The first rays of sunlight broke through the early morning mist on the horizon, and Roland, Breda’s grand old bell, began to ring from the top of the Great Church’s gothic tower. One ring, two, three, four, five, six…The jubilant vibrations hung in the air like children reluctant to leave.
While the strains lingered, two young people stepped out into the market square. They looked around at the festive colonnades hung with garlands, ribbons, and banners. Then hand in hand they darted across the cobblestones the full length of the market square until they stood before the bridge that led across the moat to the kasteel.
Pieter-Lucas, a lad of thirteen years, had mussed hair sticking out around the fringes of his worn felt cap, and his brownish nondescript breeches and doublet had obviously been hastily assembled. By contrast, Aletta, also thirteen, was picture perfect, her golden hair and pink-cheeked face securely framed in a starched white headdress. Every fold of her pale blue dress and gray woolen cloak hung in precise order.
“Pieter-Lucas,” she began, “where is your opa?”
The boy chuckled. “You know Opa, always keeping us guessing what’s next,” he said, trying to sound convinced.
“But he said to meet him at the gallery when Roland peals six times, and he grows terribly disturbed with us if we keep him waiting. He’s never late!”
“I know. I know.” Pieter-Lucas had to admit there was something amiss. But he could not say that to Aletta. He was her protector.
“Where did he go this morning without us, anyway?” Aletta asked.
Pieter-Lucas shrugged. Every time Breda celebrated anything with a festival, Opa would take Pieter-Lucas and Aletta out into the streets before another soul stirred there. He’d show them all the decorations, explain how each cornice carving was done. He could talk for hours about the paintings that hung on the gallery by the kasteel gate.
“Breda couldn’t possibly have a festival until we’ve inspected it and pronounced it ready, could it, Opa?” Pieter-Lucas asked the old man one day.
He would never forget that amused smile on Opa’s face nor the confident tilt of his head when he replied, “Nay, never!”
Today’s festival was probably the most special one ever. Prince Willem van Oranje, gracious lord of the local kasteel, was bringing Anna, his newly wedded “gracious second wife,” from Germany. Even Opa said he’d only once before helped Breda welcome a new princess. This was one celebration he would not miss.
Aletta tugged at Pieter-Lucas’ hand. “Did he tell you where he was going?”
“Nay. He just woke up early and couldn’t wait. You know how excited he gets over all the decorations.”
“Well, come on, let’s find him,” Aletta coaxed. “He might be in the church.”
“Ja,” he agreed, “that’s one place we can look.”
They retraced their steps back to the market square. At the door of the church, Pieter-Lucas was reaching for the heavy handle when he heard a shrill piping voice calling from behind them.
“Be ye lookin’ fer yer opa?”
“God have mercy!” he gasped and wheeled around, instinctively putting his body between Aletta and the uninvited intruder. The creature who stood before them was no stranger in Breda. No one had any idea whether the small woman with twiglike limbs and a sharp pointed nose was a woman or still a girl. Nor did anyone know her real name. Because she was dressed so raggedly, they all called her Lompen (Ragged) Mieke.
Where she came from was the subject of many wild tales. Some said she was a hundred years old and lived in a magical cave in one of the many woods around Breda, where she roasted human babies in a huge black caldron. Others swore they’d seen her arise from the ground on misty nights when demons were prowling about and casting spells on the citizens.
No matter what else people might think about her, all agreed she was a thief. She could find a way to enter any building she set her evil eye upon and help herself to anything she wanted. Nobody trusted Lompen Mieke—not ever, for anything!
Pieter-Lucas stared at the intimidating creature. His heart pounded so hard inside his doublet he felt certain Mieke must be hearing it. He took a breath all the way from his toes, lifted his chin, placed his hands on his hips, and said, “What makes you think I’m looking for my opa?”
“B’cause it’s a festival day, an’ ye two always goes with him on these mornin’s, an’ this mornin’ he comed out here all alone an’ done falled into difficulties.”
“What kind of difficulties?” Pieter-Lucas didn’t know which was more terrifying, to believe Mieke’s report or to wonder what sort of trap she was laying for him by telling him some beastly tale.
Mieke nodded her head toward an alleylike street that ran alongside the City Hall on the opposite side of the square. “He’s done met with a sword an’ lies a-groanin’ on th’ cobblestones, all by hisself.”
Pieter-Lucas started and felt his body lurch in the direction Mieke had indicated. Aletta was holding his elbow with both hands, and he could hear little gasps coming from her with each new dubious revelation.
“Where is he?” he demanded.
“In th’ alleyway b’hind that buildin’, jus’ by th’ sluice works.” Mieke was pointing now.
“Why should I believe you?” Pieter-Lucas demanded.
