A Bolt From the Blue (29 page)

“The captain of the guard was quite bold,” he explained. “He demanded to know why Milan’s army was camped upon their doorstep, given that Milan and Pontalba are allies. The Master told him that it was a matter he could discuss only with the Duke of Pontalba himself. Of course, the captain protested that and, of course, the Master acted as if he would not give way. But finally, he told the captain that Il Moro’s court engineer had mysteriously disappeared from Milan, along with one of his inventions . . . and that someone claimed spies from Pontalba were responsible for the crime.”

“That was when the captain agreed that the Master might speak with the duke,” Tommaso spoke up, continuing the tale. “The Master gave him two conditions. First, he wished the meeting to be private, so that his men—he meant me and Paolo—must be allowed to return to their fellows. Second, he said he must be free to depart the castle whenever he wishes . . . and if he has not rejoined his men by noontide, Milan’s army will assume that Pontalba has broken their treaty and act accordingly against them.”

“Look!” Vittorio interjected before Tommaso could say more. “They’re closing the gate.”

As the last rider cleared the entry, the heavy wooden grille began a slow descent, closing with a thud that we could hear from where we waited. The finality of the sound struck us all silent, as if we’d watched our beloved Master descend past hell’s fiery gates.

Davide was fi rst to break the silence. After glancing at the sun to judge its position, he turned to the rest of us.

“Why do you tarry? Master Leonardo left us with crucial tasks to perform in his absence. Lorenzo and Giovanni”—he gestured to the two youngest boys—“make sure you keep the campfires burning. You others, man your posts so that you can be seen.”

Soldierlike, we jumped to attention, doing our best to make twenty youths appear as two hundred. The remaining horses had been relieved of wagon duty and stood blanketed and saddled. Our best equestrians mounted them and rode to the clearing, where they began imitating the same maneuvers that Constantin and I had watched Il Moro’s men practice in the castle’s quadrangle.

I joined the remaining apprentices in playing my part as a man-at-arms. Following the Master’s earlier directive, we each stepped into view at one spot for a few moments. Then, slipping back into the trees, we quickly moved to another place, repeating the drill. A few times, I added a different color plume to my helmet or replaced my breastplate with a tunic of mail, so that I gave the appearance of a different person.

Had my father’s life not been at risk—not to mention the lives of the Master and the duchess!—I might have found this masquerade most exciting. As it was, my somber expression surely mirrored the countenance of a man prepared for battle.

Sometime later, I took a respite from my role to retreat deeper into the forest and relieve my bladder. That business accomplished, I settled upon a fallen tree trunk and, pulling off my helmet, squinted up at the sun. Perhaps an hour had passed since the castle gate had closed upon Leonardo’s retreating figure . . . perhaps two. All I knew with certainty was that his deadline of noontide was still some hours away. Wishing I had a wrist clock like the Master’s to more accurately judge Time’s passage, I sighed and reached again for my helmet.

“Dino!”

The soft voice calling my name belonged to Tito. He stepped out from behind a concealing tree, and I saw in consternation that he was dressed once again in his apprentice’s tunic. Before I could question why he had abandoned his post, he started toward me. I saw to my surprise that he was accompanied by Rebecca.

Though her injured arm was still wrapped, Signor Luigi’s treatment must have been effective, for the washerwoman looked much restored. Even so, I viewed the pair with some suspicion.

“What are you doing?” I demanded in the same low tone. “The Master left us with orders to make it appear as we were Il Moro’s army.”

“His orders!” Tito gave his head a disgusted shake. “Bah, I fear Leonardo’s orders may bring death to all of us.”

So saying, he seated himself on one side of me, while Rebecca settled on the other edge of the tree trunk. Thus surrounded, I crossed my arms and shot him a sour look.

“What is this you say, Tito? The Master would do nothing to put us in danger. His plans never fail.”

Though, of course, I promptly recalled that such was not always the case. How could I forget his elaborate scheme the night of the masquerade, the same night when we’d first laid eyes upon Nicodemo lo Bianco, dressed in a devil’s finery? Two people had died most terribly as a result of Leonardo’s well-intended machinations.

Pushing that memory firmly away, I moderated my tone and added, “Very well, tell me your thoughts . . . but do it quickly, for I must return to the front lines.”

20

—Leonardo da Vinci,
The Notebooks of Delfina della Fazia

 

 

 

 

 

T
ito glanced side to side, as if to reassure himself no one was listening. Lowering his voice further, he went on in an urgent tone. “I told you that my uncle was a soldier. I have learned much from him, and I fear this subterfuge will be found out. And if it is not, I am certain that the duke will not release the Master back to us, no matter that he thinks an army waits outside his walls.”

“That may be,” I agreed, “but if that happens, Il Moro’s true army will eventually arrive to take our place.”

Tito shook his head. “But don’t you see? For all that the castle appears in disrepair, it has withstood many attacks before. They have a fine well and stores enough to last a long siege. Do you truly think Il Moro will want to spend weeks—or even months—waging war simply to rescue the Master and your father?”

“But the flying machine—”

“—is of no import,” he exclaimed, cutting my argument short. “You and I could build another for Il Moro, and surely this thought will occur to the duke, as well. He will know that Leonardo’s sketches with all his notes are still in his workshop, and he will know that we have worked upon the design long enough to have a fair understanding of its principles. Your father and the Master, and anyone else”—he paused to give me a significant look, and I knew that he meant by that last the Duchess Marianna—“they are dispensable. All that matters is the notes. We must act now or live with the consequences.”

