A Bolt from the Blue

23

Iscreamed. . not so much in terror as in sheer exhilaration. For, after that fi rst petrifying lurch as the wheels slipped off the castle’s edge, the craft swooped upward. I was flying! The Master’s invention worked!

One corner of my mind registered an echoing shriek of terror from somewhere behind me, the doleful cry cut short a heartbeat later. I dared not look back, but I knew to my great sorrow what that sound meant.

Tito.

Blinded by the thought of losing what he’d shed both blood and soul to gain, he had forgotten that the roofline ended. Or perhaps he hadn’t. Either way, he had followed after me and plunged to what most certainly would have been his death. I prayed that his uncle the duke would treat him far more kindly as a corpse than he had treated his nephew in life.

As for me, I had loved Tito as a friend. Despite the evil he had done, I could not help but mourn the youth that I had thought him to be. Later-if there was a later for me-I would ponder whether or not justice had been served in the end. For the moment, however, my concern was focused on keeping control of my craft.

I felt as if I were cradled upon some invisible cloud, so gently did the craft hover. Each movement of my feet made the great wings rise and dip down again in a rowing motion, so that the craft glided atop the breeze like a ship rolling upon the waves. Yet, press one pedal too hard, and the craft wobbled. Press it too softly, and the machine tilted at an alarming angle. I found, as well, that the hand controls allowed but the subtlest change in altitude or movement. In order to make a circle, I needed to adjust the splayed tail that served as rudder, using yet another control.

I clung with grim purpose to the hand levers, concentrating on keeping the flying machine level while I studied the formation of soldiers below me. From my vantage point, they looked like chess pieces neatly spread across a dark green board. I stared in fascination, feeling almost as if I could reach down and pluck them up, one by one, and move them where I chose. Already, they were almost halfway across the field, their armor and weapons glinting beneath the late-morning sun. Recalling myself to my purpose, I shook free of my fancies and cautiously guided the flying machine above the soldiers’ path.

The craft’s shadow spilled over the field like that of some giant mythical bird, throwing a dark stain over men and beasts. Had any of the soldiers noticed this anomaly, they likely dismissed it as a wayward cloud crossing the sun’s face. The horses, however, realized something was amiss. . perhaps instinctively recalling an ancient time when predators swooped down upon their ancestors from out of the sky.

As my shadow touched them, the armored beasts shied and whinnied in fright, breaking formation as they sought escape from their perceived attacker. This was what I’d hoped to accomplish, I thought with a small surge of triumph. More confident in my abilities, I adjusted the craft’s rudderlike tail and circled over the troops again.

Fear exploded into panic as one terrified steed after another thrashed and bucked, trying to unseat their riders. The foot soldiers following behind broke ranks, as well, scrambling out of range of flailing hooves. Faced with this abrupt dissolution of his forces, the captain, struggling with his own frightened mount, raised an arm and with a shout called a halt to the charge.

It was at that moment that one of the mounted men, who had been unceremoniously thrown by his horse, stared up and saw the flying machine.

His cries and frantic gestures caught the attention of his fellow soldiers, who followed his gaze upward. A chorus of shouts punctuated with pointing fingers arose from the disarrayed troops. Some must have known of the flying machine’s existence, for I heard faint cries of, Leonardo, Leonardo. Others, perhaps more superstitious than the rest, must have attributed the sight to divine intervention, for they fell to their knees and raised their arms in supplication.

For myself, any fear I’d previously felt was gone, replaced by an intoxicating sense of supremacy as I saw the power that I wielded. Indeed, I laughed. What would these battle-hardened soldiers say, I wondered, if they ever learned that a mere woman had disrupted their well-armed forces? Feeling quite invincible now, I wheeled the flying machine about and, with a slight dip of my wings, abruptly swooped low like a hawk rushing to strike.

And that was when I saw one foot soldier raise his bulky crossbow and fire it directly at me.

I pulled up abruptly. The bolt whizzed past me, its power far greater than I could have imagined at this distance, so that I surely would have been impaled had I not taken such evasive maneuvers. But a glance at my left wing showed me that the craft had not escaped unscathed. I could see daylight through the tear in the canvas through which the bulky arrow had passed.

A solid thud to the framework beneath me shook the craft. Someone else had fired off another bolt, this one lodging firmly in wood. Fighting back panic, I pedaled faster, trying to take the flying machine out of range. Yet a third bolt tore past, this one thankfully missing both me and the craft.

With a few more flaps of my wings, I was out of range, or so I prayed. But the soldiers’ attention was focused on me, and I knew I would face an onslaught of bolts and spears should I venture back too close again. More to the point was the fact that my limbs were rapidly tiring from the effort of pedaling to keep the craft aloft. My soft life as an apprentice had done me no favors in this particular instance!

