A Bolt From the Blue

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

THE QUEEN’S GAMBIT
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
A BOLT FROM THE BLUE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

 

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-17120-2

1. Leonardo, da Vinci, 1452-1519—Fiction. 2. Inventions—Fiction. 3. Apprentices—
Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. Milan (Italy)—History—To 1535—
Fiction. 6. Italy—History—1492-1559—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.T839B65 2010
813’.6—dc22
2009033716

 

 

 

 

This book is in loving memory of Gene Smart.
I still miss you, Dad.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to the many readers who have written to tell me that they have enjoyed Delfina and Leonardo’s adventures. Your kind words are cherished!

 

Warm thanks also goes to my family and friends, who have always cheered on my work. I dearly appreciate your support over the years.

 

Thanks to my editors, Natalee Rosenstein and Michelle Vega, who have added so much to these books.

 

And, as always, hugs and kisses to Gerry, who regularly suffers through missed weekends and holidays without complaint while his wife pounds away at the keyboard trying to meet her deadline. Sorry about that, Chief!

1

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Atlanticus

B
right brown eyes peered over the edge of my notebook, the unexpected sight distracting me from the portrait in which I had been engrossed. I had not anticipated company; indeed, I had chosen a secluded spot in which to work so that I might pass the day undisturbed. And thus I was settled in a sunny patch of grass in a far corner of the great fortress that was home to the iron-fisted Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan. Away from the bustling parade grounds and paved courtyards, and far from the main castle itself, I’d thought myself quite alone here beside this low stone wall.

But apparently I was not.

Attempting to discourage further interruption, I frowned at the interloper. Undeterred, he widened his gentle cinnamon orbs in soulful appeal. My next tactic was to ignore his presence, but that reaction merely drew a small snuffle from him. In the end—as he had doubtless foreseen—I found myself unable to resist such blatant supplication. And so I allowed my stern expression to soften as I tucked my piece of black chalk into the book as a marker before addressing him.

“Hello, Pio. How ever did you find me here, and why are you intent on disturbing my work this fine morning?”

The small black-and-white hound cocked his narrow head, his rose petal-like ears unfurling as if considering the question. Then, with a happy bark, he leaped into my lap and dislodged the notebook so that it tumbled to the ground.

“Fear not, Dino. Pio is not trying to disturb you,” a reproachful voice spoke as I attempted to fend off the small beast’s enthusiastic licking of my face. “He just wants to know why you are angry at us. He wonders why you have been avoiding us for the past few days.”

I glanced up to see my friend and fellow apprentice Vittorio standing before me. Like me, he was dressed in the simple brown tunic over green trunk hose that designated him an apprentice painter in the workshop of the duke’s court artist. To enliven that simple garb, he had braided narrow leather strips into an elaborate belt from which he’d hung his purse. He reached into that small bag now and pulled forth a crumb of pungent cheese.

“I’ve not avoided you,” I protested while he waved the treat in Pio’s direction. “Did we not spend all of yesterday plastering a wall for fresco together? And the day before, I showed you how to tie the small weasel-hair brushes that the Master prefers for his oils.”

“But that is different,” the boy countered as Pio bounded from my lap and began an eager dance upon his hind legs. “All of the apprentices helped with the plastering, and you showed Philippe and Bernardo how to tie those brushes, too. But when I tried to seek you out after supper each of those days, you were nowhere to be found. And I am certain that this morning, before you ran off alone with your notebook, you pretended not to hear me calling you.”

The offended set to his mouth was a stark contrast to his habitual expression of mischievous glee and made him look older than his sixteen years. Even Pio’s clownish behavior for once did not bring a smile to his face. Instead, his glum expression as he laid forth his list of my perceived transgressions quite reflected my own unsettled mood.

Strange that we both should be downtrodden, I told myself, given the special circumstances of this particular day. Being that it was Sunday, we would have enjoyed a few hours of freedom after our obligatory appearance at Mass before returning to our usual duties in the afternoon. But the Master found himself with pressing business outside the castle and had announced an entire day’s holiday for his apprentices.

Still, our freedom would not be absolute. In return for this unexpected bounty, he had decreed that we were to use our time honing our craft in one way or another. This meant a day spent sketching or painting or else making detailed notes on any of the various techniques we had learned under his tutelage. But while we were on our honor to follow his wishes, none of us considered secretly sleeping or gambling away our day instead.

After all, any number of aspiring young painters was waiting in line for the opportunity to be apprenticed to the Duke of Milan’s master engineer and court artist, Leonardo the Florentine . . . the multitalented man of genius also known as Leonardo da Vinci.

Vittorio tossed Pio the cheese and, not waiting to be invited, dropped to the grass beside me. The hound placed insistent front paws on Vittorio’s knee and gave a polite bark to express his hope that additional food was to come. But even the enthusiastic wagging of his whiplike tail was not enough to return a smile to the young apprentice’s face. Instead, his frown deepened, and he sighed with great drama.

Retrieving my notebook, I brushed a bit of dried grass from its cover and suppressed a sigh of my own. I knew the boy would not be content to leave without hearing words of reassurance.

“I’m not mad at you, Vittorio, or at Pio,” I explained. “And I have not been avoiding you; at least, not purposely. It’s just that I—”

I hesitated, a dozen explanations rising to my lips, but none I could speak aloud. I could not tell the boy that my desire for solitude sprang from the tragedy of several months ago. Neither did I dare recount my memories of the events that, like some ghastly and unending feast day pageant, continued to play in my thoughts. For none of the apprentices knew of my prominent role in that heartrending event that had stunned even the most hardened of men at Castle Sforza.