A Bolt from the Blue, page 13
I had no answers for his questions. And, though I had instinctively trusted the brash woman, I was dismayed to realize that Tito’s words now put a small arrow of doubt into my heart. For surely someone of Rebecca’s humble position could easily be seduced by coin. Did she know more than she was saying about this unsettling situation . . . and was she even now prepared to lead us into a trap?
Even as I considered this possibility, a harsh shout and a snap of reins cut short these bleak thoughts. I looked up to see a battered if serviceable two-wheeled cart hauling a pair of baskets, each large enough to hold Tito or me. The cart was pulled by a sturdy brown mare whose graying muzzle betrayed her age, though her shiny coat bespoke years of fond care.
Rebecca perched proudly upon the splintered bench that served as a seat. Her wimple had begun to unwind, the white length of cloth that wrapped her hair and swaddled her throat flapping with her every movement like a small flag of surrender. But there was nothing of defeat in her expression as she pulled the cart to a halt and gestured us over.
“Load up, boys,” she commanded. “Put your supplies under the seat. Dino, you are smaller, so you can sit beside me. Tito, you can sit behind us.”
We made haste to stow our gear and then clambered into our assigned spots. “What are the baskets for?” Tito wanted to know as he maneuvered his long legs around them.
The washerwoman grinned.
“Laundry,” was her succinct reply. She gave the reins a snap, and we started off through the quadrangle toward the castle gates.
We made our way past the guards with little fanfare, save for a ribald dialogue between Rebecca and the blond-mustachioed captain, who had strolled over at her approach. The burly captain’s heavy accent made most of his coarse if genial comments unintelligible to me, though Rebecca seemed to have no trouble understanding him.
While the pair bantered, I wrapped my father’s cloak more closely about me and slumped in my seat lest the soldier recognize me. For it had been this same mercenary who, at Leonardo’s direction, had carried my limp form from the castle to the sanctuary of Signor Luigi’s tailor shop the night of that terrible fire. I deemed it unlikely that he would recall me—I had been costumed in a page’s finery, my face blackened from smoke and soot—but I could not take that risk.
Reflexively, I reached a hand for my pouch, where I usually kept my notebook. But I had deliberately left the half-fi lled volume behind in my trunk, lest our mission end with Tito and me being tossed into the duke’s dungeon or worse. I dared not risk losing the sketches into which I’d poured my grief and pain, for they were the tangible memories of my lost love. As with the other two volumes whose pages already overflowed with notes and drawings, that small book held a piece of my heart.
Rebecca’s exchange with the captain, however, proved mercifully brief. A few moments later, our cart was through the gates and rolling into the city of Milan. I gazed about the familiar narrow lanes, the tall buildings on either side so close together that the street below was in perpetual shadow, save for when the sun hung directly above. Lines of gaily colored laundry were strung like rakish flags from one balcony to that of its neighbor across the way, adding splashes of color to the pale stone.
We rumbled over a small bridge, which arched atop one of the city’s many canals, and I wrinkled my nose at the stench that drifted up to us. I had seen sketches of the Master’s grand design for modernizing the city, a plan he had conceived in his role as master engineer to the duke. Such changes included a more efficient system of canals and sewers, which would render Milan more pleasing to the senses. Moreover, he claimed, new plumbing would reduce the incidences of deadly pestilence, which periodically swept Milan and its neighboring cities.
Unfortunately for the local populace, Il Moro was more concerned with Leonardo the artist completing the equine monument to his father than he was with seeing the master engineer bring greater efficiency to flushing away their collective waste.
By now, we were well into the city, and Rebecca was keeping us to well-traveled streets. One particular lane was more than familiar to me, for it was along this way that Signor Luigi had his shop. Indeed, the corpulent tailor had just emptied his piss pot in the gutter when our cart rolled past. Knowing he could not help but see me, I gave him an enthusiastic wave.
“Good day, signore.”
