A Bolt from the Blue, page 19
By that time, the bandit lay still, and Rebecca was cleaning the knife blade in the dirt. She crossed herself; then, rising with an old woman’s awkward moves, she heaved a weary sigh and handed the knife to Tito.
“We’ve no time to give him a decent burial. Carry him away into the trees, and hurry back. We must move the log blocking the road before we can continue our journey.”
Between us, Tito and I handled the grim task of dragging the dead bandit into the dark glade. When I went to cover him with a few fallen branches, however, Tito gestured me to stop.
“Wait; we’ll need this,” he declared.
Heedless of the blood and urine that stained the dead man’s clothes, he tugged at the man’s belt until he’d freed the large pouch which had hung from it. I saw that the bag contained several fresh bolts, crudely carved but lethal, nonetheless. I nodded at the prudence of this move—had we not just witnessed a most frightening demonstration of why one should travel armed?—and waited while he did a swift search of the bandit’s jerkin for any other weapons.
Finding none, he gave me a quick nod and headed back toward the road. I spared a few more moments to toss the branches atop the still form; then, offering up a fleeting prayer for the repose of the bandit’s cruel soul, I hurried after Tito.
By the time I reached him, the apprentice had already retrieved the crossbow from the road where he’d left it and had hooked the pulling mechanism to his belt. Stepping foot into the stirrup mounted on the weapon’s stock, he managed with an effort to fletch another bolt. He left the armed crossbow in the wagon bed, and he and I joined Rebecca where she stood staring at the fallen tree.
“It can’t be that heavy, not for one man to move it about by himself. See how the large end is propped on a stump?”
She pointed to the half-circular swath in front of the log, which gave the appearance that something had scraped across that portion of the road multiple times. “He would have dragged the tree trunk by the smaller end.”
We found that the log did move easily, almost as if poised upon a pivot. A few moments later, we had cleared the path and were prepared to board the wagon again.
“Here,” Rebecca said with a sigh and tossed the reins to Tito. “My arm is paining me too much to drive.”
While Tito checked over the doughty mare to make certain she’d suffered no harm in the trampling, I helped settle Rebecca upon the blankets we’d brought. I was relieved to see that her injured arm no longer appeared to be bleeding, while the wimple she’d used as a bandage was tied as neatly as any wrapped by a surgeon. But I knew that putrefaction remained a real danger. As soon as we returned from Milan, I would ask Signor Luigi for the same healing salve that, once before, the tailor had used upon me.
“Drive quickly, Tito,” I told him, “but be mindful of Rebecca’s injury.”
He started off at a brisk pace, handling mare and wagon with surprising skill. I did what I could to shield the washerwoman from the worst of the bumps, but I could see her biting back moans of pain each time he rumbled across a particularly rough patch. Seeking to distract her, I spent some minutes describing to her the latest fresco we’d been helping the Master to paint.
“All in all, the images are quite glorious,” I finished, “though some are unaccountably strange. Still, if our Lord did walk upon the water, could it not be possible that he might also have floated above the ground?”
Then I sighed. “It is sometimes difficult to reconcile all I have been taught with what I have learned from the Master. Indeed, sometimes I do not know if Signor Leonardo is merely mocking God, or if his vision is genuine and he sees more than the rest of us.”
“Pah, do not worry, child,” the washerwoman wheezed with a small grin. “I have found in my time that those who protest the loudest against God are those who mostly desperately wish to believe in his existence. Learn what you can from your master, but never fear to stand up for your beliefs.”
“Rebecca, how did you become so wise?” I impulsively asked. “You know so much of the world, and yet you are just a—”
I broke off abruptly and blushed, realizing the affront couched in my intended praise. Yet, rather than take offense, Rebecca merely chuckled.
“Just a washerwoman,” she finished for me. “You may say the word, my boy . . . It is no insult, despite what some might think. And surely you must see that my job is far more than washing clothes.”
