A Bolt from the Blue, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Diane A. S. Stuckart
THE QUEEN’S GAMBIT
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN : 978-1-101-17120-2
1. Leonardo, da Vinci, 1452-1519—Fiction. 2. Inventions—Fiction. 3. Apprentices—
Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. Milan (Italy)—History—To 1535—
Fiction. 6. Italy—History—1492-1559—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.T839B65 2010
813’.6—dc22
2009033716
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is in loving memory of Gene Smart.
I still miss you, Dad.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to the many readers who have written to tell me that they have enjoyed Delfina and Leonardo’s adventures. Your kind words are cherished!
Warm thanks also goes to my family and friends, who have always cheered on my work. I dearly appreciate your support over the years.
Thanks to my editors, Natalee Rosenstein and Michelle Vega, who have added so much to these books.
And, as always, hugs and kisses to Gerry, who regularly suffers through missed weekends and holidays without complaint while his wife pounds away at the keyboard trying to meet her deadline. Sorry about that, Chief!
1
Wrongfully do men lament the flight of time . . .
—Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus
DUCHY OF MILAN, SPRING 1484
Bright brown eyes peered over the edge of my notebook, the unexpected sight distracting me from the portrait in which I had been engrossed. I had not anticipated company; indeed, I had chosen a secluded spot in which to work so that I might pass the day undisturbed. And thus I was settled in a sunny patch of grass in a far corner of the great fortress that was home to the iron-fisted Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan. Away from the bustling parade grounds and paved courtyards, and far from the main castle itself, I’d thought myself quite alone here beside this low stone wall.
But apparently I was not.
Attempting to discourage further interruption, I frowned at the interloper. Undeterred, he widened his gentle cinnamon orbs in soulful appeal. My next tactic was to ignore his presence, but that reaction merely drew a small snuffle from him. In the end—as he had doubtless foreseen—I found myself unable to resist such blatant supplication. And so I allowed my stern expression to soften as I tucked my piece of black chalk into the book as a marker before addressing him.
“Hello, Pio. How ever did you find me here, and why are you intent on disturbing my work this fine morning?”
The small black-and-white hound cocked his narrow head, his rose petal-like ears unfurling as if considering the question. Then, with a happy bark, he leaped into my lap and dislodged the notebook so that it tumbled to the ground.
“Fear not, Dino. Pio is not trying to disturb you,” a reproachful voice spoke as I attempted to fend off the small beast’s enthusiastic licking of my face. “He just wants to know why you are angry at us. He wonders why you have been avoiding us for the past few days.”
I glanced up to see my friend and fellow apprentice Vittorio standing before me. Like me, he was dressed in the simple brown tunic over green trunk hose that designated him an apprentice painter in the workshop of the duke’s court artist. To enliven that simple garb, he had braided narrow leather strips into an elaborate belt from which he’d hung his purse. He reached into that small bag now and pulled forth a crumb of pungent cheese.
“I’ve not avoided you,” I protested while he waved the treat in Pio’s direction. “Did we not spend all of yesterday plastering a wall for fresco together? And the day before, I showed you how to tie the small weasel-hair brushes that the Master prefers for his oils.”
“But that is different,” the boy countered as Pio bounded from my lap and began an eager dance upon his hind legs. “All of the apprentices helped with the plastering, and you showed Philippe and Bernardo how to tie those brushes, too. But when I tried to seek you out after supper each of those days, you were nowhere to be found. And I am certain that this morning, before you ran off alone with your notebook, you pretended not to hear me calling you.”
The offended set to his mouth was a stark contrast to his habitual expression of mischievous glee and made him look older than his sixteen years. Even Pio’s clownish behavior for once did not bring a smile to his face. Instead, his glum expression as he laid forth his list of my perceived transgressions quite reflected my own unsettled mood.
Strange that we both should be downtrodden, I told myself, given the special circumstances of this particular day. Being that it was Sunday, we would have enjoyed a few hours of freedom after our obligatory appearance at Mass before returning to our usual duties in the afternoon. But the Master found himself with pressing business outside the castle and had announced an entire day’s holiday for his apprentices.
