A Bolt from the Blue, page 10
“Don’t worry. I can use it,” he said with a shrug. “But the Master would forbid me to carry such a weapon, and so I shall keep it hidden. You will not tell him, will you?”
For a single unworthy moment, I considered doing just that. By exposing Tito’s secret, I might gain back my role as assistant in this project. Despite the fact that he had been hired by Il Moro to build weapons of war, Leonardo loathed violence and disapproved of carrying arms.
On the other hand, I had seen him wield a sword when danger threatened and knew he was not foolish enough to let his scruples override the safety of those around him . . . including himself. And, in truth, I would feel better knowing that both the Master and my father had someone with them as they worked who could serve as protector.
Thus, I shook my head.
“I shall say nothing, so long as you swear you will tell me everything that happens each day as you work,” I agreed. “And you must tell me if you see anyone acting suspiciously near the Master or my father, so that I may help you to keep an eye on that person.”
I thought again of the mysterious robed figure that had spied upon me at the parade grounds and perhaps later as I’d searched for Constantin’s killer in the quadrangle. If that person still lurked about Castle Sforza, I had not seen him again. Perhaps those strange sightings had been but a coincidence, merely a visitor who had gone about his true business and was long departed from the castle grounds.
Tito and I parted with a polite enough clasp of our hands, though I admit with some shame that I still struggled with my resentment. And I was further mollified later in the day when, quite unexpectedly, my father appeared in the chapel and summoned me to one side.
“Your master took young Tito with him to purchase more fabric for the wings,” he whispered, so that none of the others could hear. “While they are away, perhaps you would care to come see this grand machine of his.”
The shed where the flying machine was stored lay not far from the stables. Pulling a large key from his pouch, my father unfastened the heavy lock that barred the pair of large doors. He opened one just wide enough for us to slip inside and then pulled the doors shut behind us. I barely noticed his actions, for I was staring in awe at the full-sized craft in the center of the shed’s dirt floor.
More correctly, it was the body of the flying machine that sat propped up on a trio of wooden supports. The skeletal framework of wings lay to one side, one already covered in linen and the other still bare. The body was longer than I’d expected it to be, perhaps twice my length with the blunt little tail included. Though it was of deceptively simple design, my artist’s eye could see now that much thought had gone into creating a craft of graceful yet practical lines. Once the finished wings were attached, it would be a magnificent sight, indeed! And if it could truly be made to fly—
“Oh, Father, would it not be wonderful to be the one who piloted this craft about the clouds,” I cried, envying the Master the opportunity he would have.
My father shrugged. “I prefer to keep my feet firmly on the ground,” he replied, though I sensed he, too, had begun to see the possibilities of Leonardo’s invention.
And so I returned to my labors in far better humor than when I’d started the day. My feelings toward Tito were again amicable when he joined the rest of us outside the kitchen for the evening meal.
Once we finished our usual stew and started back toward the workshop, he contrived to fall several paces behind the others. With an almost imperceptible twitch of his head, he gestured me to join him.
“We made quite good progress,” he confided, leaning close enough so that I could smell the garlic from the evening’s meal upon his breath. His pockmarked features reflected far greater cheer than they had in many days as he went on. “We have almost completed the machine’s body, though Master Leonardo declared that the pedal mechanism needs adjustment.”
He described their progress in a bit more detail and finished, “And I saw nothing amiss . . . No one spied upon us or appeared unduly interested in our work.”
He paused to assume a swaggering manner, putting a hand to the breast of his tunic, under which I was certain was hidden his knife. “Of course, I was ready for any trouble.”
“Of course,” I echoed, torn between relief and dismay at this show of bravado. Had he ever actually faced someone intent on robbing him of his life, I wondered, or was his only experience that of slashing at imaginary foes?
Something of my doubt must have shown upon my face, for he frowned and added, “Fear not, Dino. I swear that should anyone attempt to harm the Master or your father, I will gladly lay down my life to protect them.”
By then, we had reached the workshop, so I had time for but a grateful nod before we rejoined the others. While an air of solemnity still hung over our small band, the mood was lighter than the evening before. Once our usual nighttime tasks were complete—new brushes from boar bristles and weasel hair carefully tied, charred sticks ground to black powder for pouncing stencils, new wood panels sanded for later use by the Master in his painting—Davide called a halt to our labors.
“Tommaso, perhaps you will play your lute for us tonight,” he suggested.
Tommaso obliged by fetching the battered instrument and strumming a few chords. This was Paolo’s cue to pull out his dice. Within a few moments, an affable game of chance had commenced near the glowing hearth, with the youths eagerly wagering bits of broken pottery in place of the coins that we, as mere apprentices, lacked.
I could not help but be cheered by these signs that our collective heart, while still sorely wounded, had begun to mend. The humble Constantin would not have wanted us to mourn him unduly, I was sure. And so I joined Tommaso in a song about a page who cleverly bested every noble he encountered. Once I was certain the others were engrossed in their amusement, however, I pretended a need for the privy and slipped out of the workshop.
