A Bolt From the Blue (16 page)

To my relief, he sighed and nodded.

“You must hate me, Dino, and I cannot blame you,” he said as he pulled the doors closed again. “All that has happened is my fault. But I swear I will do everything in my power to help find your father.”

I heard the grim purpose in those humble words, and my anger eased enough for me to give him an encouraging nod in return. “Surely you will remember something of significance. But let’s take another look at the Master’s quarters first, lest I overlooked a clue there.”

“And we must ask the guards at the gates if a wagon tried to leave in the dark of last night,” he suggested as we started at an urgent pace across the quadrangle once more.

Tito had claimed he’d never seen the faces of the three men; still, I was careful to scan the faces of every man I passed, lest one appear out of place. So intent was I on my task, however, that I did not see the familiar bulky figure of one particular female until it was too late.

Broad brown skirts and cape billowing, Rebecca the washerwoman swooped upon us like a ragged hen as we approached the workshop.

“Aha,” she proclaimed in satisfaction. “I have found some errant mice, out playing in the field while the cat is napping.”

Before we could protest, she had wrapped a beefy arm around both of our necks and was hugging us to her ample breast. “Does your master know that you are wandering about the castle grounds instead of laboring with your fellows?” she demanded, her cheeky grin belying her severe tone.

Tito was the first to extricate himself from her formidable grasp. With an offended air, he tugged at his tunic hem to straighten that garment again and slapped a quick hand to his chest—checking, I was sure, to make certain that his knife had not been dislodged by this assault.

“We are on Master Leonardo’s business,” he retorted, drawing himself up so that he towered over her by almost half a head. “Pray, step aside and let us pass by.”

“Here, what sort of attitude is that for a young man to take with a lady?” the washerwoman shot back, her dark brows knitting in displeasure. Then, her pique vanishing as quickly as it had come, she added with a return of her grin, “You should take lessons from your young friend Dino. He knows how to speak like a gentleman, do you not, my boy?”

I had succeeded in escaping the older woman’s genial embrace and was busy straightening my disheveled cap. Another time, I would have been pleased to engage her in banter; today, however, the seriousness of our current situation left me with nothing but blunt words.

“Good day, signora,” I replied with a quick nod. “I fear that Tito is right. We are on a mission for the Master and cannot tarry. Please excuse us.”

“And I am here to gather Master Leonardo’s laundry . . . and perhaps have a few words with young Dino’s handsome father,” she added with a broad wink in Tito’s direction.

Surveying the youth up and down, she added, “Course, I wouldn’t say no to a bit of fun with a younger man, either.”

While Tito blushed in equal parts anger and embarrassment at this ribald remark—for, admittedly, he was a comely enough youth if one overlooked his unfortunate complexion—I was eying Rebecca for quite different reasons.

The soft brown wool cloak she wore was far fi ner than the rest of her clothing, which was as rough-spun as she. Its fabric had been cut from a smoothly woven bolt, its edges hemmed in flamboyant blue thread in a distinctive stitch. But most important was the fact that I had seen this particular garment enough times to be certain of its true owner, no matter whose back it covered.

“That’s my father’s cloak you are wearing,” I cried, clenching my fingers into fists lest I forget myself and snatch it off her where she stood. “My mother made it for him; I would recognize her work anywhere. Quickly, where did you find it?”

“What, this rag?” came the washerwoman’s coy response as she preened a little, stroking its smooth lines. Then, seeing the determination in my face, she shrugged.

“Oh, very well, I found it upon the road as I was heading into the city at daybreak. But you know what they say. Something lost belongs to the finder, and bad fortune to the loser. Besides, how was I to guess it belonged to Signor Angelo? If I left it there in the road, someone else would have snatched it up.”

“What road?” Tito broke in, his words as urgent as mine.

She gestured vaguely. “Toward the south, near the stream outside town where all the women do their washing. But what does it matter?” she added with a sigh. “I’ll find another old rag to wrap myself in. Here, take it back.”

Her expression one of martyrdom, she unfastened the cloak and tossed it to me. I hugged the garment tightly, breathing in my father’s familiar scent, overlaid by the faint if persistent tang of onions that always accompanied Rebecca. Tears having nothing to do with onions pooled in my eyes, and I rubbed a brusque hand across my face to dash them away lest she notice. Unfortunately, I was not swift enough, for she peered at me with keen interest.

“Here, is something wrong?” The black brows dipped ominously, almost touching the bridge of her crooked nose. “Has something happened to Signor Angelo?”

Tito and I exchanged quick glances, and he nodded. I knew what he was thinking, that Rebecca might well be our best source of information. A woman of her station came and went as she pleased, so there was little of what happened at the castle that missed her. Already, she had unintentionally uncovered what could be a clue to my father’s fate. Perhaps she also had seen something that would help identify the men responsible.

“Quickly, come into the Master’s quarters so that no one overhears,” I replied, “and we shall tell you all.”

Still clutching my father’s cloak, I unfastened the door and ushered the pair inside. For a foolish instant, I was prepared to see my father sitting at the table where I had last seen him. But, of course, the room was as I had left it, save that Pio no longer slept upon the bed.

While I fastened the door shut behind us, Rebecca took the opportunity to wander the small room, staring with avid interest at the Master’s belongings crowded onto the wall shelves and strewn across the worktable. At my stern look, she put down the tiny clay horse that she’d pick up off the shelf. One of the remaining models for the immense, and as-yet-to-be-cast tribute to Il Moro’s late father, it had languished there for more than half a year waiting for Leonardo to resume work on the project.

I gestured her to the bench. “What Tito and I are going to tell you must be kept secret,” I began. “And so, before we say anything more, you must first swear an oath to God that you will not repeat it to anyone else.”

