Operation Trinity

by Clifford, Riley

  His eyes traveled down her still body until they reached the handle of the dagger sticking out of her chest, surrounded by an expanding circle of crimson. He stared at it uncomprehendingly, like he did when he came across a word he didn’t understand in the Bible. His brain couldn’t process the image. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real.

  “Mother,” he said, gently shaking her shoulder. “It’s fine. They’re leaving.” He glanced around the room. They must have gone into the bedroom. “We’ll get you help now.”

  “Go,” his father croaked, pushing himself onto his knees. “Go now. They’re heading for the altarpiece.”

  Matheus grabbed Anna’s hand. “Get up, Mother. We need to leave.”

  “Matheus,” his father said, his voice cracking. “You have to go!”

  He released his mother’s hand and watched it fall limply to the floor. He sat back on his heels as he felt a tight numbness spread through his chest, as if his rib cage was trying to squeeze his heart to death.

  She was gone.

  “Matheus!” his father cried. “Please.” A sob broke through him. “It’s what she would have wanted.”

  He rose shakily to his feet and looked at his father. Joost nodded.

  Matheus turned to his mother one last time, although it was difficult to see her from behind the warm tears that had begun welling up in his eyes.

  He wiped his face on the sleeve and headed toward the door.

  Matheus slipped out the side window. The mob was still in front of the house, but they had spread out along the road. They seemed to be awaiting instructions from the man in the black cloak.

  He looked around. Brutus was nowhere to be seen.

  He was entirely alone.

  Suddenly, Matheus’s boots felt so heavy he didn’t think he could take another step.

  His mother was dead. The altarpiece was in jeopardy. And he was ten miles away, with no way of getting back to Ghent.

  The world began to spin, and Matheus had to grab on to a fence for balance. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to go to sleep and wake up when this was all over — or never wake up at all.

  He was about to close his eyes when a shape emerged from the darkness. A four-legged shape . . . with very large ears.

  It was Mungo.

  From the shards of wood embedded in his curly hair, it looked like he had broken through the fence of his pen at the cathedral. And from the mud that covered his stocky legs, it looked like he’d been in a hurry to get here. Matheus didn’t know if the mule had come to find him, or if he’d been looking for food, but he didn’t care. He flung his arms around Mungo’s neck as his tears spilled into his rough mane.

  “Grab that boy!” a voice shouted. Matheus spun around. It was the woman in the breeches.

  Holding on to the mane for balance, Matheus climbed onto the fence and leaped onto Mungo’s bare back. Before he even had time to squeeze the mule’s sides, Mungo took off.

  “Stop him!” the woman bellowed.

  There was a flury of stomps as a number of people began running after Matheus. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a few of the men jump onto horses of their own and begin tearing down the road after them.

  Matheus crouched down over Mungo’s neck, urging him forward. The mule stretched out into his best approximation of a gallop. Matheus slipped from side to side with every beat, latching on with his legs for dear life.

  Mungo’s top speed was no match for the horses pursuing them. Matheus could hear the hoofbeats growing closer, their rapid thud outpaced only by the frantic beat of his heart.

  It was difficult to steer without a bridle, but guiding Mungo with his heels, Matheus was able to urge the mule off the main road and onto a trail that led through the woods. The canopy of leaves was so dense it blocked out the last of the fading light, making it seem like they were galloping into an abyss.

  Matheus heard the horses behind them whinny in protest, but Mungo was undaunted, and charged on.

  A flurry of shouts and cracking whips broke through the sounds of pounding hooves and panting horses.

  They were getting closer.

  Up ahead was a stone wall that ran along the canal. If he could figure out a way to get around it — and convince Mungo to go in the water — they’d be able to use it as a shortcut to Ghent.

  The trees thinned out as they got closer to the edge. In the faint light, Matheus could see the wall grow larger. He turned his head, searching for a gap, but the wall stretched out as far as he could see.