My knock at Leonardo’s private quarters was tentative as I recalled my graceless leave-taking from them that morning; still, I knew that my embarrassment was mine alone. My father would already have forgiven my sulky manner, and I suspected that the Master had long since forgotten our exchange. I had no chance to confirm that last, however, for it was the former and not Leonardo who answered my summons.
“It’s good you have come,” my father declared as he thrust his head out into the night. His quick glance in either direction reminded me of Tito’s similar gesture.
Apparently satisfied that no spies lurked about, he motioned me inside and with a fi rm hand closed the door behind me. His expression was one of worry as he took a seat at Leonardo’s worktable. A few pages of notes lay scattered there. He moved them aside along with the now-empty bowl that had held his stew, and I noticed that but a single evening’s repast had been eaten. The Master’s usual spot was conspicuously empty.
The bed was unoccupied, as well, the blankets stretched neatly across it and Pio lying curled upon the Master’s pillow. He opened a sleepy eye; then, apparently deciding that slumber was preferable to greeting a late visitor, he yawned and settled back to sleep again.
Gesturing me to sit, my father began, “I wondered how to send word to you without drawing the notice of your fellows. Does anyone else know you are here? Good,” he replied when I shook my head. “You must keep what I tell you a secret from all of them, including your friend Tito.”
It was my turn to frown as I saw that no candlelight glowed from beneath the closed door that led to Leonardo’s private workshop. If the Master was neither here in his quarters nor toiling in his workshop, perhaps he was still locked away in the storehouse with his flying machine. That, or he’d set off on yet another nocturnal adventure. But why should his absence this particular night seemingly have caused my father dismay?
My own uneasiness growing, I demanded, “What is going on, Father? Has something happened to the Master?”
“Fear not. Signor Leonardo is well,” he was quick to assure me. “But his concern over the murder of young Constantin was such that he has set off on a mission this very night. While he did not divulge his destination, he confided that his plan is to ride to the spot where the duke and the French king’s representatives are meeting. Leonardo intends to inform his patron what has happened here at the castle in his absence.”
My eyes widened. Still, the news was not surprising, though it was somewhat disconcerting. The Master had always been a man to take matters into his own hands. If he feared Constantin’s murder was but the beginning of some larger violence to come, surely he felt duty-bound to stop it if he could. And if that meant bringing Il Moro back to Milan, he would somehow contrive to do so.
But what if he encountered Constantin’s assassin while traveling along the road to this rendezvous?
I’d not forgotten the possibility the Master had raised that the bolt that had struck down Constantin was of foreign make. The Master—and perhaps even the duke himself—might be risking assassination by consorting with the French! As my worry would serve no good purpose, however, I contented myself with a swift, silent prayer for Leonardo’s safety and addressed my father.
“What is to happen with the flying machine in the Master’s absence? Shall you and Tito continue to work on it?”
“Our work will progress, yes, for it is in everyone’s interest that we complete this cursed project sooner than later,” he said with unaccustomed heat. “And if we are all quite fortunate, the design will prove flawed, and that will put an end to Leonardo’s folly.”
Tempering with a hint of a smile that irate reference to the popular name for the Master’s rumored invention, he added, “Before he left, I asked Signor Leonardo that you be allowed to put aside your work on the fresco and return to assist Tito and me. He saw the wisdom of another set of hands and agreed you should rejoin us.”
Rather than being pleased, however, I frowned at his words. “Father, this makes little sense. A day ago, both you and the Master insisted that I was too weak for such labors, and that the work was far too dangerous. How can you have changed your mind in so short a time?”
“Ah, you have been around these boys for far too long that you speak with such disrespect,” he replied, though his rebuke held more amusement than outrage. “Each day you remind me more and more of your mother.”
His tone grew serious again as he went on. “And you are right. Perhaps it is safer for you to remain among your fellows, with a crowd offering more protection than two or three. But with your master gone for the time being, I feel better knowing you are nearby. Besides which”—the twinkle reappeared in his eyes—“working as my assistant will give you the opportunity to learn if your brothers’ laments all these years were justified or but an excuse for their laziness.”
I could not help but smile a little at that last. “I promise I shall tell you truthfully. But what shall we say to Tito when he sees me instead of Leonardo with you?”
“Young Tito is but the apprentice and I the master,” my father reminded me in a firm tone. “He shall be satisfied with whatever I tell him. Now, give your father a kiss good night, and be off with you.”
I did as instructed, my embrace rather longer than usual as I gave silent thanks that it was Leonardo and not he riding the dark roads in search of Il Moro.
“Return here first thing when you awaken, and we will walk together to the shed where the machine is stored,” he called after me as I started out the door. “We shall begin work with the lark and end with the owl.”
Nodding, I made my pensive way the few steps’ journey back to the main workshop and rejoined the other apprentices. Tommaso’s lute continued to lend a cheery accompaniment to the dice game, which still progressed with great enthusiasm. Tito was among the players, appearing engrossed in the game. I wondered if he had noted my absence and guessed where I had gone. If so, he gave no indication as I leaned closer to see whose fortune was proving better this night.
Too soon, as always, the evening’s ration of candles began to gutter. With that, Davide decreed, “To bed, everyone.”
