A Bolt From the Blue (28 page)

And though all of us knew the import of our mission, it was to be expected that a band of young men could not remain somber for hours on end. Thus, we passed the time that first day with stories and riddles. We had but a few hours of sunlight to guide us, however, for our journey had begun well after noontide. We stopped when darkness made travel too difficult along the dark, rocky road.

As with my journey with Rebecca and Tito, we did not bother with a formal camp but sheltered beneath the wagons. We were fortunate this time in having Philippe take charge of our meals. One of the newer apprentices, he had spent time in the castle’s kitchens before joining Leonardo’s workshop. His stint there served us well, for he was as talented with a ladle as he was with a brush, conjuring tasty meals from the meanest of rations.

We resumed travel at dawn. That departure was accompanied by much lamentation from those youths unaccustomed to the wagon’s constant jostle through the day, followed by a night’s makeshift pallet upon the ground. As I had been one such youth but a few days earlier, I had taken pains to pad my chosen spot in the wagon with both cloak and jerkin. Thus, I was perhaps the only one of my fellows not nursing bruises upon his nether regions from the earlier ride.

Spirits lifted with the sun, however, and no one complained when the pace grew quicker. The one bad moment—at least, for some of us—came a few hours later when our convoy passed through the glade where Tito and Rebecca and I had confronted the bandit little more than a day before.

I turned in my seat to exchange wary glances with Tito in the wagon behind me. Although I had seen the rogue mercenary handily dispatched, I could not help but fear that another one might leap from the underbrush to take his place. From the look on Tito’s face, I surmised that he felt much the same. Ideal a spot as it had proved for an ambush, surely some other murderous fiend would eventually happen upon it and set up his own deadly business, as had his predecessor.

Equally unsettling was the knowledge that what the scavengers would have left of the dead man’s body still lay hidden but a short distance from us. Here in this place of murder, a chill seemed to hang over the road that had nothing to do with the canopy of trees blocking the noon sun. Indeed, I would not have been surprised to see the man’s shade—or that of one of his victims—rise from the same spot where he’d breathed his last.

“Fah, it smells like something died,” one of the other apprentices muttered.

That observation elicited much exaggerated pinching of nostrils and retching sounds from a few of his fellows. For myself, I swallowed back the bile that rose in my throat and gave thanks that Rebecca appeared to be sleeping and so not need be reminded of the cruel deed that had been forced upon her.

Despite my fears both rational and fanciful, we made our way unscathed through the glade and continued our journey. It was just before dusk when we reached the long band of forest that surrounded Castle Pontalba. At Leonardo’s direction, we drove the wagons off the road and into the trees some distance, so that our caravan would not draw undue attention should some traveler pass us by. He instructed us to silence, as well.

“Hold to your words as a miser clutches his coins, and speak with gentle tones if you can communicate in no other fashion. For now, surprise is the very essence of our plan, so that an intemperate call could mean our failure.”

By this time, my bones were weary with so much travel; still, I did not hesitate when the Master summoned Tito and me to follow after him. Moving upon feet silent as a wolf’s paws, we made our way to the forest’s edge for a closer look at the sprawling Castle Pontalba. At a signal from the Master, we halted at a spot behind where the tree line ended and dropped to our bellies, taking cover in the underbrush lest we be spotted.

“It appears that the Duke of Pontalba could use my architectural services,” was Leonardo’s first observation, the comment made in a wry undertone as he studied the fortress’s muddled lines.

The sharp angle of the sun’s dying light dealt harshly with the place, casting much of the castle and outbuildings into gloomy shadow well before the end of day. We were too far away to see if any guards manned the gatehouse, though the drawbridge still lay open in dubious welcome. I did spy what appeared to be at least two sentries patrolling the parapets. The Master glanced at his wrist clock, perhaps to coordinate the time of the patrols, before turning to me.

“Tell me all you recall about the castle’s interior, and where within its walls that you found Signor Angelo and my flying machine.”

I was quick to oblige. The flying machine was not to be seen from this angle, though I pointed out the spot on the slated roof where I’d found it. After another moment’s thought, I was able to identify the tower I’d climbed to reach the upper level where the duchess—and, later, my father—had been imprisoned. I also described the great hall and the men I’d seen there.

Leonardo listened intently and waited for Tito to give a brief description of the fortress grounds. When we’d both finished, he gave an approving look that encompassed Tito, as well as me.

