Operation Trinity

by Clifford, Riley

  He looked around desperately for a weapon, but there was nothing. In a moment of panic, he darted behind one of the columns and hid there, shaking.

  A flicker of light fluttered through the darkness. Matheus peeked out from behind the column and saw a figure holding a candle.

  Do something! Matheus’s brain screamed at him, but his feet remained firmly planted on the ground.

  “Hello?” a deep voice rang out. Instead of being absorbed by the mass of silence, it pushed off the walls like a great bird gliding from perch to perch.

  Matheus stepped into the quivering pool of light cast by the candle, and exhaled when he saw that the figure was wearing the vestments of a priest. Although it was difficult to tell in the dark, Matheus was fairly sure he’d never seen the man before. “Good evening, Father,” he said respectfully.

  “Hello,” the priest replied. It was unclear whether he was angry or just surprised to find an altar boy lurking in the sanctuary so late. “And who might you be?”

  “My name is Matheus Jacobs.”

  “Ah. I’m Father Gerard. I was just transferred from Bruges, you see. I suppose I’m still getting used to my new surroundings. It can be difficult falling asleep in a new home.” He waved his arm through the shadowy air. “Even one as magnificent as this.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, either,” Matheus said, relieved that wandering through the chilly cathedral in the middle of the night seemed to be an acceptable cure for sleeplessness. “I had a dream that the altarpiece was in danger, so I came to check on it.”

  The priest stared at him for a moment before chuckling. “I see. How very conscientious.” He took a step forward. “Although there is no cause for concern.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “And it’s probably better for you to stay in the dormitory, Matheus. We can’t have small boys traipsing around at night, even well-intentioned ones.”

  Matheus felt his cheeks flush. “Yes, Father.”

  The priest smiled. “Good night, my son.”

  Matheus scurried back up the aisle. When he reached the top, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. The priest remained facing the altarpiece. In the darkness, the outline of his robes blended with the shadows, making him look more like a statue than a man, as if he, too, were as much a part of the cathedral as the windows and the stone.

  Matheus stepped into the sunlight and squinted, adjusting the heavy basket in his arms in an attempt to find a better grip. After breakfast that morning, Father Gerard had pulled Matheus aside with instructions for an errand. A family in a nearby village had just lost a child, and Father Gerard was sending them a basket of food.

  Although Matheus had explained that only the older altar boys were allowed to go that far from the cathedral, the priest had insisted. He figured it would be good for Matheus — the journey would tire him out enough that he wouldn’t have any more trouble sleeping. He must have noticed the look of uncertainty on Matheus’s face, because he’d smiled and said, “You can take my horse, Brutus. He could use the exercise.”

  As Matheus trudged down the narrow alley that led from the kitchen to the stables, he felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. He was happy to abandon his cleaning and polishing duties for the day, but it seemed wrong to leave the altarpiece unattended after yesterday’s strange events. Yet what harm could possibly befall it in the middle of the day?

  Mungo was in the livestock pen, lying on the ground with his hairy legs in the air as he wriggled in the mud, trying to scratch a hard-to-reach spot on his back. When he saw Matheus, he rolled onto his side and clambered to his feet. He pricked his ears and stared at Matheus, a muddy, four-legged soldier at attention. “Sorry, Mungo,” he called. “Not today.”

  The mule trotted over and stuck his neck through the fence to nuzzle Matheus’s sleeve. He gave Mungo a quick scratch on the nose and then pushed him away. “I’m not taking you. You’re too slow.” His destination was on the outskirts of the city, near his family’s village, and he wasn’t in the mood to spend another four hours begging the lazy animal to move.

  He darted into the stable, where the high-ranking clergymen’s horses were kept, tacked up Brutus, a fine-boned bay, and led him into the yard. It was a little difficult to mount the tall horse holding a basket of food with one arm, especially once Brutus began whinnying and prancing in place. But Matheus eventually managed to hoist himself into the saddle.

