A Bolt From the Blue (21 page)

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Arundel

 

 

 

 

 

A
nother bit of wisdom I had learned while conducting similar clandestine activities for the Master was that, if one carried some mundane object and walked with brisk purpose, one was seldom stopped or questioned by those in charge. Thus, I slipped into the main castle wearing my borrowed tunic and cap and bearing a small armful of folded table linens.

Had I been staring down from the vantage point of the clouds, I would have seen myself standing within the bottom portion of the U that formed the castle’s main structure. I had entered the great hall, which stretched before me . . . dark and bleak and redolent with the smell of sweat and burned meat and woodsmoke. What little natural light there was came from the archer’s windows along the front wall. Their purpose defensive rather than ornamental, those wedge-shaped windows narrowed from a recess large enough for a man to stand within to a mere sliver of an opening. The few stripes of sunlight they allowed in were mirrored by the remains of the previous night’s blaze smoldering in the immense fi replace along the distant rear wall. Not surprisingly, the hall was empty, given that it would be several hours before the evening meal was served.

My footsteps rang loud upon the stone floor as I ventured a bit farther in, for only a scattering of reeds and no fine carpets had been put down to dampen the sound. A substantial trestle table lay directly before the broad stone hearth. A single matching chair, intricately carved and large enough for two men, was positioned behind it. I had no doubt this seat belonged to Nicodemo. Other tables and benches were arranged so as to leave a wide aisle from that main table, giving the duke a clear line of sight to the door.

Glancing to either side, I saw several threadbare tapestries hanging from the walls on ornate iron rods. Each woven work depicted gruesome scenes of hunted beasts, and none of them added any real cheer. Alternating with the tapestries on one wall was a series of alcoves. These presumably led to a single hallway that ran parallel to that wall, and where the servants might discreetly enter and exit . . . perhaps where a musician might be hidden away.

My tentative steps caused the large black hound sprawled upon a pile of dried reeds in the corner to lift its nose from its paws. From the aggressive tilt of its broad head, it appeared to be debating between the pleasure of confronting an intruder and the comfort of remaining snugly in its nest. The latter choice won out, for the hound contented itself with a half-hearted woof before sighing back into canine slumber.

Relieved, I started toward the adjoining chamber. My goal for the moment was to make my way up to the battlements above the barracks and discover if the flying machine was there upon the roof. I dared not try to reach the top by means of the tower that was part of the soldiers’ quarters, lest I encounter the duke’s men. But if I could find another way to access the roof, I could surely reach that particular spot, for all the upper walkways would be interconnected.

I passed several servants as I traversed the lower level, but none questioned me or paid me more than a glance. Keeping a keen eye out for a passage leading to a stairway, I decided to follow one of the older pages who was wandering a bit apace of me. He disappeared into an alcove, which turned out to conceal the hoped-for course . . . a narrow stone staircase. I waited at its foot long enough to be sure I would not stumble across him at the landing above before making my way up.

The staircase led to an open chamber that appeared to be the dividing point between two separate wings. I knew that I was unlikely to stumble across the duke here, for I had learned from Rebecca’s conversation with his servants that his personal chambers lay in the right arm of the U. I assumed that, as with Il Moro’s private residence within Castle Sforza, the Duke of Pontalba’s rooms were secured from the rest, allowing him greater refuge should the castle ever be successfully stormed.

Tucking my linens beneath my arm, I went to the nearest window and leaned out to get my bearings. This high up, the windows were broader than those at ground level, so that I could comfortably sit upon the sill. But they did not overlook the outer wall and give a view of the open field beyond the main gate and guard towers. Rather, their view was that of into the inner castle grounds, and of the smaller towers and turrets not visible from the front.

Clutching the stone edges to stave off the sudden dizziness that threatened, I gingerly leaned out a bit farther. I could glimpse to my left a curl of smoke and the corner of the shed where Rebecca and Tito were doing the laundry. The barracks lay on the opposite side of the castle, the same side where the duke was housed. That was where I needed to be.

