A Bolt From the Blue (20 page)

“Good news, boys,” she softly declared as she hooked an arm around either of our necks, drawing us to her in the now-familiar embrace. “I cut a deal with the kitchen master. He’ll let us use the laundry shed and as much wood as we need for the fires. All he wants is a quarter of our profits, in return.”

“That sounds like a lot,” Tito protested as he tried to extricate himself.

Releasing her grip, the washerwoman shook her head. “He wanted half at first, but I made him see reason. So, boys, help me fill the pots and get the fires going, and then we’ll collect our laundry.”

“But what about the wagon?” I asked, my tone anxious. “Did you learn anything about it?”

“By Saint Jerome’s lion, you are an impatient one,” she replied with a shake of her head. “We’ll find that out as we gather the clothes. First things first.”

Retrieving the empty baskets, she sent Tito off to the stables with the mare and wagon. She and I began readying the kettles, each large enough to easily hold Tito and me both. There was water for boiling to be had from the cistern on the roof, so that filling the four vats—two for washing and two for rinsing—was an easy matter. By the time Tito rejoined us, we had fine blazes burning beneath each pot.

“With that much water, it’ll take some time to boil,” Rebecca reminded us. “Come on; let’s get some laundry.”

Carrying a basket between us—we would return for the second one once this one was full—we followed the washerwoman as she began her rounds. As before, Tito and I let Rebecca do all of the talking while he and I gathered the filthy bed linens and stained tunics. Her casual question as she bandied with each potential customer was the same: had they seen a large covered wagon carrying perhaps three men arrive at the castle earlier that morning?

“They about run me and my boys off the road, they was going so fast,” Rebecca would indignantly explain. “If they’re here, I want a word with them about frightening good people because they’re in a hurry. By the Virgin, we’ve got the same right to the road as them!”

At first, no one admitted to seeing any such men or wagon, and my spirits became as gloomy as Tito’s. For surely so large a conveyance would not pass unnoticed by the entire castle. But then, one of the pages—a smooth-cheeked boy in a pale blue tunic who was struggling beneath a small mountain of clothing collected from his fellows—nodded at her query.

“I saw a big wagon come into the castle this morning,” he agreed with a self-important air. “I couldn’t tell what they were hauling, though, because there was a cloth covering it.”

Then his eyes widened, and he stared at Rebecca in unfeigned alarm. “Pray, don’t say anything to them! It was the duke’s men driving the wagon. If you’re lucky, they’ll simply laugh at you. But if you make them angry, they could do worse! And if they find out I was the one who told you . . .”

He trailed off in misery, his fear of the soldiers obvious. I wondered in sudden anger of my own what cruel punishment these men had inflicted upon the servants of Castle Pontalba in the past. Then a shiver of trepidation swept me. If a mere page might suffer retaliation for so a minor a transgression, what might my father be enduring at their hands?

The washerwoman, meanwhile, gave the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I won’t say anything, child. And, besides, maybe it wasn’t even the same wagon as tried to run us down. Do you know where they took it, so I can have a look?”

The page bit his lip, his round face pale, and I feared for a moment he would refuse to answer. Then, reluctantly, he jerked his head in the direction of the barracks.

“They drove it back there,” he whispered. “And a while later, they took the wagon back to the stables. But it was empty by then.”

Tossing the remaining tunics in my direction, he turned on his heel and scampered back to the main building from which he’d come. While I gathered up the garments from the dirt, Rebecca tapped a thick finger to her lips in thought.

“Let’s get these clothes boiling,” she said with a kick of the basket, “and then we’ll visit the stables and the barracks.”

We made our swift way back to the shed, where she sorted the linens and tossed half into the first vat. While Tito used a large paddle to stir, Rebecca added to the boiling water a ladle of brown soap from the covered bucket she’d brought with her on the journey.

“A fine soup,” she said with a grin as the stained clothing swirled about in the pot. “We’ll let it simmer for a time while we tend to our other business.”