  Mungo snorted from his pen and stamped his hoof. “Everything’s fine,” Matheus said to the mule as he gathered up Brutus’s reins. “I’ll be back soon.” He gave Brutus a nudge with his heels, and the horse took off at a canter, scattering a flock of chickens into the air.

  Matheus grinned as they flew down the narrow alley, splashing through the mud and swerving to avoid the maids emptying washbasins out of back windows. As they turned sharply out of the yard and onto the main road, Brutus lengthened into a gallop. It was exhilarating to feel the wind streaming over his face and to listen to the rapid thud of Brutus’s hooves as they swallowed the ground. If only his father could see him, thundering along the canal with his white altar boy robes streaming in the wind. Surely he looked worthy of protecting the altarpiece now.

  By the time he reached his destination and delivered the basket, it was late afternoon, his favorite time of day. The landscape grew more confident in its beauty; the green of the hills stopped straining to upstage the blue sky, and the colors became softer, more harmonious.

  Matheus shortened his reins and asked Brutus for a trot. If he hurried, he’d have time to visit the market outside of his village. Although Matheus had no money of his own to spend, it was fun to examine the wide array of goods — the mounds of red apples, the heaps of fresh fish, and silk all the way from the East.

  Yet as he rounded the bend that led to the market, it wasn’t the sound of bargaining or the smell of roasting meat that caught Matheus’s attention.

  A man was standing on a pile of wooden crates, surrounded by a crowd. He was giving some sort of speech, although it was difficult to make out the words. After nearly everything he said, the audience responded with cheers or shouts of their own.

  “Will we allow the king to persecute our brothers?”

  A number of people shook their heads while murmurs of disapproval rippled through the assembly.

  “Are we going to sit idly by while the Church festers with the corruption of human greed?”

  “No!” a few people replied.

  Matheus brought Brutus to an abrupt halt, though his heart continued to beat rapidly. He knew he should turn around and take another route back to Ghent. In his altar boy robes, he was the last person the crowd would be happy to see. Yet there was something magnetic about the speaker. It was scary, but also a little exciting to see regular people — farmers, laborers, and merchants — talk about religion with such passion.

  “Just last week, our brave brothers and sisters in Antwerp took it upon themselves to stand up for righteousness. They stormed the cathedral!” The audience cheered. “They burned the heretical art.”

  Matheus’s stomach twisted as a wave of applause and cheers surged through the square. The mood of the gathering was shifting quickly.

  A man standing in front of Matheus cleared his throat. He was tall, and wore a black hat and a black traveling cloak. “The cathedral in Ghent has even more treasures!” he shouted, his voice soaring over the crowd. “If we want to prove our might, we should destroy them as well.”

  A look of concern flashed across the speaker’s face. “Well, perhaps it would be best to wait —”

  “We cannot afford to wait. We’ve been suffering at their hands for too long.” The man in the cloak raised his chin. He was so tall that he didn’t need to stand on anything to be seen by most of the audience. “Now is the time to stand together, to show them our power.”

  “Hear, hear!” a man called from the other side of the square, sparking a flurry of nods and murmurs.

  “We will show them
what we think of their idols,” the man in the cloak spat. “We’ll burn the symbols of their greed. All the paintings. Their beloved altarpiece.”

  Matheus gasped, but the sound was lost in the frenzy of cheers.

  “Friends, please,” the original speaker said. “I urge you to —”

  The man in the cloak cut him off. “And we will destroy anyone who stands in our way!”

  “We’ll start here!” a woman Matheus vaguely recognized shouted. “The Catholics in our village need to be taught a lesson!”

  The audience began to stream onto the road, but the cloaked man remained in place, surveying the scene with a serene smile. As the square emptied, he walked toward the other side and disappeared into the shadows. But Matheus didn’t have time to worry about where he might be going.

  Something terrible was about to happen. The mob was already moving toward Ghent — on a path that would take them straight through his village.

  Matheus tugged on the reins and sent Brutus forward.