  If he wanted to get over it, they’d have to jump.

  Matheus dug his heels deeper into Mungo’s sides. The wall looked like it was about four feet tall. Could mules even jump that high?

  The horses behind him grew even closer. He could almost feel their hot breath on his neck.

  A few strides from the wall, Matheus squeezed Mungo as hard as he could and lifted himself off the mule’s back. Without missing a beat, Mungo rocked onto his haunches and launched into the air, clearing the top of the wall by a few inches and landing in the water with a splash.

  Matheus twisted around and saw the horses skid to a stop. One rider grabbed on to his mount’s neck at the last minute. The other catapulted over his horse’s head and tumbled down the muddy bank, landing with a groan.

  Matheus gave Mungo a big pat and sent him forward, wading through the murky water. In the distance, the normally dark cityscape was dotted with clusters of light.

  The mobs had stormed the city as well. It was only a matter of time before they attacked the cathedral.

  He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

  By the time Mungo and Matheus entered the stable yard, they were both sopping wet and shivering. Yet Matheus could barely feel the cold.

  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to feel anything ever again.

  Matheus dismounted and raced through the deserted courtyard. “They’re coming,” he yelled as he scrambled into the chapter house. “They’re coming!” Although he could feel the force of the words in his throat, they barely seemed to make a sound. It was like hearing someone else shout from very far away.

  A few of the other altar boys came running. “What’s wrong?” Jan asked.

  “Get the dean. Or the canon. Anyone,” he panted.

  “Matheus,” Father Gerard said, stepping into the room. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “You!” Matheus found himself saying. “Get back.” The altar boys’ eyes widened, but he didn’t care. Let them think he’d gone mad. “I know what you are.”

  “I assure you, whatever you think is wrong. Come with me.”

  “No,” Matheus spat, sensation returning to his body like a frostbitten limb removed from the cold. Except that all he could feel was hot rage. “Your friends are coming for the altarpiece, but I won’t let them take it.”

  Father Gerard’s face paled, but his expression remained calm. “Jan, run to the guard tower,” the priest ordered another boy. “Tell them to send as many soldiers as they can. And then wait there until morning. It won’t be safe to come back.”

  Jan stared at him for a moment, as if unsure whether the priest was being serious.

  “Now!”

  He took off at a sprint.

  “Thomas, go lock all the doors. And secure the windows in the offices and your dormitory.” Thomas didn’t wait to be told twice.

  “Getting rid of the altar boys won’t help you,” Matheus said. “I’m not going anywhere.” He pushed past the priest into the corridor, and began running toward the sanctuary.

  “Matheus!” Father Gerard shouted. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the priest sweeping toward him, his robes billowing behind him.

  Matheus turned back around and sprinted down the center aisle. When he reached the altarpiece, he spun on his heel and stretched his arms out. “Stay back!” he shouted as Father Gerard reached for him.

  “My son,” he panted. “You misunderstand. I am not your enemy.”

  “Then what are you, Fa
ther? Are you even a real priest?”

  The stern look on Father Gerard’s face snuffed out the flames of Matheus’s rage. “I am. I have committed my life to two purposes: serving God, and fighting those who seek to undo his work.”

  “The Vespers?” Matheus whispered. The priest nodded. “They’re coming,” Matheus continued. “They’re coming for the altarpiece.”

  Father Gerard pressed his lips together and turned to face the paintings.

  “What do they want with it?” Matheus asked. “The man — the Vesper — said something about a map.”

  The priest looked at Matheus, startled. “What do you know about that?”

  Matheus felt his stomach lurch. “It was my mother, but she never had the chance . . . to explain.” Father Gerard stared at Matheus for a moment. His features folded into comprehension, and he placed his hand on Matheus’s shoulder. “I am so, so sorry, my child.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of stomping boots. Father Gerard and Matheus spun around and saw a line of soldiers marching down the aisle. Seeing their swords glittering in the candlelight was almost as incomprehensible as seeing the dagger in Mother’s chest. Weapons did not belong in a church.

