A Bolt From the Blue (19 page)

Of course, the open field also meant that the castle’s sentries would see our approach well in advance of our arrival at the castle gates.

The washerwoman halted the cart before we reached the final row of trees. She hopped down from her seat and signaled us to join her.

“Act like you’re checking out the mare and cart, in case they can see us from here,” she instructed in a soft voice as she made a show of inspecting the harnesses.

I nodded and bent to examine one of the cart wheels, well impressed with her tactical knowledge. Emulating her low tone—I knew from working with the Master the strange ways that voices sometimes traveled—I asked, “Do we wait for nightfall and try to scale the walls?”

“What, and risk falling in the dark?”

This came from Tito, who was scrutinizing the mare’s hooves. He straightened and shook his head. “Besides, it would be hard enough to find your way around the place in the daytime. At night, knowing nothing of the castle’s floor plan, it will be nigh impossible.”

“Tito’s right,” the washerwoman replied. “That’s why we’re going to ride right up to the gate and ask to be let in.”

“But how will we convince the guards to open the gate?” I wanted to know.

Rebecca jerked a beefy thumb toward the baskets in the bed of the cart. “We’ll offer to do their laundry, that’s how.”

“You mean, wash clothes?”

The choked question came from Tito, a look of horror settling on his face at the prospect. Rebecca shook her head and gave him a gentle smile, though the gaze she fi xed upon him held more than a hint of steel.

“Don’t worry, my young apprentice, such work is far too undignified for a fine gentleman like you. No, I’ll tell them you two are my sons and that I need you to gather up the linens and load them in the wagon for me. I’ll do all the washing.”

“But what about my father?” I broke in. “When will we search for him?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said with a careless wave of one chapped hand. “While we’re gathering up the laundry, we’ll grab a tunic for you from one of the pages. Put it on, and you can wander about the castle with no questions asked.”

“What about me? Do I get a tunic?” Tito wanted to know.

The washerwoman shook her head. “I’ll need you to help sort the clothes. Besides, it’s Dino’s father we’re searching for, so his son should do the looking.”

The familiar mutinous look flashed over Tito’s face. Then he seemingly thought the better of whatever protests he had and simply nodded. “You’re right; it should be Dino. And I can cause a distraction if someone takes note of him.”

The washerwoman’s expression was approving as she gave him a nod. Shrugging, she added, “But it’s a big castle. You’d best let me nose around first and see if anyone knows anything.”

At that, she gestured us back onto the wagon and urged the mare forward.

“How do you know so much about strategy?” I wondered in a respectful voice as we began rolling toward the clearing.

Rebecca flashed her bawdy grin at me. “Comes of bedding lots of soldiers, I guess.”

I heard Tito’s snicker behind me, but I contented myself with an absent nod. We had reached the clearing, and Castle Pontalba was coming into full view, distracting me from any further ribaldry.

My first thought was to acknowledge where the name of the small province must have originated. Ahead of us rose a broad hillock strewn with tiny white flowers, so that it appeared at first glance to be dusted with a light snowfall. Though surely this was a phenomenon that occurred only in the spring months, the periodic sight would capture the fancy of all but the most hardened of men. Whether or not the remainder of the Pontalba lands possessed such charm, I could not guess, but the parcel upon which the stronghold was built deserved its evocative name.

Less charming was the castle itself, which crouched like a malevolent toad atop that scenic rise.

Squat and gray, it rose gracelessly from the blanket of white flowers, commanding in its breadth if not its height. I guessed its age to be far older than the starkly elegant castle at Milan. Even at a distance, I could see that part of the outer wall was crumbling, and at least one tower was in sore need of repair.

I suppressed a reflexive shiver. Once, this castle might have been a proud fortress, but that would have been several generations ago. Each subsequent duke doubtless had modified the original symmetrical design to his own liking, adding a turret here and another storehouse or barracks there. The result was an untidy sprawl that bulged at the seams of the surrounding wall and gave the appearance of a round of bread dough that had slipped to one side of the cooking stone.

Still, nothing of this scenario should have been threatening. I would have shrugged aside my sense of disquiet, had I not known why we were searching out the Duke of Pontalba. The man was guilty of theft and kidnapping and—at least, indirectly—murder. I did not think myself too fanciful to believe that the brazenly careless neglect of the castle reflected the similar shortcoming in the soul of the castle’s owner, as well.

By now, we had reached the foot of the long rocky slope that led to drawbridge and twin gatehouses. Once past that point, and with the bridge raised for the night, we would be trapped within those rugged walls. Thus, any rescue and escape would have to occur in the bold light of day.

I dared not guess how we might accomplish such a thing. Instead, I wondered how my father had felt as he’d been driven up this ramp and into the castle. Surely, he’d been bound—perhaps blindfolded and gagged—and doubtless hidden beneath the same canvas as the flying machine. Did he know where he was? And did his captors yet realize that he was not Leonardo the Florentine . . . or did he have them convinced he was the same genius who had invented that craft?

I could only pray that he had; otherwise, his life might well be forfeit.

Two craggy-faced guards started toward us, staves at the ready and their attitude one of distrust. “Keep still, boys,” Rebecca muttered, putting a hand on my knee as I gave a reflexive shudder. “And don’t worry. If I can’t get us past these fine-looking fellows with a few sweet words, I’ll let you strap me to Signor Leonardo’s flying machine and send me sailing off the top of this here castle!”