  He wasn’t sure which was in graver danger: the altarpiece —

  Or his family.

  Matheus and Brutus tore through the woods, scrambling down slippery hills and through thick brush. But as they rounded the bend that led to the village, Brutus skidded to an abrupt stop. Matheus winced as he landed on the horse’s neck before righting himself with a groan. “Come on,” he said, gritting his teeth as he tried to kick Brutus forward.

  But the horse just raised his elegant brown head and snorted, flicking his ears nervously.

  That’s when Matheus smelled the smoke.

  He shortened the reins and gave Brutus a firm squeeze, sending the horse into a stiff-legged walk. They turned the corner and Matheus inhaled sharply.

  A different mass of people had already gathered in front of a small house. The roof was on fire. But instead of fetching water or trying to stamp it out, the crowd was shouting.

  “Burn the infidels!” someone yelled, prompting a chorus of cheers.

  The attacks had begun.

  With a surge of dread, Matheus nudged Brutus into a canter, steering him off the road to pass the crowd of people. He continued around a bend, and when he was sure the path was clear, urged the horse into a gallop.

  It’ll be all right, he told himself, as they tore along the tree-lined path that led to his house. It’ll be all right. He repeated these words in time to the rhythm of Brutus’s pounding hooves. It’ll be all right. He’d be able to warn his family before the mob arrived. They were on foot. He was on horseback.

  He thought about the woman he’d seen in front of the burning house. The look of horror and heartbreak on her face as she saw her home destroyed.

  That’s not going to happen to us.

  They galloped up the hill that led to the village. The sun was low on the horizon, and he could see the glow of lanterns floating in the twilit haze.

  Yet as Brutus tore up the hill, sending chunks of dirt flying in all directions, the lights grew brighter. They weren’t lanterns.

  They were torches.

  The mob must have cut through the wheat fields.

  He was too late.

  As Matheus steered Brutus toward his house, everything fell oddly silent. He couldn’t hear the crackle of the torches, or any shouts that might have been ringing out in the distance. All he could hear was the thud of Brutus’s hooves and the beat of his own heart.

  There were already people outside. They were blocking the windows, so Matheus couldn’t tell whether anyone was still in the house.

  The door opened, and Matheus’s father stepped outside. “What do you want?” Joost barked. Yet despite his harsh tone, there was fear in his eyes.

  “We want you to stop defiling our city with your sinful ways,” a man said, prompting a round of cheers.

  While the crowd shouted, a group of figures crept along the side of the house, toward the back entrance.

  Matheus was about to follow them when a loud crack commanded his attention.

  Joost ducked as a large rock came hurtling toward him, bouncing off the doorframe and landing on the ground with a heavy thud.

  There was a flurry of movement as the mob scoured the path for more stones.

  Right in front of Matheus, a large man with huge muscles straining against his tunic raised his arms and hoisted a melon-sized rock above his head.

  “No!” Matheus shouted, jabbing Brutus with his heels. But the horse balked, unwilling to go anywhere near the loud mob with their flickering torches. He snorted and spun around on his back hooves.

  Without thinking, Matheus launched out of the saddle and wrapped his arm around the man’s beefy neck. He released the stone as he thrashed around, trying to shake the boy off. Matheus kneed him in the stomach, and then dropped to the ground as the man hunched forward, clasping his belly.

  He dashed through the crowd, pulling his father through the door before the mob had a chance to react.

  “Matheus?” Joost said, as if he couldn’t quite believe that the boy standing in front of him was his son.

  “Where’s Mother?” Matheus asked, frantically scanning the main room.

  “Oh, beertje,” she said, rushing from the bedroom carrying Greet. “What are you doing here?”

  Matheus ran to her, throwing his arm around her waist. “Are the windows locked? They might try to come in through the back.”

  “Yes,” Anna said, placing Greet in her cradle. “We had a feeling this might happen. That’s why it was so important for you to guard the altarpiece.” Matheus’s chest tightened as he heard the panic and frustration in her voice.