His bushy brows flew up beneath his greasy fringe of black hair as he stared at me in surprise. He opened his mouth as if to shout something after us, no doubt wondering what two of Leonardo’s apprentices were doing riding about Milan with a woman of questionable repute. Apparently thinking the better of it, he clamped his plump red lips shut and merely shook his head in exaggerated resignation.
The momentary encounter cheered me. The tailor had proved a valued friend, and I had missed his company these past months. Besides, if nothing else, Luigi could bear witness to our departure, should something untoward occur on our journey to Castle Pontalba.
Rebecca turned the wagon down a side street, and before long we were out of the city. The dirt road was relatively smooth; still, we bounced about every bit as much as we had through the rough stone streets of the city. I was reminded again why even the nobles preferred to travel by horseback or on foot rather than by wagon, for I had to keep my teeth clamped firmly together lest I bite my tongue at each bump.
She pulled the wagon to a halt beside the stream where she and several other washerwomen spent a good portion of their day scrubbing laundry in the chilly waters. Half a dozen of them labored there now, skirts hiked high and arms bared as they sloshed linens about in the basinlike shallows that served as their tubs. Like Rebecca, these women were sturdy and as muscular as many men, for the constant hauling about of wet clothing required a fair amount of strength. I wondered again how Rebecca’s daughter, the fragile-looking Novella, managed such labors.
“Why are we stopping?” Tito wanted to know.
The washerwoman turned in her seat to address him. “I was late gathering my laundry this morning, so the other women were here at the river before me. They might have seen something I didn’t. Not that it was my fault for lagging behind,” she added with a sly smile. “I had a gentleman who wanted to show me the state of his linens before he would let me take them away to wash. I could hardly tell him no, could I?”
By now, I was becoming accustomed to the washerwoman’s bawdy manner, so I merely shrugged. As for Tito, he looked faintly horrified but managed to choke out something unintelligible that I assumed was agreement.
But with her usual swift change of humors, Rebecca had already assumed a businesslike manner. She gave a brisk order that Tito and I should remain in the wagon and then tossed me the reins and clambered down from her seat.
We watched as she made her way toward two women who had hauled their baskets from the water to a sunny spot of grass along the bank and now were carefully spreading the clean clothes to dry beneath the late-morning sun. Tito, meanwhile, defied her command and jumped from the cart.
“It is just as I feared,” he protested in an offended tone as he stretched his legs. “Not only has she taken over our mission, but now the washerwoman is giving us men orders.”
“Would you rather walk to Pontalba?” I reminded him, refraining with an effort from recounting the numerous instances in history when a female had led the troops. “Besides, we are only guessing that my father and the flying machine have been taken to Pontalba. Be patient, and let us see if she learns anything of value from the other women.”
Tito muttered a few uncomplimentary things beneath his breath, but I knew he could not disagree with my words. Despite my advice to him, however, I waited with barely restrained impatience of my own while the washerwoman chatted with her friends. Finally, Rebecca bade them farewell and started back to the wagon. As for Tito, for all his posturing, he quickly resumed his place among the baskets well before she reached us.
“What did they tell you?” came my anxious query as soon as the woman was in earshot.
Rebecca waited until she had climbed back onto the seat and settled heavily beside me before she replied. “We’re in luck, boys. They say a large wagon did pass this way soon after dawn. It carried something large, but it was covered by canvas. And there was at least three men that they saw.”
“I don’t suppose that the wagon was flying the Duke of Pontalba’s standard?” I asked with a sigh, knowing full well that was unlikely. “But could they tell that’s where the wagon was headed?”
“It was that direction, and they was traveling like bandits was after them. So unless the pope has set up housekeeping someplace besides Rome, the Duke of Pontalba is our man.”
“But how can we know that is the right wagon?” Tito protested. “If it is not, then we have lost many days going in the wrong direction.”
