arose from all sides of the sanctuary. The wine splashed onto the open Bible and spread in a deep red pool across the communion table. I stared, frozen, as it dripped to the floorboards.
Two ladies rushed forward to mop up the mess with their scarves. My gaze followed Pastor Benoist as he climbed down from the pulpit and strode toward the entrance. Several men raised their canes. Worry showed on everyoneâs face.
âUnlock the doors!â the pastor instructed the deacons. A cry of anguish rose from the congregation. I turned as a boy pushed past me and ran screaming to his motherâs arms.
The deacons hesitated. As they glanced at each other, I saw fear in their eyes. But the pastor held his stand and nodded for them to do as he said.
They lifted the bar. Both wings sprang open, and half a dozen angry men burst in, armed with flaming torches. âParpaillots!â they screamed. âGet rid of the heretics!â
I froze, gaping. Violence in our temple. And they claim to believe in Jesus!
A farmerâs son jumped up, shouting, âSacrilege!â and snatched the hat off one of the invaders. He rounded on his assailant and seized him by the throat. Two brothers grabbed their canes and rushed up to separate the brawlers.
Should I also get involved? But I donât even know what they are fighting about!
Two red-uniformed soldiers armed with halberds took positions on either side of the doorway. They kept us from leaving and prevented more of the mob from entering.
When a rough-clad peasant grabbed our pastor by the arm, a deacon stepped forward to shield him. âKeep out of this!â the aggressor barked. âItâs Ălie Benoist we want.â He punched the defender in the stomach. As he fell, his head struck the back of a bench with a loud crack, and he lay motionless.
Shrieks rang out.
âShame on you knaves!â Pastor Benoist remonstrated. âWhat harm has this brother done to deserve such treatment? May the Lord ââ
A vicious blow landed in his face, forcing him to reel back. But he stood his ground. After a moment of hesitation, his resounding voice drowned the crowdâs shouts. âHere I stand. What is the meaning of this lawlessness?â
For a moment, the ruffians wavered.
âArrest him!â PĂšre de la Rue shouted as he and his retinue made their way out.
The two soldiers stepped forward, grabbed the pastorâs arms, and dragged him out.
I sneaked through the side door to watch. The whole courtyard was seething. By the light of the torches held by some of the rabble, Pastor Benoistâs left eye appeared swollen and blue. The soldiers dragged him into the square and thrust him before the portly PĂšre de la Rue, whose gaping jaw reminded me of a gargoyle above the door of the Catholic church.
Pastor Benoist remained resolute. âI repeat: What is the meaning of this breach of the peace?â
âWe want no heretics in this realm.â The professorâs face was livid. âYour cultes must stop. You are leading people astray â even young children â with your misguided ideas ââ
âWe teach nothing but the Word of God. What is heretical about that?â
âHow can a child comprehend such abstruse texts? We Jesuits have years of training ââ
âHow much of that training is based on Holy Scripture?â
âHold your tongue!â He nodded to the soldiers. âYou will come with me. And we shall see that this sorry excuse for a church is closed. Forever.â
âYou may destroy this building,â Pastor Benoist bellowed. âBut the true Church of our Lord will continue â unfaltering â in the hearts of His dear children.â
The professor made to leave. The soldiers followed, dragging Pastor Benoist off. In the courtyard, the unruly rabble waved flaming torches and yelled abuse.
But just then a horn blast and the clatter of hooves drew everyoneâs attention. A carriage pulled up, accompanied by about a dozen mounted marshals. The crowd fell silent as the intendant himself stepped down and strode toward Pastor Benoist. âWhatâs going on here, my friend? You look battered.â The soldiers halted their advance but kept hold of their captive.
âA servant is not greater than his master,â Benoist mumbled, then looked up. âI gladly accept this persecution â for Jesusâs sake.â
The intendant turned on PĂšre de la Rue. âRelease this man! He is a worthy preacher. I will not tolerate such a fracas.â
I suppressed a giggle as the professor faltered, then nodded to the soldiers to unhand the pastor. Without saying a word, he climbed into his gig and left.
The official barked an order to the marshals to disperse the unruly mob. He advised the congregation to wait until things had calmed down, then returned to his carriage and departed.
Concealed in the shadows, I watched Papa searching in the fading light.
A familiar voice shouted, âOver here!â Tante ThĂ©rĂšse was waving her arm in the air. âMadeleine is here with me.â
Papa ran up and enveloped his daughter in his arms. âCome with me!â His breath came in gasps. âWe must get out of here.â He peered around. âWhereâs GĂ©dĂ©on?â
I slunk behind a tall man.
âHe went out by the side door,â Tante ThĂ©rĂšse replied, showing no sign of alarm. âHeâll find his way home.â
But I had a different idea. My teeth ground together as an overwhelming thirst for vengeance welled up inside me. Iâd get my own back on those spiteful youngsters. I sidled around the side of the temple, keeping close to the wall. Sure enough, two of them were still on the high windowsill, peering between the bars. Did they have their eye on the silver chalice? This was my chance. Taking care not to make a noise, I grabbed their ladder and threw it among the bushes behind the building, then ran off, chuckling to myself.