  “The priest sent me on an errand. I saw the mob form.” He took a breath, but all the words he was desperate to say seemed to be stuck in his throat.

  “Which priest?”

  “A new one . . . Father Gerard.” As soon as the name left his lips, a wave of cold passed over him. How could he have been so foolish? Father Gerard hadn’t just been taking a walk last night. He hadn’t sent Matheus away to be nice. He’d been trying to keep him away from the altarpiece.

  He was a Vesper.

  “I’m so sorry,” Matheus said hoarsely. “I didn’t know . . . I never should have . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Anna said, placing her arm around him. “As soon as it’s safe, you’ll head back. It’s not too late.”

  “No,” Matheus cried. The energy that had fueled his high-speed journey was gone. Now all he felt was weak and empty. “I’m not leaving.”

  Joost walked over and placed his hand on Matheus’s shoulder. “You’ve shown extraordinary bravery tonight. I need you to stay strong and listen to your mother.”

  A few hours ago, hearing his father speak those words would’ve filled Matheus with joy, but now all he could think about was the torchlight shining through the windows. The shouts and stamps that seemed to be rocking the very foundation of the house.

  The three of them leaped up as a loud smash filled the room. Matheus felt his stomach plummet into his toes as a figure appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, shaking shards of glass from his sleeves.

  It was the man in the black cloak.

  “Excuse the intrusion,” he said, stepping into the main room. He had a slight foreign accent that Matheus hadn’t noticed earlier. “I would’ve used the front door, but I didn’t want to interrupt the festivities.”

  Anna inhaled sharply. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A Vesper.” Her tone was equal parts fear and incredulity, as if she were addressing a creature that was only supposed to exist in legends.

  Joost stepped forward. “What are you doing in our home?”

  “I was planning on paying a little visit to Saint Bavo this evening. I heard the altarpiece is even more striking by candlelight. And then it came to my attention that you might be able to illuminate the paintings for me even further.” He smiled. “You see, I am no expert on art, and I would very much appreciate any assistance you could provide.”

  “We don’t know anyth
ing,” Anna said firmly.

  The man gave an exaggerated sigh. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” He reached into his cloak and produced a long dagger. Matheus winced, as if the image itself were enough to slice his eyes.

  The man whistled, and two more people stepped in from the bedroom. A man and a woman, both dressed all in black. The woman was wearing breeches instead of a skirt, but her strange ensemble was over-shadowed by the cruel smile that played across her long, thin face.

  “Tell me how the map works, and we’ll leave peacefully. I’ll even get the crowd to disperse.” The man’s gaze slid toward Greet’s cradle. “Otherwise, you’ll just make things difficult for yourselves.”

  “I don’t know,” Anna said, unable to hide the desperation in her voice.

  The man looked over his shoulder and cocked his head toward the cradle. His two accomplices strode toward Matheus and Joost, and before either of them had time to react, forced their hands behind their backs.

  “Get off me!” Matheus shouted, twisting painfully as he attempted to kick the woman’s shin with his heel. But she held tight.

  The man took a few steps forward and started to reach into Greet’s cradle.

  “No!” Anna screamed in a voice that was not her own. It was hardly human, a noise that contained all the agony in the world. She lunged for the man, jabbing her elbow into his throat. He gagged as he grabbed her wrist, and plunged the blade into her chest.

  She gasped but didn’t scream, and for a moment, Matheus was convinced he’d seen it wrong. It was a trick of light. The dagger hadn’t touched her. Everything was going to be fine.

  But then Anna fell backward onto the floor, landing with a thud that Matheus felt in his chest.

  His father sank to his knees and stared mutely, as if not wanting to desecrate his wife’s last cry with sounds of his own.

  “Search the house,” the man said. The woman in the black breeches released Matheus’s arms.

  He ran toward Anna, skidding on his knees as he bent down.

  “Mother.” He ran his hand along her cheek, which was just as warm and rosy as it had always been. She must have just fainted. She was going to be fine.