Frantic, I weighed my options. My diversion had worked; of that, there was no doubt. But if I gave up my assault, the soldiers would return to their original mission of tracking down the apprentices. Though I’d bought them a few precious minutes’ head start in their retreat, it was not enough time to assure my friends sufficient lead on their pursuers to make good an escape. I would have to continue my tactics in order to gain them more time.

Feeling quite vulnerable now, I grimly turned the flying machine about for another pass over the soldiers. And that was when I heard the unmistakable sound of canvas ripping.

The source of that chilling noise was immediately apparent. With each flap of my wings, wind had caught at the fabric damaged by the wayward bolt and further weakened it at that spot. Finally, the canvas had given way, resulting in a tear that stretched between two of the wing’s largest ribs. Air poured through the gap while the craft, unbalanced, began to waver, so that it took all my efforts to hold it steady.

And, once again, I was drawing within range of the crossbows. Another tear in that wing could send the craft spiraling out of control. A direct hit on its body might splinter a support or cut through a cable, resulting in the same outcome. And if the bolt hit me. . Saints’ blood, that did not bear thinking about! But what other choice did I have?

Though my legs had begun to burn with the effort, I redoubled my pedaling in hopes of increasing my speed and gaining some altitude. I could see a group of the soldiers preparing for my return, crossbows raised as they stood in tight formation. The horsemen, meanwhile, had dismounted and wrapped cloaks over their steeds’ eyes to settle them, so that they would remain quiet during the attack. The remaining foot soldiers stood at the ready, doubtless charged with effecting my capture should the others bring down the flying machine.

I had no illusion that I would make it through unscathed in what likely would be my final pass. My only hope was that most of the bolts would miss their targets, and that any hits did but minor damage. . to me or to the craft! Unless the flying machine proved too crippled in that aftermath, my plan was to continue flying north for as long as my aching legs would endure. When I could go no farther, I would attempt a landing and-should I crawl from the wreckage in one piece-make my way on foot back to Milan.

I could think ahead no further than that.

A barrage erupted below me, perhaps a dozen bolts releasing skyward. Tied as I was to the craft’s frame, I could do nothing but hunker in place and squeeze my eyes shut as the deadly arrows chased after me. In quick succession, I heard three, then four, then five of them pierce the frame, the sharp crack of wood like small explosions in my ears. A second volley followed the first, these bolts slicing through the wings. And then a flare of pain burned through my thigh, as if someone had slapped a glowing poker from the Master’s forge upon my flesh.

I screamed in equal parts agony and fright, and the craft gave a sickening lurch. For a moment I feared I might faint, but my head cleared enough for me to pull the flying machine level again. I glanced back to see how badly I was injured, almost swooning again at the sight of the heavy bolt that had ripped through the wooden frame and pierced my leg.

No, not pierced it, I amended with a relieved gasp. . merely grazed the flesh. Though the bolt had torn through my trunk hose to hold me skewered like a bird on a spit, I found that I could still move my leg. Still, the bloody stain that was rapidly widening along that leg was alarming, as was the searing pain. But I was still in one piece and able to keep flying. . That was, assuming that the craft remained intact.

More canvas abruptly rent, and the flying machine dipped and turned back in the direction from which I’d come. I gave the rudder a frantic pull, but the lever broke loose in my hand, the tail drooping like that of a defeated cockerel. I was headed down, and I would crash there amid the soldiers. My best hope was that I manage to take a few of those brutal men with me as I splintered apart.

My vanity made me pray that my corpse survived the impact in one neat piece.

As when I’d taken off, time slowed so that I was privy to every detail. From the distance, I heard the blare of trumpets sounding a charge. . odd, because they seemed to echo from the forest and not the castle. Then, in a flash of silver, I saw bursting from the castle gates a magnificent chariot pulled by two black horses and carrying two dark-haired men, while whirling blades around them sang of victory and death. And, most strangely of all, the scores of painted soldiers that we’d set up among the trees the night before came abruptly to life, pouring onto the field on foot and on horses, their numbers far superior to the Duke of Pontalba’s men.

I smiled, the pain of my injured leg forgotten and any fear of death left behind. Certainly, this must be but a final trick of my now-fevered mind, I told myself as I calmly watched the ground rushing up to meet me. Still, I would die happily, knowing that, at least in my imagination, Leonardo had won the day and my father was free.

And afterward, when I moved from darkness back into light, surely Constantin would be waiting to greet me, his smile proud as he stood alongside his father and welcomed me home.