A Bolt from the Blue, page 18
“But, Father, that is far too dangerous,” I protested. “The Master said that craft should be launched over a pond or lake, so that if something goes wrong, the water will cushion the landing.”
“I have no choice, child.”
His expression grim, he went on. “I have heard the duke’s plans for this machine. He wishes to have dozens of them at his disposal so that he can conquer the surrounding provinces . . . perhaps Rome herself. We cannot risk allowing such a dangerous weapon to fall into his hands. And so you can see that I must attempt this escape not simply to preserve my life but to stop the deaths of hundreds more.”
“But, Father, the design is untested,” I reminded him in a small voice. “If something goes wrong . . .”
I trailed off, unable to give voice to my worst fear, but he merely smiled.
“You should have greater faith in your master. If Signor Leonardo’s design is true, and the winds and my strength hold, I shall fly the craft all the way back to Milan. If not, I will fly as far as I can.”
Remembering that Daedalus’s tale did not end happily—as best I recalled, his son Icarus lost his wings and plummeted to the earth—I could only shake my head at this dangerous plan. Still, there was sense in what he said. For even if Il Moro’s men attacked the castle in an attempt to recover both him and the flying machine, there was little assurance that my father would walk free in the end. As vindictive a man as the duke gave all appearance of being, he might well kill the man he thought to be Leonardo rather than return him safely to Ludovico.
“Very well, Father, I shall trust your judgment,” I reluctantly agreed. “We shall leave here in the morning, and as soon as we arrive back in Milan, I shall tell the Master all, so that he may explain the situation to Il Moro.”
“Ah, you are a dutiful daughter,” he replied with a smile. “Do not worry on my account, but keep yourself safe. Now, you should go, lest the guards come back and find you here.”
I leaned up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek through the gap in the door; then, swiping away tears, I said, “Be careful. And know that if anything happens, I shall make certain that Mother learns the truth.”
“Ah, your mother,” he said with a wry smile. “There is something I should tell you about my journey to Milan that concerns her.”
What that something was, I did not learn, for the sound of a slamming door below abruptly dimmed his smile. “Quickly, go,” he urged. “All shall be well.”
With a final nod, I pinched out my candle and hurried back to the hatch where I’d entered. The glow from the oil lamp in the wall was faint enough that I did not think it could be seen; still, I snuffed that light, as well, and waited silently to discover if anyone was coming my way. By then, my eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness, so I was able manage the stairs, though I clung to the rough-hewn wall for safety. I was breathing heavily by the time I made my way down the second staircase to the ground floor. The sounds of merriment still poured from the great hall, and a look up at the stars assured me that I had not been gone for all that long a time.
And so, I was taken by surprise when I reached the stables again, and Tito jumped from the shadows to confront me. His face dark with anger, he demanded, “Dino, where have you been? I woke up and found you gone.”
“Tito, you squawk like an old woman,” I replied, managing a light tone. “I stepped out to take a piss.”
“Pah, you could not piss that long, no matter if you drank the entire vat of wash water. You have been gone for at least an hour.”
Then his expression darkened further as he gestured at me and added, “And why do you need to wear a page’s tunic to go empty your bladder?”
I gave a guilty start, remembering too late that I had not stripped off the borrowed tunic and returned it to the laundry shed. I hesitated; then, reassured by the sound of Rebecca’s snores coming from the wagon, I lowered my voice further.
“Very well, I went back to the castle,” I told him, “and this time, I found my father. If you swear that you can keep silent and say nothing, not even to Rebecca, I will tell you all I know.”
After gaining his oath, I explained how I’d earlier discovered the duchess in her meager cell and told him of the odd coincidence of two washerwomen named Rebecca. I explained, as well, that I had returned in hopes of learning more from her, to discover Marianna gone from the cell and my father imprisoned there in her place.
