A Bolt from the Blue, page 26
In that moment, I had sensed a change sweep over Tito, as well. It was as if his old cares and emotions suddenly had been burned away by the light, leaving behind the very finest essence of him. He, too, had glanced back in my direction and offered the same wise smile as Constantin had bestowed on me. And then, side by side, the pair had walked off together into the light.
Vittorio’s concerned voice roused me from my thoughts.
“Dino, what is wrong? You’re crying,” he declared, conveniently forgetting that his own eyes held suspicious dampness. “Is the pain growing worse? The Master said I might give you a sip of the herbed wine to help ease it.”
“No, I am better,” I replied with some truth and managed a small smile. The smile twisted into a grimace, however, as I added, “But I probably should take a bit of that wine and rest for a while. I fear that when I finally face my father and the Master to confess my sins, I will need all my strength.”
“Ha, what you will need is swift feet,” he cheerfully corrected me as he produced the wine jug in question and poured a few sips’ worth into a wooden cup.
“I have never seen the Master so angry before,” he went on. “It is lucky for you that you were already struck senseless when he first saw you. Once he knew you were in no great danger of dying, he threatened all manner of dire things to punish you for disobeying his orders.”
Though somewhat daunted by his words, I pushed aside that particular worry long enough to swallow the wine. By the time the cup was empty, however, another concern had occurred to me. “What of Rebecca? She was at the gatehouse when I left her. Has she returned here?”
Vittorio shook his head, his moment of amusement fading. “Novella went in search of her, and I have not seen either of them since,” he replied, worry evident in his tone. “But surely they must return soon.”
I prayed that he was right, but I feared he might not be. Though Rebecca had proved herself a valiant companion in this adventure, I still found my trust hampered by questions about her that I could not yet answer. At least one of those the Duchess of Pontalba could address, assuming that the cruel Nicodemo had not already carried through with his threats against her.
I meant to ask Vittorio if the Master had confronted the duke regarding his ill-treated wife. Before I could pursue that thought, however, the wine and my protesting body finally took charge, and I drifted into sleep once more.
My resulting dreams were not easy, for in them I was once again piloting the flying machine. But rather than plummeting to the earth, I instead found myself unable to land, doomed to hover in the skies above Castle Pontalba like a sailor cast adrift at sea. It was with relief that I struggled awake sometime later to fi nd that the pain in my head and leg had begun to subside. But more reassuring was the sight of my sire’s familiar face—looking far more stern and worn than usual—gazing down upon me.
“Father,” I cried and reached out a hand to him. “I feared I might never see you again.”
“As did I,” he replied, his tone severe though he cradled my fingers gently in his. “Were you one of your brothers, I would find a stick and beat a measure of sense into you, despite your injuries.”
Then his grip on me tightened, and I saw remembered fear flash over his features.
“Child, what possessed you to attempt to fly Signor Leonardo’s invention like that?” he demanded. “You could have had no way of knowing if I had finished connecting every line and securing every joint. And no one, not even your master, could have said with any certainty if the craft could remain aloft. Had not every saint in heaven been watching over you, you surely should have died this day.”
“I checked each line and joint,” I hastened to assure him. “And don’t forget that you had already told me you intended to use the flying machine to make your escape. If you were not afraid, how could I be?”
He sighed and shook his head. “I do not doubt your bravery, for few men would have dared such a feat. But why did you disobey Signor Leonardo’s orders and make your way into the castle, in the first place?”
“Tito convinced me that the Master’s plan was flawed, and that your life and his were in danger,” I confessed, realizing once more how well the youth had drawn me into his net of lies. Or had it been Rebecca who had convinced me of the particular plan? Now I was not so sure.
More shaken than I cared to admit by this uncertainty, I explained to my father how I’d secretly witnessed Leonardo’s audience with the Duke of Pontalba . . . including Nicodemo’s threats to hang both him and the Master, along with the other apprentices. I told him, too, of my final encounter with Tito on the roof, and how he had confessed to Constantin’s murder. My father’s frown deepened, and I knew he had been as stung as we apprentices by the betrayal of the young man he had taken under his wing.
When I finished my account, I asked, “But what of the treaty between Milan and Pontalba? Will there be war?”
“I suspect not . . . at least, not for the moment. It appears that both sides have agreed to pretend that this encounter never happened, so long as the Duke of Pontalba relinquishes both his wife and the dowry she brought with her. As for the treaty, it likely will not hold any longer than it takes Il Moro’s army to return to Milan.”
“Pah, I would have preferred to see Nicodemo hanging from his own parapets, as he threatened to do with us,” I muttered with no little heat.
Though gladdened to know that the duchess would gain her freedom once more, I could not repress the bitterness that swept me. The duke would suffer no punishment for his evil deeds, no matter that he was responsible for the deaths of two young men and would have commanded many more to be killed had Il Moro’s army not arrived in time to halt that heinous crime. Instead, he would continue to feast with his men, perhaps find another young wife to torment, all the while making war on his neighbors and callously murdering anyone who proved inconvenient.
And none of this was fair.