Aware that time was passing, I turned to the south wing, slipping past the first door. The next series of rooms were far smaller than those on the floor below, consisting of salons and apartments reserved for guests. Some opened into one another; others were connected by short halls. As with much of the rest of the castle, several of the rooms appeared to have been added as afterthoughts, portioned out of larger chambers.

Midway through, I startled a young porter and serving girl who were attempting a hasty coupling in one of the toilets. An odorous alcove set into the outer wall, it boasted nothing more than a slit of a window for ventilation and an open stone seat built over the cesspit far below. It was hardly a spot conducive to romance, though it likely afforded more privacy than the pair would know in their own quarters.

Muttering a hasty apology, I ducked out of that niche as quickly as I had entered and, their curses ringing in my ears, continued with my search.

Another alcove led to yet another staircase, this one consisting of rough stone steps that led upward in a spiral to a broad wooden hatch set into in the ceiling. My excitement grew, along with my trepidation. Surely I was getting closer to my goal.

Leaving the linens behind, I started up the first step, trying to ignore the sudden light-headedness that threatened. While I had never cared much for heights, my fearful adventures within the towers of Castle Sforza a few months earlier had intensified that dislike. Thus, the open design of this crude stairway was sufficient to set my heart beating far faster than its usual rhythm. Telling myself not to look down, I clutched at the wall for support and grimly continued my climb.

Sweat beaded my upper lip by the time I reached the top.

With an effort, I schooled my uneven breath and gave an experimental push upon the hatch, noting as I did so the heavy iron loops set into both that wood and the stone around it. A pair of iron bars could easily be slipped through those circles, making the hatch almost impossible to open from above should an enemy threaten. But for now, it swung upward with but a small squeal and landed with a muffled thud.

Aware that I had announced my presence should anyone be up there, I hesitated a long moment before taking the final steps to the level above.

To my relief, none of Nicodemo’s men came bearing down upon me, swords drawn and ready for capture. Instead, I found myself alone at what was best described as a crossroads between two open doorways. Those doorways were situated at right angles, with each leading to a narrow passage.

The stone walls directly behind me were part of the outer fortifications, for they were notched with the familiar archer’s windows. I squinted through one and glimpsed a bit of the forest through which we had driven earlier this day. I could see little more than chiseled rock by looking up, but I judged that I was right below the battlements. Heading to my right would put me above the barracks.

Still, I remained where I was for a moment, studying that passage in question. Opposite each window was an arched doorway, the wood fortified by iron strips and solid save for a gap at eye level that would allow someone to peer inside. On closer look, I saw that heavy locks hung from each latch.

At the realization, my heart began pounding as fiercely as if I were balanced on that open stairway again. I took a deep breath, seeking calm. Perhaps those doors merely led to a series of storage rooms secured by a jealous lord against possible theft, I told myself.

Or perhaps one of those doors concealed something else that the Duke of Pontalba did not want discovered . . . such as the kidnapped man whom he believed to be his ally’s master engineer, Leonardo the Florentine.

Moving as silently as Pio the hound, I eased my way to the first door and peered through the slot. Another archer’s window within allowed sufficient light into the small chamber for me to make out wooden boxes and barrels piled high. Arms, perhaps? Or grain and other supplies stockpiled in case of an attack? No matter; so many varied containers filled the room that no space remained for a prisoner.

With the same soft steps, I made my way to the next chamber and gazed through the slot. Similar to the first room, this one held rows of crates and piles of bulging cloth sacks. The next room contained much the same, as did the two after. Discouraged, I was prepared to give the final room but a cursory glance.

And then I saw that, unlike the rest, this chamber was empty save for a crude bed that had been placed beneath the archer’s window.

Hardly daring to breathe, I squinted against the mixture of sunlight and shadows that filled the small space. Was that a figure wrapped in the tangle of blankets that covered this cot? I waited a seeming eternity for some sign of movement; then, deciding I must risk a sound lest by waiting I be discovered, I softly called, “Father?”