Mieke shrugged her spindly shoulders and spouted, “Go an’ see fer yerself.”
“Take me there and show me!” he said, almost wishing she wouldn’t.
Without answering, she darted off in another direction, her dirty frayed skirts jostling barely above the ground.
“We have to go see!” Aletta urged.
“What if it’s a trick?”
“What if it’s not? Opa could bleed to death while we stand here fretting.” Aletta was already shoving him toward the City Hall.
Without a word, he grabbed her by the hand and guided her across the square to the alley. “You wait here while I go look,” he said, stopping at the spot where the road led away from the square. “Be ready to run or to come when I call, and don’t go one step unless I say. If Mieke comes, or anybody you don’t know, yell as loud as you can.”
Pieter-Lucas released her hand and moved across the cobblestones on stealthy feet. Shadows from the old building, mixed with little wisps of mist, fell across his way in odd shapes. Ghouls, goblins, and demons lurked in this kind of place. He’d seen them in the paintings of Bosch and Brueghel. Besides, with Mieke involved, nothing evil was out of the question.
The farther he went from the market square, the louder his heart beat, and he began to feel something like iron fingers around his throat cutting off the breath. Then, just at the corner of the building where the alley made a sharp left turn and led to the Beguinage, Pieter-Lucas saw him. Lying on the ground with blood running away from his leg, Opa was moaning and crying out for help.
Pieter-Lucas knelt beside him. He laid one hand on his shoulder and another on a large lump protruding from his forehead. “Opa, it’s me, Pieter-Lucas.”
Opa opened bleary eyes and raised himself up on a wobbly elbow. “What happened? Where am I? Ach!” He slumped back to the ground.
“Just stay down, Opa,” Pieter-Lucas said. He yanked off his own doublet, folded it into a cushion, and put it under the old man’s head. “Here, this is softer than the street. You’re in the alley behind the City Hall. Lie still while I call Aletta.”
Pieter-Lucas stood to his feet, ran back around the corner, and called out, “Aletta, come quickly!”
He’d hardly returned to Opa when Aletta was kneeling beside him, tearing away the ripped leg of Opa’s breeches and examining the wound. “The bleeding is slowing,” she said, “but he needs some herbal salves, and I know not what more. Let me go get Tante Lysbet—she’ll know. And while I’m gone, hold the wound together as tightly as you can. I saw Tante Lysbet do this to somebody once.”
“How?” Pieter-Lucas wasn’t sure he had the stomach for what she was telling him, but if it meant saving Opa’s life…He swallowed hard and determined to try.
“Here, this way,” she said. “Give me your hands.”
She guided them till his fingers were pressing against the hair and the flesh. The blood was warm and sticky. She showed him how to wrap his fingers in the breeches’ cloth and keep them from slipping.
“Just hold on till I return.” She spread her gray cape over Opa for warmth and was gone.
“Ach! Ach!” Opa groaned. “Have to see the paintings, the paintings…” His last word faded like a slow dying hiss.
“Later, Opa,” Pieter-Lucas said, “not till Tante Lysbet mends your leg.”
He rallied and began talking again. “What hit me? So much to see…In such a hurry…Dashing down Katerstraat…Ach! Some castle guard I am!”
“Never mind, Opa. Tante Lysbet’s coming and we’ll get you home.”
How simple he made it sound. But how could he be sure the assailant wouldn’t return and attack him as well?
If only Opa hadn’t insisted on coming out here so early when no one was about but thieves and wild swordsmen. What had anyone wanted from Opa anyway? He was no merchant with a bag full of gold. Only a poor castle guard, dressed in his faded uniform, ready for festival.
Opa loved a festival. It was the only time he seemed proud to carry a sword. “Not for guarding anything or threatening anybody, just for shining up and making a man feel like a nobleman when he marches on the street.” He’d said it again for the hundredth time last evening. He was polishing his sword while Pieter-Lucas polished the bright buttons on his jacket. Opa’s sword! It was missing from its sheath! So that was what the thief wanted! Was Opa’s own sword used against him, slicing open his leg?
And what did Mieke have to do with all this? She was not wandering around the streets of Breda just for the purpose of telling Pieter-Lucas and Aletta where to find Opa. Nay, Mieke was always after something for Mieke. What was it this time?
After what felt like an hour, Pieter-Lucas heard steps. Not Aletta tripping lightly in her leather street shoes, but a solid clopping of clogs. He looked up to see Tante Lysbet coming toward him. The straight stern woman, who lived with Aletta’s family and cared for her ailing moeder, carried the small black apothecary cabinet that held her herbal cures, but she came alone.
“Where is Aletta?” he asked.
“Gone to get your vader.”