Once, I would have been swift to make this protest aloud rather than simply harboring the thought. But over the past few months, I had come to accept the Master’s oft-made assertion that life was not fair and never had been. With that acceptance, however, had also come the certainty that the actions of a single person could sometimes tilt those scales back in the opposite direction, so that right could be made to outweigh wrong, and justice could be made to conquer chaos.
Regrettably, I suspected that I was not that person . . . at least, not this particular time.
My father, meanwhile, was nodding his agreement. “I understand little of politics and less of warfare, but I can recognize a scoundrel when he crosses my path, no matter that he be draped in velvets and silks. The Duke of Pontalba is a villain, and your Duke of Milan is little better. They care only to fatten their coffers and gain glory for themselves. By Saint Joseph, I will be glad when we return home again.”
So saying, he released my hand and smiled. “You must rest, while I help your fellows finish loading the wagons for our journey tomorrow. The afternoon grows late enough that we will remain camped here with Ludovico’s army tonight and take our leave at first light with them.”
It was not until after he left me alone did I have the chance to consider his declaration that we were to return home. Surely my father had not meant that he expected me to accompany him, I thought in dismay. With those words echoing in my ears, I began to prepare my arguments, more than willing to protest any such attempt to roust me from Milan . . . until a far more alarming possibility occurred to me.
What if the Master truly were as angry as Vittorio claimed? No matter that my motives had been pure, I had flouted his orders and managed to destroy his grand invention before he’d ever had the chance to test it himself. He might decide that I was no longer worthy of my post and dismiss me as his apprentice. Thus disgraced, I would have no choice but to return home with my father, after all.
And if that happened, my long-held dream of becoming a master painter would end as abruptly as had my ride upon Leonardo’s flying machine.
25
Even the swiftest bird cannot always escape the cage.
—Leonardo da Vinci, The Notebooks of Delfina della Fazia
We departed Castle Pontalba at dawn the next day, our small band bordered, front and rear, by the Duke of Milan’s army. Davide again drove the wagon that carried us apprentices. Behind us, my father had taken the reins of the wagon that Tito had driven, while Paolo and Tommaso were once more in charge of the others. With the soldiers setting our pace, we traveled more swiftly than we had even under Leonardo’s command.
The whirling blades of his chariot safely folded down, the Master took his place near the front of the mounted troops behind the captain of the guard and his highest-ranking men. The army’s supply wagons and a company of foot soldiers came next, followed by our wagons. The remaining foot soldiers and a contingent of mounted men brought up the rear, providing more than sufficient defense should the Duke of Pontalba break the treaty before we’d left his small province and send his soldiers after us.
Il Moro’s young cousin Marianna—the former Duchess of Pontalba—perched upon a small white steed among the mounted soldiers before us. Dressed in the same now-ragged finery that she’d worn while in her cell, she was flanked by what appeared to be the two largest of the men-at-arms.
Though their armored chargers were almost twice the size of her dainty beast, I suspected that the soldiers were there not so much to provide protection as they were to catch her should she lose her grip and tumble from her mount. Such was not an unlikely possibility, for she appeared more alarmingly fragile now than she had in her cell. But Marianna had proved herself worthy of her Sforza ancestors, despite her weakened state.
While I lay recuperating upon my pallet the night before, my father had related more of that day’s events. The liberation of the duchess had proved almost as dramatic as the clash between Milan and Pontalba. She had refused the captain of the guard’s suggestion that she be taken from the castle in one of the wagons. Instead, upon learning that she had been freed from the duke’s clutches, she insisted she would ride her own horse through the gate and all the way back to Milan.
“I shall not give him the satisfaction of seeing me carried from this place,” she had declared, her scornful tone leaving no doubt as to her opinion of her husband.
Impressed by her strength of mind, the captain ordered his men to retrieve her mount from the stables and had helped settle her upon the small steed himself. Then, flags flying and trumpets blasting, his soldiers had made a great show of escorting her with every ceremony from the castle grounds.
Listening to my father’s account, I had felt a swell of admiration for the young woman. And if the saints continued to watch over her, perhaps Marianna’s story would end far more happily than had that of the tragic contessa she had replaced.
But as our journey continued, I concentrated my thoughts on my own situation. I had the advantage of my soft pallet at the front of the wagon bed where I could stretch out to rest. The remaining apprentices sat shoulder to shoulder in far less comfort than I, though none seemed inclined to complain. The stories and riddles that had passed the time for us before were not to be heard on this journey, however, for each youth was caught up in his thoughts.
Once, and to no one in particular, Bernardo sat up straight and declared, “I hate Tito! I shall never forgive him.”
The words spoken, he slumped so that his chin rested on his knees. His eyes gleamed with unshed tears as he glared about him, as if daring someone to contradict that pronouncement. The rest of us turned sympathetic looks on him, for we knew that Bernardo had particularly admired the older youth. And all of us felt, to some degree or another, the same sense of angry betrayal over what had happened.
But Tito was not the sole object of our thoughts. Though I was supposed to be convalescing, I found myself leaning up from time to time to see if Rebecca and her daughter had come into view behind us in their borrowed cart to join our march. Vittorio, too, appeared to be watching for them, for his gaze remained fi xed on the dwindling landscape behind us. I knew he was concerned about Novella, and I regretted that he’d been forced to watch over me the day before instead of joining the girl in her search for her mother.