When I looked at her quizzically, she went on. “Why, I am more a confessor to my customers than any priest. By looking at a man’s soiled linens, I can tell if he is a glutton or a drunkard . . . if he is celibate or licentious, or if he beds women other than his wife. And yet my lips are sealed, safe as if he had gone to a confessional. But unlike many priests, I keep all my secrets to the grave.”
I gave this revelation careful measure before regarding her in good-natured dismay. “I had never considered such a thing,” I said with a shake of my head. “But you may be assured that in the future, I shall treat my linens as the open book they are!”
She grinned again and settled back down to rest. For myself, I took the time that followed to reflect upon the recent suspicions I’d had regarding her loyalty. It had taken more than a bit of bravery to face down the armed bandit, and as much courage to dispatch him, rather than leave him to die an agonizing death. And all through this journey, she seemingly had devoted herself to keeping Tito and me from harm.
Could the same woman who had acted with such valor also have betrayed a frightened young duchess, surrendering her to certain death?
I told myself, no. Too much about her words and deeds marked her as one to be trusted . . . but then, it was the cleverest of fiends who often appeared the most kind. If only I could read people with the same ease Rebecca claimed to read bed linens, I thought with a sigh.
The remainder of the journey passed in relative silence, for Rebecca had passed from sleep to deeper stupor. I noted in some alarm that her face had gone pale while her cheeks burned brightly. I used what remained of our water to bathe her brow and moisten her dry lips, while I urged Tito to greater haste.
It was with a heavy sigh of relief that, near noontide, I finally spied the spires and buildings of Milan in the distance.
Giving Tito direction, our first stop once we rumbled into the city was at Signor Luigi’s tailor shop.
“What grave mischief are you at now, my, er, boy?” he demanded of me, his bushy brows shooting upward at the sight of the unconscious woman lying in the wagon bed.
Not waiting for a reply—after all this time, Luigi was far too familiar with my often dangerous exploits to be surprised by much—he summoned his two apprentices. Between the four of us youths, we managed to carry Rebecca inside and settle her upon a bench. Then, shooing away the other two boys, the tailor swiftly unwrapped the makeshift bandage and examined her wound.
“Was this done by an arrow . . . or perhaps a bolt?”
“She was shot with a crossbow defending us most bravely,” I told him. “More than that, I cannot say for the moment . . . but I beg that you help her.”
“Pah, why am I always the first you come to, and yet the last you confide in?” he protested, but without any true rancor.
Disappearing behind the curtain that separated the shop from his personal quarters, he reappeared a moment later carrying a basin of water and two jars. Opening one, he poured a measured amount of a white powder into the water and used the concoction to bathe the wound. Though the bleeding was long stanched, I saw that the gash was swollen and alarmingly red.
As he worked, Rebecca began to stir, staring with bleary eyes about her. “Where am I?” she protested and tried to stand.
Luigi put a firm hand on her shoulder to hold her still. “You are in my tailor shop, my good woman, brought here by these two boys who decided your well-being was more important than my business. If you will sit quietly, I will tend to your injury and gladly send you all on your way.”
With the wound cleaned of dirt and splinters, he opened the second jar. While Tito and I wrinkled our noses in protest, he slathered the familiar foul-smelling ointment with a heavy hand before tying a clean cloth about the injured arm. Afterward, he shoved the jar into my hands.
“Make certain someone applies the salve no less than twice a day, and give her herbed wine for the fever. And now, I have done all I can do.”
I tucked the jar into my tunic and gave the tailor a quick hug. “Many thanks, signore. We shall take her to her daughter, who will care for her. And when all is done, I promise I shall give you an account of all that led to this.”
“Pah, I shall believe that when your master pays his latest bill,” he retorted, though his black eyes gleamed with keen humor. Giving the washerwoman an exaggerated bow, he added, “It was a pleasure, my good woman . . . and I strongly advise that you stay clear of young Dino in the future, lest you find yourself in far worse straits the next time.”