Still, our freedom would not be absolute. In return for this unexpected bounty, he had decreed that we were to use our time honing our craft in one way or another. This meant a day spent sketching or painting or else making detailed notes on any of the various techniques we had learned under his tutelage. But while we were on our honor to follow his wishes, none of us considered secretly sleeping or gambling away our day instead.
After all, any number of aspiring young painters was waiting in line for the opportunity to be apprenticed to the Duke of Milan’s master engineer and court artist, Leonardo the Florentine . . . the multitalented man of genius also known as Leonardo da Vinci.
Vittorio tossed Pio the cheese and, not waiting to be invited, dropped to the grass beside me. The hound placed insistent front paws on Vittorio’s knee and gave a polite bark to express his hope that additional food was to come. But even the enthusiastic wagging of his whiplike tail was not enough to return a smile to the young apprentice’s face. Instead, his frown deepened, and he sighed with great drama.
Retrieving my notebook, I brushed a bit of dried grass from its cover and suppressed a sigh of my own. I knew the boy would not be content to leave without hearing words of reassurance.
“I’m not mad at you, Vittorio, or at Pio,” I explained. “And I have not been avoiding you; at least, not purposely. It’s just that I—”
I hesitated, a dozen explanations rising to my lips, but none I could speak aloud. I could not tell the boy that my desire for solitude sprang from the tragedy of several months ago. Neither did I dare recount my memories of the events that, like some ghastly and unending feast d
Indeed, only two people were aware of my involvement.
Leonardo was one. It had been at his behest that I had left my identity as the apprentice Dino and boldly disguised myself as a servant girl to a young contessa. Thus smuggled into the noble household, I had served as the Master’s eyes and ears in an attempt to learn the identity of a murderer who preyed upon baseborn women.
It had started as a righteous enough undertaking. Soon, however, our clever plan unraveled, while our attempts to bring justice instead had ushered in tragedy. Leonardo had joined me as horrified witness to that final terrible night when two lives had been most grievously lost. The Master and I narrowly escaped death ourselves . . . though for some time after, I’d cursed the fact that I had lived while the others had not.
The second person who’d been privy to my daring masquerade was Luigi the tailor. Once an enemy and now my dear friend, Signor Luigi was my sole confidant in Milan. He was the only one who knew my other, more closely held secret, the secret I thus far had kept hidden even from Leonardo. And for that reason, no one but the tailor understood the true reason for my grief over what had transpired.
I shut my eyes against the soul-searing memories that swept me. Again, I saw the fire blazing through the darkened tower, burning with unimaginable ferocity around a beautiful young woman. Her features twisted in fearful agony as the fl ames would not be tamed but leaped upon her like blistering serpents. More swiftly than I could imagine, they consumed her glittering white gown and began searing her flesh.
Her screams were echoed by the harsh cry of a dark-haired man dressed in black who was quite as beautiful as she. He ran toward her, his face a mask of horror as he realized he was far too late, that he could not save her. But grim purpose sent him rushing into the fire to join her, determined that he would spare her, nonetheless.
I could not hold back the terrifying vision of the pair wrapped in a fiery embrace from which there could be no escape, save into the cold night. He knew that was the only hope left to them, and so he had made his terrible choice. Intertwined for all eternity, the two had blazed like twin shooting stars as they tumbled from the burning tower to meet their deaths in the darkness below.
Shoving those memories back into a far corner of my mind, I opened my eyes again to meet Vittorio’s concerned gaze. He still awaited my answer, and so I seized upon a defense that he would have no cause to question.
“It’s just that I have been missing my family, of late,” I replied. “I felt the need to be by myself for a time, lest I be poor company to the rest of you.”
As I’d hoped, Vittorio’s condemning expression yielded, and he gave a sympathetic nod. And there was some small truth to that particular explanation. Most of us apprentices had come from towns other than Milan, so that visits with our family were few, if any at all. I had not seen my parents and brothers for more than a year now, though twice my father and I had managed to exchange missives when someone from our town happened to be traveling in either direction.
A master cabinetmaker, Angelo della Fazia’s skill in wood rivaled Leonardo’s brilliance with paints. He had understood the artistic fervor that had driven me to steal away one night, leaving behind home and family in order to study my craft. And he also understood that, given my circumstances, I could not return home so long as I remained apprenticed to Leonardo.