  The captain stepped forward and removed his hat. “We’ve secured the entrances, Father,” he said, bowing his head. “And I have men surrounding the perimeter.”

  Father Gerard nodded. “How long do you think we’ll be able to hold them off?”

  The captain shifted uncomfortably. “There are smaller mobs all over the city. They’ve been burning shops, breaking windows. If they keep going as they are, we’ll be fine. But if they decide to band together . . .” He trailed off.

  “If there’s any chance of them gaining entry, we’ll have to move the altarpiece,” Father Gerard said briskly, and the soldiers’ eyes widened.

  “We can’t risk moving it out of the cathedral tonight, though,” Father Gerard continued. “We’ll have to dismantle the altarpiece and hide the paintings somewhere inside the building.”

  “How about the crypt?” called one of the soldiers.

  “They’ll look there.”

  “The kitchens?”

  The priest shook his head.

  This is useless, Matheus thought. What was the point of hiding the paintings? The Vespers wouldn’t let the mob stop until they found them. They weren’t going to leave empty-handed. If all the soldiers were in the cathedral, it would be hard to convince anyone that the altarpiece had gone elsewhere. Unless . . .

  “Father,” Matheus said, turning to the priest. “I have an idea.”

  Matheus sat on the stone steps that led up to the now-barren altar. He shivered as the damp from the stone seeped into the breeches that had barely had time to dry since he and Mungo had emerged from the canal.

  The sanctuary was completely empty, save for him and Father Gerard. They’d overseen the soldiers as they dismantled the altarpiece and carried the paintings to the chosen hiding place.

  Over the past hour, the noise outside had increased. What began as a smattering of shouts had grown into a frenzy of angry chants, stomps, and shrieks that filled the cathedral like chords from a demonic organ.

  The number of torches had multiplied as well. The faint flickers behind the stained glass windows grew into flames, engulfing the figures in a shadowy blaze that could only have escaped from the depths of hell.

  The crackle of burning wood grew louder, and Matheus could now smell the smoke drifting through the gaps in the windows. There’d been a number of bangs against the door — probably from men trying to kick it in — but it had held.

  But then there was another sound at the door. A louder thud followed by an ominous crack.

  “They’ve found a battering ram,” Father Gerard said, rising from the step.

  He turned to Matheus. “It’s time. Are you ready?”

  Matheus nodded, even though his frantic heart was trying to convey a different answer.

  He squeezed Matheus’s arm. “Good luck.”

  Matheus sprinted up the aisle and tore up the spiral staircase that led to the bell tower. A few steps from the top, he turned around and took a deep breath, running over the plan in his head.

  There was another crack, followed by a chorus of shouts that echoed through the sanctuary and up into the tower. Matheus’s whole body froze.

  The clash of swords joined the cacophony of sounds that filled the cathedral. The soldiers must have started trying to drive the mob out. But it was clear they were outnumbered, because soon shouts were ringing from throughout the building.

  “Check the crypt!” Matheus heard someone cry.

  “They could’ve hidden it in the balcony.”

  “Look inside the pews!”

  Sweat formed on Matheus’s forehead as the noises grew louder. They were getting closer.

  “Search the towers,” a low voice commanded, setting Matheus’s cheeks ablaze while his stomach churned.

  It was the Vesper.

  A ball of rage surged through him, incinerating every other feeling. His muscles were on fire. He felt like he could lift the altarpiece himself. He could fight off the intruders single-handedly.

  He could slam the man into the cathedral wall until his body disintegrated into dust.

  Matheus jumped down the steps onto the landing, his hands clenched into fists. But then another thought fluttered to the surface of his mind, like a phoenix rising out of the flames.

  His job was to protect the altarpiece. His mother had given her life for it.

  Matheus took a deep breath and returned to his spot on the step.