Though his concern was a valid one, I clung to my resolve. “There cannot be many large wagons journeying between here and Pontalba,” I pointed out, smoothing the edges of my father’s cloak. “I recall the Master once saying that Il Moro had made a poor choice of allies, because there was nothing to be found in that province save sour bread and sour men. Why, Pontalba doesn’t even have a grand city like Milan, just a crumbling castle on a hillside.”
“Well, they’ve got a cabinetmaker and a flying machine now,” Tito muttered, and then gave me an apologetic nod as he realized the carelessness of his speech.
Rebecca, meanwhile, favored us both with a dark look. “It’s not too late to change your minds, boys,” she told us. “We can still head back to the castle and tell my friend Fritz—he’s the captain of the guard—what happened. He’ll send his men out, if I ask him nice.”
I gave my head a stubborn shake. “We already told you, Rebecca, no one else must know what has happened . . . not unless the Master himself approves it. We’ll go on to Pontalba, with or without you, and find out the fate of my father and the flying machine. Tito and I are not afraid, are we?”
That last was directed at my fellow apprentice. Tito met my questioning gaze with a sharp shake of his head and a telling pat of his chest.
“We’re not afraid,” he boldly echoed. “You can go back to your laundry, washerwoman, if you’re frightened. We don’t need you. No matter what, Dino and I are traveling to Pontalba.”
“Pah, you need me if you don’t want to wear out your shoe leather,” she said with a snort. “Now, hold tight. We’ve got a lot of miles to go before the sun sets on us tonight.”
Taking the reins from me, she gave them a snap. The brown mare rolled an annoyed eye but obediently took off at a smart clip, heading south toward the province of white hills, where I prayed that my father would be found.
12
The air moves like a river and carries the clouds with it . . .
—Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript G
The brown mare kept up a swift pace, hauling the three of us with ease along the road south to Pontalba. The road became progressively rougher, however, as we put distance between us and Milan.
At times, what had been a smooth highway dwindled to nothing but ruts running parallel to one another. Along those primitive stretches, the center strip of dirt and rough grass was seeded with rocks large enough to break an axle, so that Rebecca was forced to slow the mare to a careful walk. Despite the slow pace, we still bounced against the wooden seat with force enough to leave one’s hindquarters bruised. But we were fortunate in clear weather and the beauty of the surrounding countryside that was liberally strewn with delicate new buds and leaves in celebration of spring.
For the most part, we had the road to ourselves. We passed but one other small cart, and only a handful of travelers making their way on foot, all of which had come from the direction of Pontalba. None, when queried, however, recalled seeing a large wagon pass them by.
After hearing that same response each time, it was all I could do not to give way to discouragement. More than once I heard Tito mutter, “I told you we were going the wrong way,” making me wonder if he were right, after all. But Rebecca did not yield her course, the loose edge of her wimple flapping triumphantly as she drove the wagon with skill.
“Doesn’t mean nothing,” she shouted in my ear after one such negative response to my questioning. “They coulda joined the road after the wagon passed by . . . or maybe they was told not to say they saw it.” Her logic comforted me somewhat; still, I said an extra prayer that we had not gambled wrongly in our choice of destinations.
We had covered a respectable distance by the time a pale sun tucked itself behind the darkening hills. Rebecca insisted that we stop before every bit of light had faded, so that she could safely guide the mare and wagon a short distance from the road to a spot among some hillocks.
“Bandits,” the washerwoman explained when we questioned her, that answer drawing grave nods from both Tito and me.
She needed no further justification. While I’d never actually seen a bandit, I’d heard tales of them since childhood, and how they were the plague of honest travelers everywhere. The fact that we carried nothing of value meant little. Many of these lawless men reputedly terrorized and killed simply for enjoyment, with profit but a secondary motive. Such an assault had been my father’s greatest fear for me in journeying by foot from our home village to Milan.