Tommaso played a few final notes and then put away his lute. Paolo, meanwhile, had pocketed his dice as his fellow gamblers tucked away their night’s winnings of jewel-toned shards. While Davide snuffed the remaining wax stubs, I spared a moment to advise him of the Master’s change of plans for me. The senior apprentice added his agreement; then, our way lit by the faint red glow from the hearth, he herded us toward the sleeping alcove.
As I passed by Tito, he gave me a friendly nod but made no comment, for which I was grateful. I was in no mood for idle conversation; neither would I sleep easy this night . . . not while the Master likely lay wrapped in a cold blanket somewhere in the dark hills of the duchy while we apprentices rested comfortably in our beds.
But despite my vow of restless slumber, I fell asleep quickly and awakened as daylight began to seep over the horizon. The other apprentices would not stir for several minutes more; thus, I moved with silence as I donned my confining corset and pulled on a clean tunic. After making my swift ablutions, I laced up my jerkin against the morning’s chill and hurried the short distance to the Master’s quarters to meet my father.
I was reaching out to knock upon that door when I realized it hung uncharacteristically ajar.
“Father?” I called, disquiet sweeping me.
I gave the door a cautious push inward and looked inside. The chamber was unchanged from the night before, the same empty bowl and stack of notes spread upon the table. Pio continued his peaceful slumber upon the bed, stretched at full length with his thin legs stuck out well past the pillow’s edges. But the covers beneath the small hound were still neatly laid, so that it appeared Pio alone had claimed the cot for the entire night.
Of my father, there was no sign.
My heart began a frantic rhythm in my chest as I tried to assure myself that his absence meant nothing. Perhaps he had fallen asleep over his notes and never made it to bed. And perhaps he had risen earlier than I and stepped out into the cool morning air to clear his head, and he would be returning any moment. Or maybe he had forgotten his request that I walk with him and was waiting for me at the shed, wondering at my delay.
Or maybe, a frightened inner voice suggested, he was lying somewhere with a bolt through his chest, his lifeblood long since seeped into the ground beneath him.
I gave my head an angry shake to dismiss that last gruesome thought. “Don’t be foolish . . . He’s here somewhere,” I muttered, my clipped words drawing an answering snore from the sleeping hound.
At least I need have no worries on Pio’s account. Vittorio would stop by to make certain that he had food and water, after which he’d allow the hound out to lift his leg upon the nearby wall before following the apprentices to their work site. And, soon enough, I told myself, I would be listening to my father laughing softly as I confessed my moment of folly in thinking him vanished like a mist.
Assuming an air of confidence I did not truly feel, I closed the door behind me and set off across the quadrangle in search of my father.
9
Excess of wind puts out flame, moderate wind nourishes it.
—Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus
After a thorough search of seemingly every place but Il Moro’s own bedchamber, I came to the alarming conclusion that Angelo della Fazia was missing from the castle grounds.
My first stop had been the shed where the half-built flying machine was stored like a prize bull. The hasp and lock that held the oversized doors shut still were secure, so I could not guess if anything was amiss. And as those twin doors were the sole entry, the only way my father could have been within was if someone had locked him inside the shed.
Feeling foolish, I called his name through a gap in the sturdy planks. I heard no reply, nor, when I put my eye to that same crack, could I see anything other than shadows, for the lanterns that had brightened the place the day before were unlit.
Afterward, I’d tried the kitchen, and the privies, and even climbed the wall of the ill-fated garden to see if perhaps he’d had some excuse to return there. He’d been in none of those places nor any other in which I had looked. And when I’d questioned a few passing servants regarding his whereabouts—my father was a recognizable figure, thanks to his association with Leonardo—none recalled seeing him this particular morning.
Wild explanations for his absence began to tumble through my mind, and it was all I could do to make it back to the workshop without giving way to panic. I imagined my father lying in a far corner of the castle ground—ill, or perhaps injured—and unable to call for help. I pictured him encountering a crossbow-wielding assailant and chasing him past the castle gates, to lose him in the maze of streets and canals that was the city of Milan. Or, worse, I saw him catching up to the assassin in some shady back lane, with no witnesses to what happened next!
I gave my head a rough shake to clear it of such frightening visions. The simplest reason for my father’s disappearance was that he had purposely departed the castle grounds, perhaps intent on purchasing some new tool for his project. Maybe he had left behind a note of explanation for me, which I had overlooked in my haste. Certainly, that made more sense than any other scenario my frantic mind had conjured.
But how to explain why he would have left the door to Leonardo’s quarters open for anyone to walk inside?
If the Master were here, he would know what to do, I thought in despair. But he was riding about the duchy—who knew exactly where?—and might not be back for days. Worse, I was beginning to suspect that my father’s disappearance must somehow be tied to Leonardo’s absence.
I had retraced my footsteps to Leonardo’s private quarters, the door of which still was securely latched. I peered past the single window and saw that Pio no longer lounged upon the bed, meaning that Vittorio must have already collected him. I turned to head back to the main workshop, intent on seeing if any of the other apprentices was still there, when for the second time in as many days, I all but tripped over Tito.