I watched as various emotions flickered across her broad face, and despite the grave situation, I could not help a small inner smile. Her desire to learn one of Leonardo’s secrets was surely battling with the keen knowledge that she would not be able to repeat that same tale to all and sundry. For I knew she was a pious woman who would not break such an oath should she make it; thus, her quandary.

Finally, she sighed and nodded. “Very well, I swear on the blood of our Lord that I will not repeat what you tell me,” she agreed, crossing herself for good measure.

Satisfied, I nodded in return. “Very well, to start, have you heard rumors about Signor Leonardo’s flying machine?”

“You mean Signor Leonardo’s folly,” she replied, her frown returning. “No man can fly like a bird, unless he has the devil’s help.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, “but enough people believe in his invention that already one life has been forfeit over it.”

I hastily revealed all we knew thus far about Constantin’s murder. From there, I explained what had happened from the time I discovered my father missing to the point where Tito and I had learned that the Master’s half-built flying machine had been stolen. I told her, as well, our theory that my father had been kidnapped in error, likely mistaken for Leonardo in the Master’s absence. Tito interrupted a time or two to correct me or add a few details. By the time I finished, Rebecca’s mouth hung open, and her face was as white as her wimple.

“But you have given us a fine clue,” I added, “for you have found my father’s cloak. It must have fallen from the wagon as he was driven that way . . . or perhaps he deliberately dropped it for someone to discover.”

“And if you can take us back to that spot,” Tito eagerly added, “perhaps someone nearby saw the wagon pass and can point us in the right direction.”

The washerwoman clamped her mouth shut again, her dark brows once more diving down toward her nose. “I can take you there,” she agreed, “but I can tell you already that the road runs but two ways . . . back here to Milan, or else south toward the province of Pontalba.”

Pontalba? The word rang vaguely familiar in my mind, but for a moment I could not recall its significance. Finally, with a cry of surprise, I remembered how I knew the name.

“It was the Duke of Pontalba who agreed to marry Il Moro’s cousin and ward, the Contessa Caterina. And when she died”—I stumbled a little over that word—“he was satisfied to wed another of Ludovico’s cousins to keep the peace between the two provinces. Surely he could not be plotting against Ludovico, when they are related by marriage and bound by truce.”

Or could he?

I frowned. Less than a year ago, Nicodemo lo Bianco, the Duke of Pontalba, had been a sworn enemy of Ludovico Sforza. Of course, I knew nothing else of the man, save what I had seen of him that fateful night of the masquerade when both a new peace treaty and Caterina’s betrothal were to have been announced.

The theme of the festivities had been the card game of Tarocchi, with each guest dressed to represent one of the individual cards in the playing deck. Nicodemo—tall, thin, with a sunken chest and merciless twist to his narrow lips—had chosen the Devil as his costume. I had always thought his choice grimly appropriate for the role he had played that night in damning Caterina to her fate, by circumstances if not by deliberate intent.

Tito, meanwhile, was rubbing his chin in fair imitation of the Master in deep thought.

“Are you quite sure that is the only direction the road takes?” he asked Rebecca.

Not waiting for an answer, he turned back to me and went on. “It is more likely the men were sent by the pope or even by the French king. Think how clever such a plot would be. While Il Moro is secretly meeting with the French king’s representatives, the king’s other men are sent to kidnap the duke’s master engineer and steal his invention.”

I considered his words a moment and then shook my head.

“But would that not be Il Moro’s first assumption? No, I think it must be the Duke of Pontalba behind this treachery. Besides,” I added with a bitter twist of my lips, “I suspect he is the sort of man who would not care if one of his villainous minions shot an unarmed youth in the back.”

Tito looked for a moment as if he would have argued the point, but instead he simply shrugged. “Then let us set off for Pontalba. But it is two or more days’ walk from here, and I fear they have many hours’ start on us.”

“Perhaps not so many hours,” I countered, allowing myself a bit of hope. “After all, they could not sneak past the castle walls in the middle of the night with a large wagon without Il Moro’s guard stopping them. Remember all the horse droppings in the shed? They must have kept the wagon there all night and left once the gates opened at dawn.”

Before Tito could reply, Rebecca snorted and hefted herself to her feet.

“This is a pack of foolishness,” she proclaimed. “You boys can’t be running around the countryside chasing after murderers and thieves. Why not tell the captain of the guard what has happened and let him send his men in search of Signor Angelo and this folly of a flying machine?”

“Because the flying machine is a secret,” Tito and I promptly chorused, earning yet another snort from the woman.

I planted my fists on my hips and met her disapproving frown with an equally dark look of my own.

“Rebecca, not only is my father’s life in peril,” I choked out, “but Signor Leonardo’s safety is at risk, as well. Don’t you understand? What you call a folly is in truth a dangerous weapon, one that would have allowed the Duke of Milan to reign supreme over all the provinces. Bad enough for it to be in his hands, but who can guess what will happen should the Duke of Pontalba gain control of it?”

I turned to Tito for support, and he gave a stern nod of agreement. “Our advantage is that few in the court truly believe that the flying machine exists, save in the Master’s imagination,” he told her. “We must get it back . . . and in the meantime, no one must guess that it has been stolen, least of all Il Moro. For if he learns that the Duke of Pontalba has made a fool of him, he likely will cast the Master into prison for his carelessness.”

“And don’t forget my father,” I broke in again. “He will remain a prisoner of Pontalba until he is no longer of use to the duke. And after that . . .”

I trailed off on those last words, unwilling to speak aloud what both Tito and I knew was the likely outcome should we fail. But as I was struggling to maintain my composure, the washerwoman clapped her chapped hands together and gave them a brisk rub.

“So that’s the way of it,” she proclaimed. “Very well, let’s not waste more time. Tighten the belts on your tunics, boys, for we’re off to visit the Duke of Pontalba.”

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