“And he wishes us to return to Milan,” I finished. “He will remain here at the castle. Once he finishes building the craft, he will make good his escape by flying it from Pontalba to freedom. By then, Il Moro will have been warned of what has happened and can pursue retribution against the Duke of Pontalba for his crimes.”
Tito shook his head in amazement as he finished listening to my dramatic tale.
“This is serious business, Dino. I agree with your father. We must return to Milan as soon as possible and leave the rest up to Master Leonardo.”
“Then let us get some rest. And remember, not a word of this to Rebecca. She may well be an innocent in all of this, but if she is not, we must watch her carefully lest she betray us, as well.”
We arose to the cock’s crow and made swift work of the now-dry laundry. By the time we had returned the linens to their owners, the pouch at Rebecca’s waist jingled tellingly. She pulled out a handful of coins, which she split between Tito and me.
“Your share for your efforts. How does it feel to earn a few soldi for your hard work, my fine young gentleman?” she asked, her grin directed at Tito.
Tito eyed his share with suspicion. “I do not think this is one-third.”
“And who said we would split the money evenly?” she countered, her black brows drawing down to her nose. “Besides, all earned was not profit. The kitchen master had to be paid.”
“You are very generous, Rebecca,” I interjected, giving Tito a not-so-subtle elbow to the ribs. “Shall I bring the mare and wagon, so we can be off?”
Not many minutes later, we had passed through the gates of Castle Pontalba and were driving at a quick pace toward the forest. It was not until we reached the trees, however, that I released the breath that I felt I had been holding ever since our arrival there the day before. Still, I could not help but glance over my shoulder several times lest the duke’s men come in pursuit. Tito must have feared the same thing, for his gaze was fi xed on the road behind us.
Sparing a glance at Rebecca, I wondered at her thoughts. I could read nothing in her expression, however, save an air of determination as she drove the mare with swiftness toward home.
As with the outward journey, we passed but a few people in either direction, so that the road belonged mostly to us. The washerwoman kept us going well past dusk, far later than she’d let us travel before. Still, I had to stop myself from protesting when we finally stopped for the night.
Though a chill hung in the air, we did not bother with a fire but wrapped ourselves tightly in our cloaks. We made a meager meal of bread and cheese, Tito having finished off the remaining figs the day before. By unspoken agreement, we limited our conversation to the latest gossip of Castle Sforza, but our talk had an air of forced joviality that fooled none of us. With the same silent accord we retired to our blankets soon after eating. Still, from the paucity of snores that followed, I suspected that I was not the only one having a hard time falling asleep.
Indeed, it seemed I had just dropped off into slumber when Rebecca was shaking me awake. The mare was soon hitched to the wagon, and we set off again as first light was breaking over the horizon. We were back among rolling hills interspersed with small groves, so that our travel took on a slower pace as compared to the day before. Heavy shrubs and sturdy pines flanked this portion of the road, which wound like a serpent’s trail. We would reach Milan, I judged, at about the same time that the sun reached its zenith. From there, who knew what would be the next step . . . full-scale war, perhaps, or maybe stern diplomacy?
So caught up was I in such thoughts that, as we rounded the next curve, I took a moment to register what the appearance of a fallen pine tree across the road and a single man ahead meant.
Tito had no such moment of confusion. “Bandits!” he cried. “Bandits are awaiting us!”
More correctly, there appeared to be but a single lone bandit, stocky of build if stooped in posture. He stood a short distance before a thick tree trunk, which had been positioned most effectively to block the trail. But though he was alone, he was armed with an old-fashioned crossbow almost as large as he, which lethal-looking weapon he held aimed in our direction. He was helmed so that his face was mostly covered, and he wore a heavy brown jerkin over a black tunic and black trunk hose. Likely, he’d been a legitimate man in some noble’s private force before turning to a life of unsanctioned thievery and murder.
Rebecca had pulled the mare to a swift halt, so that there were a dozen or so wagon lengths between us and the brigand. Despite my quite reasonable terror, I had to concede that his choice of ambush was clever. Even if we did not have his weapon to fear, we still could not drive around his roadblock for the trees on either side of us. Neither was there room to turn the wagon and flee in the other direction. The choices were surrender . . . or confrontation.