The empty basket between us, Tito and I followed the washerwoman to the stables. While she bartered with the stable master for the mare’s care and the cart’s storage overnight, the two of us slipped away for a look inside the stalls. Tito took one side of the long stone building and I, the other.

My search was the first to bear fruit.

“Here,” I softly called, peering excitedly over a low wall. Behind the stalls I’d discovered an open shed where half a dozen or more carts and wagons of various sizes were stored. One of them, in particular, had caught my eye. Not only was it far larger than the other conveyances, but a folded length of rough canvas had been left in its bed.

Tito rushed over to join me, his gaze following my pointing finger. He frowned and then shrugged.

“Come on; let’s take a closer look,” I urged and scrambled over the wall. Tito followed more slowly, so that I had already climbed into its bed by the time he reached the wagon.

“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded in a soft undertone. “The stable master might step in at any minute.”

“Then you must keep an eye out and warn me, for I am looking for clues.”

Though what clues there might be, I could not guess; still, I began scanning the wagon for something that might indicate that my father or Leonardo’s invention had been transported upon it. My diligence was rewarded when I spied a few familiar brown threads caught on the splintered bed. Plucking them carefully from the wood, I held them up to my own brown tunic.

“They’re the same,” I said in an excited whisper. “Look, Tito. Ever since he joined up with the Master, my father has been wearing the same work tunic as we apprentices wear. He must have lain on the wagon beneath the canvas with the flying machine and snagged his clothes on a splinter.”

“Let me see.” Tito drew closer and viewed my find with a skeptical look. “I’m not so sure,” he repeated. “Brown cloth is common enough, you know.”

“Perhaps. But what of this?”

Nimbly, I hopped from the wagon bed and stepped off the distance between the two rear wheels.

“—Seven, eight. There, that matches the spacing of the wheel marks we found in the Master’s shed. Add that to the canvas that could have been used to cover the wagon, and the brown threads that match our tunics, and surely we can be certain that this is the wagon in question.”

“Dino, you sound almost like Master Leonardo,” he said in an admiring tone. “Very well, you have convinced me. But now that we know where the wagon is, we must find out where its cargo has gone. Quickly, before we are spotted.”

We hurried to rejoin Rebecca, who was keeping the stable master entertained with her ribald jests.

“Ah, there are my fine young sons,” she declared, pausing to give us fond maternal smiles. “Handsome fellows, ain’t they?” she said to the stable master, adding with a wink, “Course, they look like their sires and not me.”

While the man left to gather his linens, I gave Rebecca a quick, whispered account of what I’d seen.

“Seems likely,” she agreed when I’d finished. “Let’s see what the barracks have to offer.”

A few minutes later, we were carrying a basket of linen redolent of the stables. Our destination was the oddly out-of-place structure I’d noted earlier. Hunkered up against the main wall, it bore a resemblance to the barracks of Il Moro’s men with its series of alcove entries.

I frowned. Perhaps there was room enough within one of those chambers to store the flying machine while still in pieces. Fully assembled, however, its wingspan would surely be too broad to be contained within those walls. And even if it could fit, none of the doors was wide enough to accommodate it being rolled out again.

Discouraged, I said as much to Tito and Rebecca. Tito merely shrugged, while the washerwoman tapped her lips with her blunt finger once more.

“But this is where the page said he saw the wagon halt,” she said in a considering tone. “Maybe they unloaded here and then carried the pieces wherever they needed to go.”

“But why do that? If they were trying to be inconspicuous, surely it would have made more sense to drive the wagon to the exact spot. Unless . . .”

I paused and eyed the nearby tower as an idea took form. From what the Master had told us of his design, the finished machine would have to be launched from a spot where it could catch the wind and gain height. Save for the slight rise on which the castle sat, the surrounding countryside in Pontalba was relatively flat. The only spot to offer any altitude was—

“The roof,” I softly cried. “See how it has many slopes and flat areas all along the top of the castle? They must have carried all the pieces of the flying machine up the tower steps and to a flat section somewhere behind the battlements where they could be put together.”