With that caustic dismissal, he opened the door and gestured us out into the street. Tito and I settled Rebecca into the wagon again and started at a quick pace through the city toward the castle. Now I had time again to worry about my father and the duchess. Surely Leonardo must have returned from his mission and read the missive I’d left behind for him. Perhaps he’d already concocted a plan. If not, we would be able to do naught but wait for his arrival, knowing in the meantime that my father’s safety hung in the balance.
Fortunately, Rebecca’s captain was not on duty at the gates, so that we made it past Ludovico’s guards avoiding any awkward questions. My heart thumping loudly in my chest, I focused my attention on the Master’s quarters, half hoping that, by sheer force of will, I could make him be there, though he was not. Tito glanced back at me once and shook his head.
“Calm yourself, Dino. You bounce about like Pio the hound. We shall be at the Master’s quarters momentarily.”
I managed with an effort to heed his words, though the final few minutes of our journey seemed the longest, yet! Tito had barely halted the cart before Leonardo’s step when I leaped out and began a frantic knock upon the door.
“Master, it is Dino! Tito and I have returned with news!”
When the door did not immediately open, I could feel my stomach plunge as it had when I’d first stood atop the roof of Castle Pontalba. Tito shook his head and jerked a thumb in the direction of the main workshop. “Perhaps he is there, instead.”
I did not bother climbing back aboard the cart again but sprinted around the corner. The first thing that I saw was four large wagons waiting outside the workshop door. The door itself was propped open, and the apprentices, who should have been busy at work upon the fresco, were running back and forth between wagons and workshop with solemn purpose.
“Dino!” I heard my name called.
I looked over to see Vittorio beside one of the wagons. He gave an awkward wave as he used the other to balance a board upon one shoulder. “Finally, you have returned!” he cried, his expression one of relief. “Quickly, the Master awaits you.”
I needed no further urging but rushed inside to find the workshop awash with frantic activity unlike any I’d ever seen. Davide was standing atop one table and directing the other apprentices with shouts and gestures. Some were cutting lengths of wood, while others were splashing paint upon large sections of canvas, which had been stretched on head-high frames. Davide spotted me but had no time for a greeting. Instead, he simply pointed in the direction of the fireplace along the far wall.
While normally it burned with a cheery flame, the hearth now raged like hell’s own furnace, spewing a blast of heat and a blaze of light that momentarily stopped me in my tracks. Throwing up a hand to shield my face, I saw that an anvil had been set atop the hearth, and that a lone figure stood before it, wielding a hammer, which sparked against an immense blade glowing red with heat. With a final crash of the hammer, he set aside the blade and turned in my direction.
My first thought was that the fire god Vulcan had taken up residence in our workshop, for the man before me looked hardly human. He wore nothing save black trunk hose girded by a large leather belt, and his bare torso and arms gleamed with sweat. Where his face should have been, I saw but a black, masklike countenance, around which russet brown hair—appearing almost ablaze itself in the flickering light—spilled like a halo. He was an awesome and glorious figure, and I could do nothing for a moment but simply stare.
Then the fire god plucked aside his mask, and I saw in relief that beneath the emotionless facade lay Leonardo’s familiar face.
18
Fame should be represented in the shape of a bird . . .
—Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript B
“Master!” I joyfully cried and rushed toward him, only to halt in confusion as he held out a warning hand.
“Not so fast, my young apprentice,” Leonardo declared, a hint of a smile warming the look of weary determination on his face. “Come too close, and you may be burned like a moth rushing into a flame. I cannot afford to have you combust in such an undignified manner until you have explained all that has happened these past days. As you might guess, it was your dramatic missive to me that has put all of this”—he waved the hammer to encompass the bustling workshop—“into motion.”
Setting aside mask and hammer, he grabbed up his tunic and pulled it on; then, taking me by the arm, he led me through the whirl of apprentices back outside the door. By now, Tito had moved the wagon, and Vittorio had joined him in checking on a surly if now fully conscious Rebecca.