My stomach twisted into a hard fist of stone as I reluctantly considered the truth of Tito’s words. No matter how brilliant an artist and inventor Leonardo was, he was no military general . . . nor had he ever been a soldier.

Moreover, I knew that Il Moro’s affection for his master engineer was limited to his current usefulness. Doubtless many other artists and inventors were waiting for the opportunity for such a patron as he. Ludovico would go to war if it served his cunning purposes, and not out of loyalty or sentimentality.

I glanced at Rebecca to gauge her opinion on the matter. Her broad face was drawn in serious lines as she nodded.

“I fear Tito is right,” she replied, no trace of banter in her tone. “That duke, he won’t willingly free your father. And with Signor Leonardo, he’s got another hostage to barter back to Il Moro. But I have an idea how to smuggle your father from the castle, if we can but gain entry.”

The question rose unbidden to my lips, but I bit it back. The Master must have been certain of the washerwoman’s loyalty, for he had allowed her to accompany us this far. And should the Duke of Pontalba learn that the man he thought was Leonardo the Florentine was instead Angelo the cabinetmaker, my father might never have the chance to put into effect his own plan of escape.

Taking a deep breath, I returned Rebecca’s nod with one of my own. “Very well, I agree that we must do something. So what is our plan?”

Rebecca’s broad face split into a wide grin. “Why, same as last time. We do some laundry.”

 

 

A short time later, I was once again wearing my simple apprentice’s tunic and seated beside Rebecca as she drove her cart toward the castle’s gate. We’d told Lorenzo and Giovanni, the only ones of the apprentices who noticed us hitching up the cart, that we were acting under Davide’s orders; thus, we had avoided any questions from the pair. For her part, Novella had agreed to distract Davide with claims of a twisted ankle long enough for us to be beyond call before he noticed our defection.

Unfortunately for our plan, the senior apprentice was not easily misled from his duty. Barely were we halfway across the cleared field when Tito grasped my arm and softly said, “Look, Davide has come after us.”

I turned in my seat to see that the senior apprentice—dressed in helmet and breastplate, and mounted upon one of our makeshift war steeds—was indeed galloping in our direction. Wheeling most dramatically around us, he halted in our path and drew a flashing sword, so that Rebecca was forced to pull up her mare or run over him.

“What are you doing?” he asked in an outraged undertone as he pointed the weapon at us. “The Master gave strict orders that no one was supposed to approach the castle. Quickly, turn your cart around.”

“We cannot do that,” I softly countered. “My father’s life is in danger, and the Master’s plan is flawed. We must attempt to rescue him in another fashion, lest they both remain Pontalba’s prisoners.”

Davide’s lips folded into stubborn lines, and his sword remained unyielding. “The Master gave us orders, and we must follow them.”

Helpless, I exchanged glances with Rebecca. She gave me a small nod; then, her expression kindly, she addressed the youth.

“You did your duty fi ne. What’s more important, you gave the soldiers on the parapets a good show,” she told him. “Now, make us a bow so they can see all is well, and then you must let us pass.”

“I cannot do that. The Master trusted me with this duty, and I will not let him down,” Davide protested, though I saw an uncertain wobble to his sword. “Please, turn back.”

“We won’t turn back,” Rebecca countered, her expression growing stern. “And the soldiers are going to get suspicious if we keep sitting here showing our gums to the breeze. Don’t worry; I’ll tell Signor Leonardo that you did your duty. And these boys”—she indicated Tito and me—“will take the punishment he deals them.”

The sword wobbled a moment longer. Finally, with a great sigh and look of consternation, he sheathed his weapon and made us an exaggerated bow from his saddle.

“Very well, you may pass, but only because I cannot stop you short of using a blade,” he retorted in a tone of disgust.

Shooting Tito and me a baleful glance, he added, “No matter what other punishment the Master deals out, know that you two draftsmen will have no other task for the next year but to boil the gesso every day to atone for your insubordination.”

I gave Davide an apologetic look but made no reply. While boiling animal skins to make the gluelike substance needed for coating blank panels was a foul job, I would have taken on a litany of far more disgusting tasks if it meant saving my father’s life. I saw a flicker of understanding in Davide’s eyes, however, and knew that in his heart he did not fault us for what we did. With a final salute, he put a heel to his steed’s flank and trotted back toward the forest.

“Well, that’s done,” Rebecca said with a sigh of her own as she whipped up the mare again. “Now, let’s see how we fare with the soldiers at the gate.”

We continued at a moderate pace toward the castle. The morning sun was warm upon our backs, and yet the sight of the brooding fortress was enough to make me wrap my father’s cloak about me more tightly. The washerwoman’s expression was neutral, but as close as we sat I could feel the tension in her beefy arms and knew she must be as nervous as I at what was to come. As for Tito . . .

I spared a glance behind me. Though he, too, kept a neutral countenance to his pockmarked face, his dark eyes burned with eagerness. Abruptly, I wondered if his insistence in launching this rescue mission came less from concern over my father and the Master and more from a feeling of high adventure. For surely in every young man lurked a secret dream of facing down an army single-handedly while defeating a cruel duke and rescuing a duchess.

I had no time to reflect further on this, however, for we had reached the portcullis. One of the guards, stave in hand, peered through the wood and iron grille at us. Recognizing Rebecca, he barked, “You, washerwoman, what is your business?”

“Foolish man, you know my business.”

Grinning broadly, she tossed the reins to me and hopped from the cart. “I’ve come to finish the laundry,” she declared as she approached the gate. “My boys and me, we worked all day the last time we was here, but there was more laundry than we could do in a day. I promised the kitchen master I’d return today to finish the job.”