“Oh!” Pieter-Lucas trembled. It seemed that Vader Hendrick delighted in nothing more than ridiculing Opa, his own vader, whenever the man showed the slightest physical weakness. Strange how different the two men were. Both were kasteel guards by profession. But only Hendrick was one at heart. Opa had paint in his blood. He’d rather paint pictures any day than tote a sword, and Hendrick despised him for it.
“We will need his help to move Opa back home, you know,” Tante Lysbet said.
Pieter-Lucas said nothing. Even if they’d managed without his help, once they got Opa home, Hendrick would be waiting with his mockery.
Pieter-Lucas watched Tante Lysbet kneel beside her patient and examine the lump on the forehead. Opa opened his eyes and smiled up at her. “The Healer Lady…”
“You had a nasty accident,” she said. “We simply cannot let our neighbor lie in the street and bleed.”
She fumbled in her bag, pulled out a folded wet cloth, and offered it to Pieter-Lucas. “Hold this to his head, jongen,” she said, “and I shall work on the leg.”
Pieter-Lucas took the compress in bloodied hands and put it on the lump. When Tante Lysbet put the salve on Opa’s wound, he groaned again.
“It’s all right, Opa,” Pieter-Lucas consoled.
“I have seen much worse sword wounds in my day,” Tante Lysbet said gently. “This one should heal quickly enough.”
Opa tried again to raise himself on an elbow. This time he managed long enough to reply, “I may not be as young as I once was, but I’m still tough.”
Once more, Pieter-Lucas heard footsteps approaching—heavy, clattering, but in a steady rhythm. It was Aletta with Vader Hendrick. Aletta knelt beside Tante Lysbet and the patient while Hendrick stood towering above them, hands planted firmly on his hips. His dark eyes smoldered and looked down over mustachio and pointed beard to the patient and attendants at his feet.
“So you let them fell you,” he said, his words clipped and tinged with arrogance. “Took your sword, too, I see. The ancestral Van den Garde sword it was!” He ground the cobblestones beneath the toe of his heavy boot and swore a stream of ugly oaths.
Pieter-Lucas felt his blood churning and jumped to his feet. He stood looking up into Hendrick’s angry face. “They laid an ambush for him, Vader. He never knew what happened.”
Why did Pieter-Lucas always have to defend Opa against his own son? For sure, Opa wouldn’t stand up to him. He always said, “Leave him alone. Your vader’s anger makes him blind, and your words only feed that anger.”
Hendrick was glaring at him. Pieter-Lucas looked away.
“I once had hopes for you,” Hendrick said at last, a sneer of disdain coloring each word. “All these years I’ve showed you the ways of a Van den Garde worthy of the name—a man of courage. Still you run after this weak-hearted Opa of yours, who will always prefer the paintbrush to the sword. Look at him lying there on the cobblestones in his own blood, too wobbly to stand on his feet, not even able to crawl home. Is that your idea of a man?”
Pieter-Lucas’ heart was trembling. Did he dare to say what he thought? Opa would never say it. But the boy was young and determined to learn not to fear Hendrick van den Garde. He must say it now while Aletta was present to hear him. He breathed deeply and spoke as loudly as his not-yet-changing voice would allow. “Opa never runs from danger nor puts another in danger’s way. He pursues the paint that runs in his blood, he serves God, and he is a gentle vader. Ja, he’s a man of the sort I want to be.”
Hendrick looked as if someone had slapped him in the face. He took two steps backward, then screwed up his mouth and spat on the ground at Pieter-Lucas’ feet. He formed both hands into tight-fisted balls and raised one in the boy’s direction. “So you, too, have thrown away the sword of the Van den Gardes, the way of courage and bravery. Someday you will learn that he who holds to the paintbrush will never be anything but a coward.”
He paused. Pieter-Lucas searched the leathery face for one tiny speck of compassion and found none.
“I should have known you’d be like him,” the hard man said.
As Hendrick van den Garde leaned over Opa, the old man mumbled, “Son Hendrick, I once had hopes for you as well.”
Without a reply, Hendrick lifted the man from the street. Tante Lysbet cradled his leg in her hands and followed alongside as the angry man carried his father down the alley to the Katerstraat, onto Annastraat, through the gate, and across the threshold into their little house.
Pieter-Lucas and Aletta came behind, saying nothing. Pieter-Lucas felt his innards globbing together into little hard knots, but something in him felt free at the same time. For once, Hendrick van den Garde did not frighten him into silence.
When they stopped before the gate that led into Pieter-Lucas’ house, Aletta squeezed his hand and looked at him with adoring china blue eyes. “Pieter-Lucas,” she whispered, “I think you are a very brave man! Just like your opa!”
He lowered his head, cleared his throat, and felt his heart soar. “I promise to try,” he whispered back.