“Let go the reins and climb down,” the man shouted, his guttural voice hinting at a Germanic accent.
I clutched at Rebecca’s arm, which felt like warm steel beneath my hand. All the tales I’d heard of bandits robbing their victims ended with the bandits murdering those poor unfortunates. I doubted this man would be more merciful than his fellows in his treatment of us. If we did not take some action to evade him and his crossbow, the three of us would be found lying by the roadside, stripped of pouches and tunics and anything else that could be of value.
Thus confronted, my mind had gone swiftly blank when it came to clever plans. Praying the others had better kept their wits, I frantically murmured, “What shall we do?”
“If we climb down from the wagon, we are dead,” Rebecca softly replied, echoing my unspoken fear. “But we have a small advantage in that he can kill but one of us with his crossbow. In the time it would take him to fletch it once more, the remaining two of us could be upon him. Tito must make ready his knife—yes, I know about it!—and I shall charge this brigand with our wagon.”
She flicked a look at Tito.
“You and Dino, both of you shield yourselves as best you can until he has fired his weapon,” she instructed in the same quiet voice. “With luck, we’ll take him by surprise, and his aim will be off. My plan is to run him into the earth. Otherwise, if you and Dino can wrestle him down, I will put your blade into his black heart.”
Though once I might have balked at so casual a plan of murder, I was no longer a sheltered girl with no knowledge of the cruel world. I had seen examples enough of man’s depravity these past months to know that righteous self-preservation was the logical response to such a crisis. And so I gave a swift nod, while Tito murmured his assent.
But even this brief delay appeared to have enraged our assailant. He was moving toward us at a quick pace, his blond mustachioed lips—all that we could see of his face—twisted into a sneer as he shouted, “Get down, now!”
“Pray, do not harm us!” Rebecca cried in a high voice unlike her usual hoarse tones. “I am but a poor washerwoman. My boys and I have nothing of value. By the saints, let us pass in peace!”
“You have horse and wagon,” he retorted, waving his crossbow in a threatening manner.
Then the man’s sneer softened into what I assumed he intended to be a magnanimous smile. Lowering the weapon so that it pointed to the ground, he grandly added, “Don’t be afraid, lady. You give me horse and wagon, I let you go.”
“Don’t believe him,” Tito hissed, clutching the seat back and peering between us at the bandit. “He’ll make us lie in the dirt, and keep the others at bay with his crossbow as he kills us one by one with his knife.”
“I know,” Rebecca murmured, and then called out, “May the saints bless you, sir. You may have our horse and cart, and welcome to it. Yah!”
With that harsh cry, she whipped up the brown mare. The horse gave an angry snort and leaped into motion, jerking the wagon forward. I made equal haste to slide down onto the boards at our feet, allowing Rebecca room to crouch low as she flailed the reins and drove straight toward the bandit.
In the instant before I shut my eyes and commenced praying, I saw his jaw drop in shock. Then, his lips twisting in outrage, he whipped his crossbow to his shoulder again and fired straight at us.
I heard the distinctive thwang as bolt left bow, and I flattened myself as best I could against the splintered boards. A heartbeat later, I simultaneously heard a sharp cry—Rebecca’s or Tito’s, I was not certain—and the crack of splintering wood as the bolt passed through the wagon.
And then I heard the most gruesome sound of all . . . a harsh scream and a series of soft thuds before Rebecca jerked the mare to a halt a few mere inches from the fallen tree.
17
A bird as it rises always sets its wings above the wind . . .
—Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript Sul Volo
Quiet reigned for but an instant, broken by the mare’s angry whinny and Rebecca’s gasp of pain. I unfolded myself from my safe spot at her feet to see her grasping the upper portion of her left arm.
