A Bolt From the Blue (23 page)

“No, I did not find him,” I repeated, “but I found someone who says she heard the duke’s soldiers escorting someone they called Leonardo. So if the flying machine is here, my father must be here, as well.”

I had debated whether or not to tell Rebecca and Tito about the Duchess of Pontalba. Finally, I decided to keep my peace, at least for the time being. If the Rebecca standing before me was the same one who had helped Marianna, I dared not let her know I had discovered her secret before I learned if the washerwoman intended to betray me, as well. As for Tito, he was too prone to quick emotion and might well blurt out some ill-thought comment in her company and thus reveal the secret.

Instead, I asked, “Shall we return to Milan? Surely Master Leonardo will have traveled back from his mission by the time we arrive and will know what to do next.”

“We cannot leave until tomorrow,” Rebecca sternly reminded me. “There’s wash to be done, and we must do it.”

And so the three of us continued the work she and Tito had begun. It was no job for the faint of heart or weak of body. This I quickly discovered as I used the paddle to lift the soaked clothing and linens—weighing far more wet than they did dry—from the pot. Letting them cool sufficiently so that I did not burn myself on the scalding water, I wrung the soapy water from them before transferring them to the rinse pot. There, after a bit of boiling and stirring, the process would be repeated, with the clean clothes piled in a basket again while waiting to dry.

“Hang the wash from those pegs,” Rebecca advised Tito, pointing to the numerous wooden hooks that were built into the posts of the shed’s three open sides. “There’s a good breeze and a decent bit of sun left, so they should dry by morning.”

Soon, the laundry shed more closely resembled a festival tent, swathed as it was in all sizes and colors of fabric. As for me, I was soaked in wash water and sweat, my hands and arms aching with my efforts. With Tito’s help, I was able to keep apace of Rebecca, who did the preliminary scrubbing . . . far harder work than what I was doing.

When the final tunic was hung and the pots empty of all save fi lthy water, I sank onto the wet stone floor with a groan. “Saints’ blood, I cannot imagine doing this every day,” I gasped out. “How ever do you manage it, Rebecca?”

“It’s easy enough once you’ve done it as long as me. Why, my little Novella can hoist a basket of wet laundry that would take you and your friend both to carry,” she said with a proud grin. “And it’s not a bad living. I work as I please and answer to no man.”

Tito gave a puzzled frown. “But doesn’t it bother you that people look down on you for what you do?”

“Pah, there’s no shame in honest hard work,” she retorted. “That’s something you’d do well to remember, my fine young apprentice. Those that do scorn me, they can think what they want, so long as they keep paying me. Besides, I sleep easy at night, which is more than I can say for most nobles.”

“I know I shall sleep easy tonight,” I interjected with another groan. “I’m so tired, I could sleep right here among the laundry.”

“We’ll have a nice soft bed of straw in the stable,” Rebecca replied with a return of her grin. “Come; it’s time for the evening meal, and the kitchen master said he’d save us a bit of stew.”

The stew proved surprisingly tasty, and I felt much restored by the time I had scraped clean the bottom of my borrowed bowl. As we ate among the other servants, I kept a keen eye and ear open for any gossip about either my father or the duchess. But it seemed that the servants of Castle Pontalba were not prone to undue chatter, for the conversation about us was cautious. I wondered if it was because we were strangers among them or if the talk was always tempered. Knowing what little that I did of Nicodemo, I suspected the latter.

I did, however, venture to question Rebecca on one matter. Keeping my tone casual, I asked her, “Do you know another washerwoman of Milan by your same name?”

She frowned, but I saw nothing of guilt in her expression as she replied, “By the Virgin, I cannot think that I do . . . but why do you ask?”

“It is nothing,” I said with a dismissive wave. “But while we were gathering linens earlier, I thought I overheard one of the pages mentioning a washerwoman named Rebecca and thought it a curious coincidence.”

Darkness had fallen by the time we made our way back toward the stable, which would be our room for the night. We deliberately took the long way about so that we passed by the barracks and the great hall, which had been empty earlier in the day. Now, however, soldiers whose dress marked them of rank joined men who appeared to be minor nobles as all filed toward that gathering spot. The aroma of seared lamb and baked fowl drifted to us, evidence that a grand meal was being prepared.

I gave a thoughtful frown. While the duke and his men were thus occupied later in the evening, I would slip back into the castle and visit the duchess in her cell. Perhaps she would have some idea where else in the castle her husband might hold his prisoner, so that I could continue my search. Failing that, I could at least offer her company and consolation.

But when I shared my plan with my companions—leaving out the visit to the duchess—both protested mightily.

“We’ll be safely out of here in the morning,” Tito countered. “Why risk being caught as a spy, when there is naught you could do, even if you found your father?”

“I agree with Tito,” the washerwoman declared. “Besides, we have a long journey before us tomorrow . . . and we must fold and deliver all the laundry before we leave! Better you get a fair night’s rest, instead. Now that we know the Duke of Pontalba is responsible for these crimes, we can leave the rescue to Signor Leonardo and his good patron.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

I gave a grudging nod, which seemed to satisfy them. Of course, this was not the end of it. I intended to wait until the pair was asleep and steal away as I originally planned. Risk or not, I could not leave the castle without making a final attempt to find my father.

Our makeshift bed was in the stall beside the brown mare. The wagon was parked here, as well, and Tito graciously offered it for Rebecca’s bed, assuring her that he and I would sleep quite comfortably in the straw beneath it. I made no protest, for the sacrifice suited me quite well. Rising from a straw pallet would allow a far quieter exit than trying to clamber unnoticed out of the wagon.