13

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Manuscript E

 

 

 

 

 

O
nce again, Rebecca proved that a glib tongue and bawdy manner were as effective as a pretty face in winning over certain of the male species. Within a few minutes, she had determined that the castle’s occupants were in need of a washerwoman’s services. Not only had the guards agreed that she might solicit business, but they had turned over their own extra tunics to be laundered.

“I’ll get them so clean you won’t recognize them,” she gleefully assured them before whipping up the mare again.

She had been pleased to learn from the guards that a laundry shed with immense kettles for boiling and rinsing clothing was already set up on the grounds. This meant we would not have to haul all the clothing outside the castle walls and find a stream where she could do the washing, and then carry it back again when we were finished. More important, it gave us an excuse to remain upon the castle grounds for several hours without being questioned.

“But if we start doing laundry, we’ll be stuck here at the castle for the whole of the night,” she warned us. “We won’t be able to leave the job half-finished, not without stirring up suspicion. And they’ll raise the drawbridge come dusk, so we can’t sneak out in the middle of the night. That means that even if we find Signor Angelo, we won’t be able do anything about it until morning.”

When we nodded our solemn understanding, she added, “Of course, I’ll have to bargain with the kitchen master for the water and the fuel for the fire. If he’s like the rest of them, he’ll want a few soldi for that privilege.”

The laundry shed—a simple structure open on three sides and built atop a stone floor—was to be found not far from the kitchens. Rebecca hopped down from her seat to negotiate with the kitchen master, leaving Tito and me behind to watch the mare and cart. Although my eagerness to begin my search threatened to burst from me like a flushed quail from the grass, I schooled myself to patience and took stock of my surroundings.

My first thought was that the castle grounds bustled with surprising activity, for all that the walled fortress had appeared from the outside to be but a remnant of some past provincial glory. Indeed, the castle appeared well staffed with servants and artisans, a few of whom nodded our way as they trudged past. Most of these folk would live in the small wooden houses inside the main walls; others likely resided in the scattering of humble dirt and stone structures at the foot of the castle’s outer walls. Of nobles and merchants, however, I saw none.

Satisfied, I turned my attention to the physical layout of the grounds. Here within the walls of Castle Pontalba, the haphazard layout was even more apparent. My artist’s eye wept over the visual discord, one part of me yearning to sketch the fortress as it should have appeared: proud, unyielding, and—most important—symmetrical. But, sadly, no artist had lent a hand to the castle’s ultimate blueprint.

Outbuildings were scattered with no obvious design. Several appeared long abandoned, their wooden roofs caved in and walls little more than stacks of rubble. As for the main structure of the castle, I could see that it had once been U-shaped. But another wing constructed of a paler and more smoothly textured stone—another barracks, I judged from its construction—had been added to the castle’s far side in obvious afterthought. Towers lodged at each of the castle’s four corners, though the one closest to us had partially collapsed into itself. The resulting effect called to mind a finger that had made unfortunate acquaintance with an axe.

Adding to the disharmony, even the surrounding grounds reflected a careless lack of design. Unlike Castle Sforza, with its manicured quadrangle and symmetrical walks, this castle boasted no expanse of green lawn; neither did it lay claim to any carefully tended gardens or shaded porticos. A few patches of green, no doubt growing simply by mistake, were the only flora to relieve the starkness of the hard-packed earth.

But architecture was not my main concern. I craned my neck for a better look at the walls. High above, a few of the duke’s soldiers patrolled the maze of battlemented walks. They would pay those already within the walls little mind, I was certain, for their concern was with what occurred beyond the castle. Thus, our risk of discovery would be here on the ground.

Even so, I was not as nervous as I might have been at the prospect. In previously assisting the Master with solving other heinous crimes, I’d wandered Il Moro’s castle with impunity while disguised as one or another of the household staff. I’d thus come to realize that if one were dressed as a servant and kept a properly humble attitude, very few people would question one’s comings and goings.

What unsettled me was the fact that, given the untidy sprawl that was Castle Pontalba, my father and the flying machine could be hidden anywhere. And I had to suppose that the inner chambers would be as tangled a skein as the castle’s outer plan. Not knowing my way about, once I began my search, I could readily become lost within the fortress’s belly.

I thought to share my worries with Tito, but he looked more absorbed by the pair of comely kitchen maids who were struggling their way past with a bulging sack of grain. They could see little of him, however, for he had pulled his cap low on his forehead and pulled his cloak high enough so that it swaddled his chin.

“My disguise,” he had whispered by way of explanation while Rebecca had gossiped with the guards. “Those three men who took the flying machine got a good look at me that night. If they recognize me here, they’ll know we’re after them.”

I’d not considered that possibility and was grateful that he’d had the foresight to take precautions. But now, I needed his counsel. Only when I gave him a swat with my cap, however, did he tear his attention from the girls to me.

“Tito, where should I start looking for my father?” I softly asked. “Look at this place. He could be anywhere.”

“Or he could be nowhere,” Tito replied, what little I could see of his expression gloomy again, now that he no longer had the girls to ogle. “Remember, we don’t even know if those men brought him and the wagon here.”

“But we must go on that assumption. Besides, Rebecca will find out something. You saw how easily she handled the guards at the gate.”

“Pah, I could have gotten us past them,” Tito replied. Then, with a shrug, he added, “Don’t forget that the Master had the flying machine stored in an old shed. That’s where I’d look first, anyhow.”

I did not get a chance to reply, for Rebecca reappeared, a broad smile upon her face. She gestured us to jump down from the cart and join her.