Confusion reigned for a few minutes as Leonardo took swift stock of the situation. Under his direction, Rebecca was installed with much protest in Leonardo’s own bed, with Vittorio dispatched to bring back Novella to care for her injured mother. Tito, meanwhile, was charged with returning the valiant mare and the wagon to the stable, leaving me alone to explain the past days’ events to the Master.
“Now, tell me all,” he commanded, gesturing me to the bench outside his quarters. “Have you and Tito discovered the fate of the good Signor Angelo and my flying machine at Pontalba? Speak quickly, for time is short, but leave nothing out.”
I obediently launched upon a detailed account of all that had happened since the morning, seemingly a lifetime ago, when I had discovered my father missing along with the Master’s invention. Leonardo listened with keen attention, occasionally nodding or inserting a sharp question to keep me on track. He appeared saddened but none too surprised to learn of the Duke of Pontalba’s traitorous treatment of his young bride. Neither was he taken aback to know that Nicodemo had perpetrated the kidnapping and theft against his supposed ally.
“There was little to trust about the man,” was his grim reply, “though I suspect Ludovico will be less surprised by his perfidy than were we.”
I went on to explain my father’s bold plan to rescue both himself and the flying machine from Nicodemo’s clutches. “The duke intends for him to build a flock of such crafts, which he will use to terrorize the surrounding provinces. My father said that the duke must be stopped . . . and he would sacrifice himself, if need be, to accomplish that.”
I choked a little over those last words, but Leonardo merely nodded. “Signor Angelo did well to keep his masquerade, pretending to be Leonardo the Florentine. Otherwise, we would be praying over his corpse right now. But I fear that he may not be the man to fly my craft from Pontalba.”
“What can you mean?” I countered, instinctively jumping to my parent’s defense. “He is skilled enough to complete the design and clever enough to understand its workings.”
Leonardo smiled a bit at that last. “Ah, see how the cub bares valiant claws to protect its father, who in truth needs no such defense.”
Then he sobered. “I agree, my boy, that your father is a man of many talents. But it is the fact that I designed my craft for a man of my height and weight. Signor Angelo is somewhat shorter and stouter than I. The difference may matter little . . . or it could prove of great significance.”
Chastened and more than a bit unnerved by this last, I finished with the account of our ambush on the road back to Milan. Rebecca’s role in this, as well as our adventures in Pontalba, brought sincere praise from the Master.
“A valiant woman, indeed, for all her other shortcomings. I know of few females—and almost as few men—who would display such courage.” Then he added with a thoughtful frown, “For the moment, we shall assume that the matter of two washerwomen with the same names is an odd coincidence and nothing more. But recall that one must be careful of dismissing a truth out of hand before all facts are known.”
I nodded my somber agreement.
“So much has happened,” I declared, “and yet much remains concealed in secret. I still have no notion who dealt our dear Constantin his fatal blow, nor can I guess where else to look for an answer.”
“I suspect that all shall come clear once we have put the rest to right,” was his cryptic response. “Recall that we have yet to identify the young page who rousted Tito from sleep and set this all into motion. And there is the matter of this strange robed figure—whether man or woman—that you claim to have seen watching since your father’s arrival.”
I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. “Saints’ blood, it is a tangled web. What if we never learn the truth?”
“The truth has many versions . . . and often much time must pass before we know which version we should have believed.”
He stood abruptly and flicked his long fingers in the familiar gesture of impatience. “But you have told your tale well, my boy. And now, surely you must be curious to see what your earlier words have wrought.”
We returned to the main workshop, and I saw now that a group of apprentices was loading one wagon with what I realized were some of Leonardo’s war machines. I had thought them but Leonardo’s private notations, alive on paper but never destined to see the light of day . . . and yet here they were. A small catapult had already been neatly stowed, and now the youths were carting a trio of portable cannons, the gun of each designed to be taken apart from the body and wheels. What appeared to be a combination rolling barricade and ladder, large enough to shield five or six men, also sat to one side.