I hid my impatience as well as I could while Tito and Rebecca amused themselves by swapping crude tales, their laughter causing the brown mare to snort her disapproval each time. The afternoon’s toils apparently had changed the apprentice’s opinion of our traveling companion, I decided, for he now seemed quite comfortable in her company. Finally, the pair exhausted their store of bawdy jests and agreed to call it a night.

“Remember, boys, we shall be up with the cock,” came Rebecca’s parting words as she climbed into the wagon. At Tito’s snicker, she added in a mock-lofty tone, “And I mean the bird, you insolent young man.”

I lay down on my makeshift pallet and feigned quick sleep, listening as my companions settled themselves. Finally, when their snores joined the mare’s gentle nickering, I sat up. I waited a few moments longer; then, when their rhythmic breathing did not change, I eased into a standing position. Mindful of the crackling straw, I slipped out into the night.

I stopped by the laundry shed and snagged one of the freshly washed tunics. It still held a hint of dampness, but I knew the warmth of my body would soon dry it. Pulling it on over my head, I again traded my cap for that of the young page and made my silent way toward the great hall.

A blaze of light accompanied by hearty laughter spilled from the open doorway. Straightening my tunic, I slipped inside and grabbed up a discarded tray. So equipped, I boldly joined the other pages who were assisting at the meal.

My first observation was that, unlike the court at Milan, this one was noticeably absent of females, save for a handful who appeared from their scandalous dress and manner to be prostitutes. The place alongside the Duke of Pontalba was empty, and I wondered if Marianna had ever sat at his hand.

I noted, as well, that the men here were well armed . . . again, differing with Il Moro’s court, where the gentlemen put aside their more blatant weaponry at mealtime. Including the duke, there were perhaps two score men, all of whom appeared already well into their cups.

I busied myself rearranging a few platters upon one of the trestle tables and managed a good look at the Duke of Pontalba. I recalled him but vaguely from that ill-fated masquerade, but what I saw rang true to my memory.

Tall and slightly hunched, he had a craggy face whose thin lips twisted with cruel amusement. I judged from the droop of his eyes and pouchy flesh beneath his chin that he was quite a bit older than my father. But it was not until I saw him casually slap one of the pages who’d not been swift enough to refill his wine that I shuddered. I could understand why Marianna claimed to prefer death to his touch. In her slippers, I might well feel the same.

I had seen all I needed to see, I told myself. Only the fi rst course had been served, so I was confident that the merriment would continue for some time. Thus, bearing my empty trenchers, I slipped into the nearest alcove. Handing off the tray to a surprised youth younger than me, I made my way down the hallway and turned off in the direction I’d taken earlier that day.

Retracing my steps was less easy than I’d hoped, for it appeared that Nicodemo was stingy with his candles and torches. Thus, the rooms that had been dim before were bathed in thick shadows relieved by the occasional flame in a recess in the wall. I gave myself a moment to let my eyes adjust to the low light and continued my careful way.

It took me longer than I expected to find the stone stair-well that led to the hall where the locked cells were. I paused before making that climb to pluck from my belt pouch the stub of candle I’d had the foresight to bring. Lighting it from a guttering oil lamp, I shielded the tiny flame with one hand and made my cautious way up the steps. The trapdoor above me opened easily as before and, taking care not to splash candle wax about, I climbed through it.

The archer’s windows provided scant light, but enough that I saw an oil pot in the recess nearest the hatch. I prudently lit it lest I make a misstep and tumble back through that hole in the floor, putting a gruesome end to my escapade. But the added illumination did not add much in the way of comfort. My shadow before me wavered wildly, a diabolical image that set my artist’s imagination to work. Before, the maze of halls and odd-shaped rooms had seemed cold and unwelcoming. Now, draped in darkness, they hinted at phantoms and spirits that might well walk the place.

Shaking my head to rid myself of such fanciful notions, I made my cautious way down the hallway. I paused at the final cell and, lifting my candle, peered through the slot in the door. With an effort, I made out the swaddled figure lying on the cot, so silent and still that it might have been one of the Master’s clay casts.

“Marianna,” I softly called. “Marianna, are you awake? It is I, Delfina.”

I heard the rustle of blankets, and a shadowy figure rose from the bed. I raised the candle high again, so that my face could be clearly seen. I prayed that she recalled my earlier visit, and that she had not attributed my presence to some fevered dream brought on by the strain of her captivity.

“Delfina?” a voice from within the cell echoed . . . a voice not Marianna’s, and yet that was known to me. “Delfina, can that be you?”

The figure rushed toward the cell door, while I gaped in disbelief. But it was not until I saw the familiar face peering back through the slot that I was able to choke out in joyous relief the single heartfelt word, “Father!”

16

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Atlanticus

 

 

 

 

 

“
F
ather, what are you doing here? This is Marianna’s—the Duchess of Pontalba’s—cell.”

“I know of no duchess,” Angelo della Fazia replied, “but the better question is, what are you doing here, my daughter?”

“Why, I have come to rescue you!”

Choking back a sob, I reached my hand through the slot in the door. My father caught my fingers in his, and I was relieved to find that his hand, while chilled from the dank cell, was as strong as ever.

“You’ve suffered no harm, Father?”

“I’m as well as can be for having spent two days tied in a wagon and a few hours more in the good duke’s dungeon,” was his wry reply.

He released my hand and peered through the slot, his kind brown eyes suspiciously damp as he surveyed me. “How did you find me, child? Have you brought Signor Leonardo with you?”

“I fear not. He had not yet returned from his mission to find the duke when we left, so there is but Tito and Rebecca the washerwoman and I.”