Find a large group of pilgrims and stay closely among them, he’d instructed. I had been careful to heed his advice and so had managed my journey in safety. But I knew that others were not always so lucky. In fact, it was the regularity of attacks along the byways of Lombardy that explained why no one had questioned the Master’s claim that Constantin had been struck down by such outlaws.
Thus, we took pains to settle the wagon in a low spot a good distance from the main track and tied the mare out of sight. Rebecca allowed us a small fire. We let it smolder long enough to heat several flat rocks that we would later tuck beneath our blankets and so ward off the worst of the night’s chill. While the flames did their work, we ate our simple meal of bread and cheese. I surprised my companions with dried figs that the kitchen maid had added to my sack at the last minute, earning a grin from Tito, who had a fondness for sweets.
Once we finished our repast, I brought up the subject that had been uppermost in my thoughts . . . namely, how to gain access to Castle Pontalba and determine if my father and the flying machine were being held there. Tito’s primary concern, however, was the advantage in time the kidnappers had on us.
“If we are going the right way, the duke’s men will have plenty of opportunity to hide the flying machine—and your father, as well—before we get there,” was his doleful prediction. “Even if we can make our way inside the castle, I fear we won’t find them.”
“They can’t be very far ahead of us,” I countered with more confidence than I felt. “And now that they are far from Milan, they won’t have cause to suspect that anyone is in pursuit of them. To my mind, they will have done as we did and made camp at dusk, for surely they would not risk both the wagon and the flying machine on these roads in the dark.”
“Dino’s right,” Rebecca spoke up. She paused to belch and pick a bit of fig from between her teeth.
“Traveling these roads after dark means inviting a broken axle or a lame horse,” she went on with a wise nod. “They’ve found a spot and settled in, just like we did. They’ll be up at first light and reach the castle before midday. If you boys don’t tarry when the cock crows in the morning, we’ll be at Pontalba by midafternoon. That’ll give us time enough to poke around before nightfall.”
“And we will need to gain the trust of the servants there,” I continued. “The arrival of a strange covered wagon will not go unnoticed. Surely a maid or a page will see something and will be glad to gossip.”
My enthusiasm faded a bit, however, as I finished, “But first, we’ll need to figure out how to make our way into the castle itself.”
“We can hide in Rebecca’s laundry baskets and let her drive us inside,” Tito suggested with a snort, pulling his knees to his chest and hunching his shoulders in fair imitation of someone confined to such a space.
I shot him a stern look, but Rebecca merely grinned. I recalled her comment when he’d questioned her about the baskets, and I wondered if she already had formulated a plan that involved laundry. For my own part, I’d had some vague idea that Tito and I might find entry by professing to be itinerant artists. The problem with that disguise was that we had no paints or brushes or panels with us to prove such a claim.
After a few moments’ more discussion, we all agreed that it made no sense to speculate further until we saw what we would face at the castle. We banked our small flame, and the three of us settled beneath the wagon, wrapped in cloaks and blankets and with hot stones at our feet. I had feared that I would spend the entire night staring at the wagon bed above us and counting the wooden pegs in every slat while I worried over my father’s fate. But the day’s events had taken their toll on me so that, despite my concerns, I fell into a fast and dreamless sleep.
I woke at dawn with, not Rebecca’s rooster, but a lark trilling in my ear. Unfortunately, that dulcet greeting to the day was drowned out by Tito’s groans as he dragged himself out from beneath the wagon bed.
“Ah, by the saints, I can barely move! All that bouncing about in the wagon has bruised me like a marketplace pear.”
My snicker at his discomfort promptly turned into a matching groan of my own as I crawled out of my blankets to find my own joints stiff. Indeed, my body ached as if the brown mare had spent all night stomping me with her sturdy hooves. Rebecca appeared impervious to the previous day’s abuses . . . doubtless because of her ample natural padding. She had already crawled out from her blankets and was leading the mare back from the tree where she’d been tied overnight.