Tito nodded vigorously at first, but then his expression fell. “Wait, Dino. I’ve been in towers like that before, and the stairways all twist like corkscrews. The pieces of the flying machine are too long to ever wrap around those curves. How could they carry them up there?”

At his words, my own enthusiasm promptly faltered. I’d also been inside such towers before, and I feared that Tito was right. Some of those structures were built with but a narrow spiral of iron steps in their centers, with the opening at the landing above barely large enough for a man to pass through. Others had staircases of stone that wrapped along the inner walls, but the narrow steps did not easily accommodate more than one man abreast. Either way, it
would
be almost impossible to carry the flying machine up beyond the battlements.

Rebecca, however, was not prepared to concede defeat. Frowning, she studied the upper reaches of the castle with a scholar’s intent look. A moment later, a smile spread across her round face.

“Maybe they didn’t have to carry the pieces to get them up on the roof,” she declared and pointed.

We followed her gaze upward until we saw what she had seen . . . a pair of ropes dangling from the battlements directly above us. With a few men above and a few below, it would be relatively simple to use the ropes to haul the body and wings of the flying machine straight up!

“I must get up there,” I said with a determined jerk of my chin. “If the flying machine is on the roof, then surely my father must be somewhere near the craft. Perhaps even now he is working on it.”

“Not so fast, my boy,” the washerwoman protested, gripping my arm in one beefy hand lest I suddenly flee. “Remember what we said about finding you a tunic? Come.”

She gestured us toward the heavy basket and then started at a brisk pace back toward the shed. Tito made a rude sound of protest, and I was hard-pressed not to follow suit. By this point, I was beginning to feel like Rebecca’s brown mare, with all the hauling back and forth of baskets. But our masquerade had thus far yielded promising results, so I bit back any complaint and swiftly shouldered my portion of the burden.

Rebecca was already sorting through the remaining pile of tunics by the time we had reached the laundry shed. Plucking forth one with the fewest stains upon it, she tossed it in my direction. “This should fit. Quickly, put it on.”

Removing my belt, I pulled the pale blue tunic over my own brown garb and then retied the strip of leather about my waist. Wrinkling my nose at the smell of someone else’s sweat, I turned in a circle to model my disguise.

“Very good,” the washerwoman approved. Then she frowned. “I don’t mind saying, I’m a bit nervous letting you wander a strange castle by yourself. If you’re found out, and someone suspects what we’re about, it could go bad for all of us . . . Signor Angelo, included.”

“The duke might toss us all into his dungeon,” Tito darkly predicted. “Maybe I should go in your stead. I’m older, and—”

“No! Signor Angelo is my father, and I shall discover where they are hiding him. Besides”—I hesitated, glancing from one to the other of them—“if you or Rebecca found him first, he might refuse to go with you. He might fear that you are in league with the duke and that it is a trick.”

Tito assumed a faintly offended expression at this last, but Rebecca pursed her lips and nodded.

“That is true. It is not impossible that the Duke of Pontalba has spies at Castle Sforza. There was the boy who tricked Tito and the figure that you, Dino, say you saw more than once. There might be others, as well.”

Then she straightened the tunic on my shoulders and gave me a maternal pat. “Your sire would be proud of your bravery. Go, but be careful. And if you’re caught, pretend to be simple and tell them that your mother sent you looking for more laundry, and you got lost.”

“Ha, that should be an easy role for Dino,” Tito muttered, but his amiable smirk took the sting from his words. Then, after reaching behind one of the pots, he plucked my cap from my head and plopped another one in its place.

“Here. I grabbed this off that page’s head while he was busy sniveling about the duke’s men.”

Though a bit surprised at his callous attitude toward the frightened boy, I was pleased by his foresight in completing my disguise. Surely no one would have cause to question me should they see me wandering about the castle.

“I’ll be back soon,” I promised as I straightened the cap. “And I vow I will have news of both my father and the flying machine by the time I return.”

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