The two women still had not made an appearance as morning slipped into afternoon. By that time, I was sitting up along with the other apprentices, for I was feeling much more restored by an earlier dose of the herbed wine and a few more hours of sleep. Vittorio’s earlier look of concern had faded to weary resignation, and I guessed from his glum expression that he feared he might never see Novella again. Seeking to offer a bit of reassurance, I changed spots with Bernardo so that I was sitting beside him.
“I’m sure that Novella and her mother are well ahead of us on the road,” I murmured. “Rebecca likely slipped past the gates with her cart when the fighting started, and she took Novella away to keep her safe. Chances are they are almost to Milan, and you’ll find Novella waiting there at the castle gates for you.”
“I pray you are right,” he muttered back, his expression growing bleaker still. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost her for good.”
I realized any further attempts at comfort would likely ring hollow. I left him with his thoughts and lapsed into sympathetic silence, for I had other worries of my own beyond the washerwoman.
I had waited all of the previous evening for the Master to check on me as I languished upon my makeshift bed in the wagon. Racked by guilt over the destruction of his flying machine, I longed to make my apologies and beg his forgiveness. But while my father stayed close by, and the other apprentices visited with me, in turn, Leonardo did not make an appearance. When I’d finally voiced my concerns to my father, he had attempted to set my mind at rest.
“Signor Leonardo made certain to inquire after your health when I saw him at the meal,” he assured me. “But he is busy with other matters and likely wishes you to have your rest. You will see him again, soon enough.”
The other matters he’d mentioned proved unsettlingly apparent. From where our wagons were arranged, I had a view of the inner encampment where the captain of the guard and his men had built a series of fires for heat and cooking. They had also erected a small tent for Marianna’s use. I had seen Leonardo there with her, bending over her in a solicitous manner as she spoke to him. What she might have been saying, I could not guess, but an unworthy blade of jealously had pierced my heart at the sight . . . the emotion all the worse for the fact that I held them both in high esteem.
I had seen the Master again in the morning, not long before we began our exodus from the strip of forest bordering Castle Pontalba. Again, I had no chance to speak with him. While the troops and wagons began moving into formation, Leonardo had returned alone to the wreckage of the flying machine. From a short distance, the fallen craft resembled nothing so much as a mighty hawk knocked from the sky by a well-placed arrow. Wings crumpled and body broken in half, it lay in the same spot where I had made my fateful landing the day before.
Leonardo had carried with him a lit torch he’d fashioned from a rag-wrapped tree branch that had been dipped in oil. While we apprentices watched in respectful silence from the nearby trees, he touched the torch to each canvas-covered wing, in turn. The cloth had caught fire almost immediately, burning long enough so that the framework beneath ignited, as well. He put the torch to the body, waiting until the entire craft was burning brightly before tossing the torch onto the makeshift pyre. Not many minutes later, the once-glorious craft had been reduced to an unrecognizable pile of smoldering sticks.
Feeling rather as if I had just witnessed a funeral, I had limped back to the wagon alongside my fellows, who maintained a similar sober silence. By this time, the soldiers with their horses and equipment had taken their places on the trail leading back through the woods. Our gear was already packed, so we had but to settle ourselves in our assigned places and be off.
“It could have been repaired,” Tommaso had observed as we reached the wagon. Then, giving voice to the question uppermost in all our minds, he’d added, “I wonder why the Master did it?”
I wondered again at that same question as the captain of the guard called a halt to our journey just before dusk. Though my injured state excused me from any labors, I still insisted upon helping my fellows with a few light tasks as we settled ourselves for the night. The Master came by our small band’s site once to speak privately with Davide. Had he glanced in my direction, I might have rushed to his side and begged a word with him. But he left us again for the company of Il Moro’s men without ever having looked my way.
Later, after another of Philippe’s tasty meals, I wrapped my father’s cloak about me and set off to find my parent, feeling in need of his counsel. He sat apart from us, leaning against the wheel of the wagon he’d been driving and idly carving a small figure from a bit of wood. This time, he was far more direct in his response to my complaints.
“Cease your lamentation, for this situation is of your own making,” he reminded me in a stern tone that made me blush in shame. “Had your master been anyone other than Signor Leonardo, you would have been beaten for your actions, no matter that you were injured. As for making your apologies, you would have had no opportunity to beg mercy, for you would have long since been dismissed from your post and forced to find your way back to Milan on your own. Consider yourself fortunate that he has said nothing to you as of yet.”
As I sat in contrite silence at his knee, he assumed a kinder tone.
“Surely you understand by now, child, that Leonardo is different from all other men. And I speak not only of his genius but in the way that he approaches life. One thing that sets him apart is that he does not view his apprentices as but hapless servants to be commanded. Instead, he sees them as young men he can mold into a semblance of his own greatness, if they will but heed his teachings. And no matter what anyone else might whisper, he loves them as his own sons. Thus he feels a father’s disappointment when they stray . . . and a father’s pain when they are taken from him in death.”