“Bastard nicked me with his arrow,” she cried in surprise, while I sagged in relief to see that she’d not been pierced in a more vital spot. The splintering sound of wood I’d heard had been the bolt lodging itself in the wagon’s sturdy rear panel. Tito was staring at the lethal projectile with wide eyes, and I guessed it had come flying within inches of where he’d lain.
“No, pay me no mind,” she protested as I would have examined her wound. “We must be sure the scoundrel is dead.”
Tito needed no further urging to action. With a warrior’s cry, he plucked his knife from his tunic and, brandishing the blade most threateningly, leaped from the back of the wagon. I clambered from my own seat and followed after him, wishing in desperation I had a weapon of my own to wave about.
I soon found, however, that I did not need any arms. The bandit lay crumpled on the road a couple of wagon lengths behind us, his spent crossbow dangling from his hand. Knife held high, Tito approached the injured man, halting a few feet from him.
It was apparent that the bandit’s wounds from where he’d been trampled by horse and wagon were mortal. His lower body twisted at an unnatural angle from the rest of his torso, while bright blood frothed from between his lips. The impact had knocked the helmet from his head, finally revealing his face.
Unexpected sadness swept me as I saw he was not the older warrior that I had pictured from his weapon and posture. Rather, he was a man just past the flush of youth. What evil within had driven him to his murderous life, I could not guess, though I wondered if he regretted his choices in the face of imminent damnation.
Tito appeared to feel no such comparable sorrow. “Ha, you fiend, you got what you deserved,” he cried, grabbing the crossbow from the man’s slack fingers. “I shall finish you off, so that you do not prey upon honest citizens ever again.”
“Then I . . . bless you . . . as savior,” the bandit sputtered, teeth bared in a bloody red grin as he raised a weak gloved hand in parody of a consecration.
Shaken by that response, Tito lowered his knife and glanced at me uncertainly.
“Don’t you see?” I murmured, clutching his arm. “In his condition, a swift death would be a blessing. It would be far crueler to leave him suffering here, easy prey for the carrion eaters and whatever other beasts wander these woods.”
“Better we leave him, instead,” Tito replied, though now his bravado rang false. “He would have let us suffer.”
“But we are not like him.”
“Fine, you kill him,” Tito cried, face darkening as he pressed his blade into my hand.
My fingers closed reflexively around the fancy hilt, but my stomach lurched as I stared down upon the dying man. Though I had been involved in more bloody confl icts than any other young woman of my station could possibly imagine, I had wielded a weapon only in my own or the Master’s defense. And never had I inflicted a killing blow upon anyone. But when simple humanity decreed that a merciful blade was the kindest action, I stood frozen in indecision.
Strong fingers abruptly pried the knife from my grasp.
“This is not the work for innocents,” Rebecca decreed. “You boys are too young to suffer such a stain upon your souls, no matter that it is to bring release to one who does not deserve it.”
I saw in some shock that she had stripped off her wimple to bandage her injured arm. Thus uncovered, she revealed for the first time a glorious crown of red hair—a stark contrast to her black brows—elaborately braided and wrapped about her head. As she knelt awkwardly beside the bandit, sunlight gleamed upon those fiery locks. The reflected light bathed her plump face in an almost saintly glow, which lent her a certain beauty I might not otherwise have seen.
“Quickly, make your last prayers and repentances,” she commanded with stern calm, cutting the man’s jerkin laces to bare his breast and pressing the blade tip to his heart.
She placed a beefy hand across his eyes and added, “You will be free of your suffering in but a moment, and perhaps God shall show greater mercy to you than you did to others.”
“No,” he gasped and reached up to pull her hand from his face. “I am . . . soldier. I see . . . death come.”
“As you wish.”
Not being a soldier myself, I could not bear to watch what followed but shut my eyes to block the sight. Still, I could not help but hear Rebecca’s soft grunt as she shoved the blade home, nor could I block out the sound of the bandit’s last groan. I waited until the shuffling noise that accompanied his body’s struggle with death had ceased before I dared look again.
