A Bolt from the Blue

25

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.”

“I know, and that is why I long to make amends,” I replied, feeling myself dangerously close to tears. “But I cannot do so if he acts as if I am not there.”

My father smiled just a little at that.

“Just because he is a man of genius does not mean he cannot sometimes succumb to unworthy emotions,” he assured me. “I suspect that you offended him by doubting his plan, and you stole his glory by flying his grand invention before he had a chance to do so fi rst. Give him more time, and I am sure he will be amenable to your apology.”

“But what of you, Father?” I ventured, realizing that what he’d said about disappointment and pain applied to him, as well. “Have you forgiven me. . and will you force me to return home with you once we are back in Milan?”

“Of course, I have forgiven you,” he said and laid a light hand upon my bandaged head. “As for the rest, were it my choice. . yes, I would bring you back home again, so that I could keep you safe, just as I did when you were a girl. Moreover, now that I see how you live and work among so many young men, I cannot continue to give my blessing to your masquerade.”

When I made a soft sound of protest, he added, “But I have seen you exhibit bravery and honor, as well as dedication to your craft. And so, since you are a grown woman, I will not put out a hand to stop you, should you wish to continue in your role. I suspect, however, that the choice is neither yours nor mine, any longer. Signor Leonardo will make that decision for you.”

We spoke a bit longer of less consequential matters. Then, with a fond kiss upon my cheek, he pressed the wooden figure he’d carved into my hand and sent me back to my own wagon.

The other apprentices were already settling in for the night, for we would rise before the sun to begin the final leg of our journey. I paused before climbing into the wagon to take a look at the gift my father had given me.

It was a hawk, wings tucked as if prepared to dive. Though tiny enough to nestle with ease in my palm, it was carved with painstaking detail down to the talons spread wide to snatch up its prey. I closed my hand over it again, wondering if his choice of figure had been deliberate, or if the past days’ events had caused his idle fingers to reflexively give life to the imagery of flight.

Climbing into the wagon with somewhat greater ease than the day before, I made myself comfortable on my pallet. I ignored the temptation to gaze over at the soldiers’ camp and see if the Master sat again with Marianna, or if he simply wandered about chatting with the captain of the guard and his men. My father was right, I told myself, and I should wait to speak my piece until Leonardo made known his interest in conversing with me.

After applying Luigi’s salve to my healing leg, I took a larger dose than necessary of the herbed wine, so that I fell into quick and dreamless sleep. The call to rise arrived long before I was ready for it, and we were well on our way by the time the sun crawled from its own warm bed to light the horizon.

Though dreading how my situation might end, I was as anxious as the rest of them to return home to Milan. I barely blinked as we passed the spot where Tito and Rebecca and I had been ambushed, for the odor of death had once more been replaced by the scent of warm earth and new leaves. The apprentices had shaken off the previous day’s reserve and again chatted idly among themselves. Only Vittorio held back from conversation, his look of misery more telling than any words to explain his concern over Novella.

But he joined in the small cheer when, by midday, we could see the towers of Milan’s cathedrals in the distance. Soon enough, we were through the castle gates and milling about the quadrangle.

While most of Il Moro’s men split off to return horses and arms to the stables and armory, the captain of the guard and a few of his men paused for a moment to regroup. Then, arranging themselves in formation around Marianna, they started toward the Duke of Milan’s private quarters.

The small contingent passed by our wagon, and Marianna glanced our way. While the other apprentices ducked their heads in a show of respect, my gaze abruptly met hers. She blinked, and I saw her pale lips form the startled word, Delfina? before the soldiers following after blocked her from my view.

Once we pulled up our wagons before the workshop, Davide began directing the unpacking. The work progressed swiftly, for all of us were anxious to return to our mundane tasks after the excitement of the past several days. Before long, the last of the painted canvases had been put away in a far corner of the workshop, and the canons and catapult returned to the nearby shed where they had been stored. Finally, with a collective sigh, we regrouped around our familiar hearth and waited for the Master’s return.

He and my father arrived back at the workshop a short while later. We all rose to greet him, though I took care to stay to the rear of the group, half-hidden by Tommaso, who was far bulkier than I. The Master received our welcome with obvious gratification before gesturing us to silence.

“First, let me say that I am proud of your bravery in the face of the danger that we found in Pontalba. While we were unable to preserve the flying machine”-a few looks and murmurs turned my way at that-“we recovered our good Master Angelo and rescued the Duchess of Pontalba from the cruel treatment she had endured at the duke’s hands. I shall make certain that Il Moro is told the vital part that all of you played in this drama.”

He allowed us a moment for a small cheer, and again raised a hand for quiet.

“And now we must face the truth that one of our own was the one who betrayed us and cruelly murdered Constantin,” he went on, his expression sober. “While I cannot excuse the evil that Tito did, I must remind you that one can never truly know what is in another man’s heart and mind. And so I tell you that while we mourn Constantin, we should also grieve for the Tito who was our friend, rather than curse the traitorous murderer that he became.”

I saw a few heads nod in understanding, though most of the other apprentices stood in stony silence. I understood their anger and mourned Constantin as a brother, but I knew that Leonardo was right. Any hate for Tito that we clung to would diminish our love for Constantin. Besides, there was no vengeance to be had in this world and-assuming that my strange vision had been true-all already had been sorted out in the world after. And so, as with the destroyed flying machine, we would do best to walk away from the wreckage of our trust and simply rebuild it from scratch again.

What further words of comfort the Master might have given us, I could not say. Before he could speak again, the workshop door flew open with a crash.

Framed by the sunlight pouring in from the doorway was the same robed and hooded figure that had shadowed me since my father’s arrival in Milan. Barely did I have time for a gasp, when the figure stepped forward and shoved back its concealing hood, revealing an all-too-familiar face.

Now my gasp became a moan of disbelief. I could but stare in return, praying with fervor that I was still befuddled by the herbed wine and that this was but a terrible dream.

My prayers, however, went unheard. I stood helplessly by as, with lifted hand pointing dramatically in my direction, the figure cried out, “This is an outrage! Signor Leonardo, I demand that you return my daughter, Delfina, to me at once!”