The blankets stirred, and it was all I could do not to dance in place as I waited in anticipation for a glimpse of my sire’s face. “Father,” I whispered again, impatience overriding prudence. “Father, is that you?”

The blanketed figure rolled from the cot and lurched to a standing position, wavering there a moment before staggering toward me. My moment of relief promptly transformed into a jolt of alarm. Was he ill . . . or perhaps injured? For any number of hardships might have befallen him in the short time that he’d been in the soldiers’ custody.

As the figure drew closer, I frowned. My father was taller and broader than the swathed person standing beyond the door. Did the Duke of Pontalba perhaps have yet another prisoner under his control? But before I could question this unknown person further, small hands reached up to tug aside the blanket, revealing the face beneath.

I blinked. This certainly was not my father; moreover, this was no man locked within the chamber. Rather, the pale, pinched features and dull brown eyes belonged to a young woman!

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice so thin that I had to strain to hear. “Has the duke repented of his cruelty so that I might be released?”

The blanket had slipped to her shoulders, and I glimpsed a flash of fine silk gown in the deepest of blues. Her outer sleeves were fashionably slit so that her white chemise should have puffed with artful flair between those ribbons of azure fabric. But even in the dim light, I could see that the chemise was gray with dirt and the buoyant puffs flaccid. Her black hair—which must have once been braided with ribbons and twisted into a sleek, elaborate crown—hung untidily down her back.

She was no servant girl, I realized in surprise; moreover, she looked vaguely familiar. With a gasp, I cried, “Are you the Duke of Milan’s cousin, the one sent to Pontalba as a bride?”

She stared uncomprehendingly for a moment before managing a small nod. “I am Marianna, Duchess of Pontalba . . . much to my eternal grief.”

A tear trickled down one slack cheek, leaving behind a shiny trail, but otherwise she displayed no emotion. For myself, I could do nothing but gape in disbelief.

Though I had never spoken to her, I had encountered this one of Ludovico Sforza’s many young relatives while in my guise as the Contessa Caterina’s maidservant. A cousin to Caterina, as well, the plump Marianna had appeared a flighty girl prone to petulance; still, I had heard that she treated her servants with kindness. Following Caterina’s tragic death, Il Moro had chosen her as a substitute wife to seal his alliance with his new ally, Nicodemo lo Bianco, the Duke of Pontalba. Whether or not Marianna had welcomed that honor, I did not know.

But seeing the girl’s treatment at the duke’s hands, I was abruptly grateful that the delicate and lovely Caterina had not lived to be the bride of that brutal man.

Though knowing the futility of the gesture, I still gave the lock on her door several frantic tugs. The heavy metal mechanism did not budge. Had Leonardo been there, he might have cleverly used a bit of wire to serve as a substitute key. Lacking both the Master’s skill and a piece of wire, I could only rattle the lock in frustration.

“Your Eminence,” I started to address her, to have her cut me short with a wave of one pale hand.

“Pray, do not address me as such, for I would take nothing of his, especially not his titles. I am Marianna.”

“Very well, M-Marianna,” I began again, stumbling a little at the informality of that address. “The lock holds tightly, I fear. I will have to find a key.”

“The guards have the keys. Have you come to free me?” she asked, though with no note of hope in her voice. “Who are you?”

“My name is Delfina,” I replied, deliberately using my true name as I knew she could see nothing of me but my face. In her distraught state, chances were she would be more likely to trust another female than she would a boy.

“I’m a friend to the great master Leonardo at the court of the Duke of Milan,” I went on. “Once, I was a servant to the Contessa Caterina. I am searching for my father, whom I fear is imprisoned by the duke, as well.”

“Milan?”

That single word seemed to penetrate her hazy mind, and she stared at me, eyes widening. “Please, you must take word of my plight to my cousin Ludovico, so that he can rescue me!”