Teasing the hound now with a long bit of grass, Vittorio confided, “I miss my father and sisters, too. But I am much relieved to know I have done naught to offend you. And I know you could never truly be cross with Pio, no matter what mischief he caused, for you love him as much as I do. So, if all is truly well, I shall leave you be.”
Contrary to his words, however, he remained seated next to me. Knowing there must be some other reason that the youth had sought me out, I prodded, “The day is already half gone. Why are you still here at the castle, rather than wandering about town with Constantin and Paolo, and the other apprentices?”
“The Master asked me to take charge of Pio for the day. I could not refuse, for Pio loves me best . . . after the Master, of course,” he finished with a smug lift of his chin.
I gave him an answering solemn nod.
“Of course,” I agreed, though my inner amusement at his self-important air was tempered by my recollection of how the small hound had ended up in the Master’s care.
The clownish Pio had once been the beloved pet of the same young contessa who was one of the victims that I mourned. Under her care, the little beast had spent his days sleeping upon soft cushions, eating rich treats, and wearing elaborate embroidered collars as befitted his noble position. More privileged than many at court, he’d even had his portrait painted by the great master Leonardo!
It was during those painting sessions that the Master had developed a particular fondness for the small hound. And when no one else stepped forward to claim Pio after the contessa’s death, the Master had adopted him. Now Pio spent his days snoozing in a sunny spot in Leonardo’s personal quarters or else wandering the workshop making a friendly nuisance of himself with the apprentices.
“Look, Dino,” Vittorio exclaimed, interrupting my momentary musings. “I made a present for Pio. Is it not fine?”
He indicated the wide braided collar that the hound wore around his slim neck. More elaborate than Vittorio’s own belt, the collar was nothing short of a leather tapestry made of intricate knots and weaves.
“And see how I’ve made a matching rope to lead him with,” he went on, reaching beneath his tunic and pulling out a long length of braided leather.
He tied that narrow rope to the collar and looped the other end around his belt, so that the hound could wander a few feet from him but not run free. “I think with his new collar, Pio looks every bit as elegant as he ever did when he lived in the main castle.”
“He does,” I agreed, well impressed with the youth’s skill. “Your creations are wonderful, Vittorio. Why, from a distance, the leather looks like beaten metal. Have you shown this work to the Master?”
“I did not wish to bother him with such trifles,” the boy replied with a careless shrug, though the color rising in his cheeks told me he was pleased with my compliments. “But that is why I have been looking for you. You see, I made something else, and I wanted your opinion.”
Reaching into his tunic this time, he withdrew a ring of leather similar to Pio’s collar. He handed it to me, and I realized that it was the perfect size for a lady’s bracelet. Unthinkingly, I slipped the leather bauble over my wrist to better admire it.
As with Pio’s clever adornment, Vittorio had braided and knotted bits of leather to create a seamless circle. This piece, however, had been crafted with far greater skill. The leather threads were almost as delicate as wire, and he had twisted them into an open filigree pattern to which he’d added bits of colored minerals. Those tiny beads were similar to the large specimens we ground to make the various bright-hued pigments for frescoes, and I guessed that the youth had shaped them from scraps he had swept up from the workshop floor. It was a beautiful example that I was certain had taken many hours of work.
“Any woman would be glad to wear such a fine bracelet,” I declared with an admiring nod.
Vittorio’s blush deepened. “I am glad you like it. I made it especially for a certain girl. She—she doesn’t know that I like her, and I’ve been afraid to say anything to her. I hope that giving her this bracelet will let her know how I feel.”
He smiled at me shyly, his expression hopeful and brimming with a secret knowledge at odds with his usual boyish openness.
Meeting his gaze, I was momentarily puzzled. In the next instant, I was swept by the fearful certainty that Vittorio had discovered the truth about me that even Leonardo did not know. Why else would he have sought me out away from the others, if not to clandestinely confront me with what he had learned? And yet, how could it be? How had he unraveled the secret that had allowed me to remain as apprentice these many months?