  The shouts grew louder, punctuated by screams. Matheus closed his eyes, trying to focus on something other than the terrible scene playing out below. He thought about the main panel of the altarpiece. The green meadow sparkling in the dazzling sunlight. The snow-white lamb.

  The sound of approaching footsteps echoed up the staircase.

  That was his sign.

  Matheus scrambled up the stairs, feeling the temperature change as he approached the top. He’d never been up here, as the bell tower was strictly off-limits. But now was not the time to worry about protocol.

  He ducked under a low doorway, shivering as the night air swirled around him. The massive bells blocked almost all of the moon, but the sky was full of glittering stars. Matheus ducked under a wooden beam and took a few shaky steps along the narrow ledge. To his right was the chamber that housed the ropes and wheels that controlled the bell. To his left was a low stone wall, and beyond that, nothing. Anyone unfortunate enough to lose his balance would plummet nearly three hundred feet to the ground.

  Against his better judgment, Matheus turned his head to look over the edge. Through the dizzying expanse of darkness, he could make out the flicker of flames on all sides. The cathedral was surrounded.

  There was another burst of footsteps, followed by a series of shouts. At first, all he could see was a line of shadows gliding along the stone wall of the staircase. But then two figures careened around the bend, waving their torches through the dark air — the Vesper and another man in black.

  Matheus scurried around to the other side of the bell, praying that the shadows cast by the rafters would obscure his own. He fished the bits of cloth Father Gerard had given him out of his pocket, stuffed them in his ears until the world fell silent. Then he stood on his toes and reached for the heavy rope that hung from a hook on one of the beams.

  Their shadows began sliding along the ledge. If they looked down into the bell chamber, they’d find what they were looking for. At Matheus’s suggestion, the guards had dismantled the altarpiece and hidden the panels along the inside of the bell tower.

  He unhooked the rope and held it tightly with both hands as he watched the men creep closer.

  It was time.

  Matheus took a deep breath, bent his knees, and pulled on the rope as hard as he could. There was a low clank, and suddenly, Matheus was yanked off his feet. He screamed and held on
to the rope as he felt himself twisting in the air. Then another sound exploded through the tower as the bell began to ring. Matheus shut his eyes as the vibrations coursed through him, shaking every bone in his body. In the brief moment of reprieve, Matheus thought he could hear the Vespers screaming, but he wasn’t sure.

  The bell tolled again, and then again, sending new waves of sound pulsing through him. For a few moments, all that existed was the peal of the bell, as if the sky had opened up and God himself was shouting vengeance from the heavens.

  Matheus opened his eyes and saw the men stumbling toward the door, their faces contorted in agony.

  Soon, the twisting stopped, and he lowered himself back onto the ledge. His feet gave out and he fell onto the cold stone in a crumpled heap. He began to cry noiselessly. The ringing of the bell had silenced all other sounds in the world.

  Early the next morning, Matheus stood at the top of the bell tower, helping Father Gerard oversee the removal of the altarpiece. The mob had finally dispersed, and the mayor of Ghent had agreed to let them keep the altarpiece in the fort until the city settled down.

  After the last panel was safely removed, Matheus turned to watch the sun rising over the eastern edge of the city, casting a shimmering glow on the houses and flecking the river with sparks of gold light. It was hard to believe that only a few hours earlier, the torch flames had ripped open the night sky.

  As he scanned the horizon, he tried to imagine the scene at his house. Was his mother still lying where she fell? Was the house even standing? Or had it been devoured by the hungry fire he’d seen spitting and hissing on the torches? He prayed that his father and baby Greet had emerged unscathed.

  “You were very brave last night, Matheus,” the priest said, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Father.” He supposed he should be proud, but all he felt was loss. The altarpiece was safe, but his mother was gone.

  Father Gerard turned to look at him. “You may not understand it now, but you’ve done the world an enormous service. The Vespers are a dangerous force. If they had gotten hold of the altarpiece, they could have become even more powerful.”