“You have managed some fine reconnoitering,” he said, “and now we must put your intelligence to work. But first, we will set up camp and assemble our army.”

With the same care, we slipped from our hiding places and retraced our steps back to the wagons. By that time, the other apprentices under Davide’s direction had worked with silent efficiency to unload the wagons. Leonardo, appearing pleased at the progress, gathered his troops together for more instruction.

“We are fortunate,” he said, “in that we will have half a moon to work beneath, for we cannot risk any other light . . . and yet the night will not be so bright that we might be spotted from the castle’s parapets. So, let us divide into three teams so that I may make your assignments. As soon as darkness falls, we shall set a stage such as Pontalba has never before seen.”

We used the short respite to make a quick meal. I checked on Rebecca, who had roused from her slumber and appeared somewhat restored as she softly bantered with Vittorio.

“Make certain she takes the herbed wine and allows you to put salve upon her arm,” I reminded Novella in quiet tones. “And it is important that she rests tonight, lest we need to call upon her counsel tomorrow.”

Once darkness had settled firmly upon the forest, we began our work. Under Leonardo’s exacting direction, we moved with swift silence to set the canvases with their painted men-at-arms just behind the first line of trees at the forest’s edge. Arranged into several small squadrons, their wood frames were camouflaged by those props depicting boulders and various bits of greenery. Interspersed among the false army were the actual weapons we’d brought with us, lacking only ammunition to make them deadly.

The work took several hours, so that our labors did not end until well past midnight. Huddling together beneath our blankets, for the night had grown quite chill, we prepared for a few hours of fretful sleep.

“Do you think we shall be killed?” I overheard young Bernardo ask Tito in quiet, quavering tones not long after we’d settled in.

I did not catch the words that Tito said in response, but they seemed to satisfy the younger boy. Whatever his answer, I prayed that Tito was right. Though the Master had claimed that our role would be little more than a masquerade, I feared that the cunning Nicodemo lo Bianco might prove a more formidable foe than Leonardo anticipated.

Dawn rose upon a substantial-looking army poised at the forest’s edge . . . or, at least, that was how it was designed to appear from the vantage point of the duke’s castle. Leonardo had cleverly added further verisimilitude to the scene with a score of campfires, which he’d had lit as the sun eased past the horizon. Tended by one of the younger apprentices, their curling plumes of smoke hinted at a greater force camped behind that false front line. The Duke of Milan’s standard—a wily garden snake twisting across an azure field—was planted prominently beyond the last of the trees, proclaiming to all who might look which particular noble this army served.

But, clever as he was at pageantry, Leonardo knew that an unmoving illusion would soon be seen for what it was. Thus, the remainder of us apprentices had already donned our makeshift uniforms. Spreading ourselves wide among the painted forces, we milled about with purpose, adding needed motion to the static scene. And while we had been bidden to silence during the night, our conversation was now encouraged . . . taking care, as Leonardo reminded the younger ones of us, to keep our voices at a manly pitch.

It was not long after the first cock crowed that we heard a shout from atop the castle walls.

“Finally, they stir,” Leonardo murmured in satisfaction. “Let us see if our opening performance is convincing enough to for them to request the next act.”

From our concealment behind some of the painted backdrops, we watched as more soldiers gathered atop the battlemented walks, spreading themselves along that front. It was fully daylight, however, before we heard the familiar squeal and rumble that was the drawbridge dropping into place. A few minutes later, the immense wooden gate rose high enough to allow a small contingent of helmed and armed men on horseback to ride in tight formation from the castle.

“Aha, our subterfuge was convincing,” the Master observed in satisfaction as the half-dozen riders halted halfway between the castle walls and the forest’s edge. “It appears that they wish to parlay.”

He had already donned his gleaming helmet and breastplate and strapped his sword to his hip, assuming the role of captain of Il Moro’s guard. He started for the small clearing where Davide was harnessing the twin black steeds to the scythed chariot. Two of the draft horses had been pressed into service to play military mounts and waited, smartly blanketed and saddled, beside the chariot. Tommaso and Paolo had been similarly assigned martial roles and were dressed in matching helmets and breastplates slightly less ornate than those that Leonardo wore. They climbed atop their borrowed horses and, each balancing a tall staff that flew the Duke of Milan’s familiar serpentine coat of arms, awaited orders.

“Master,” I asked, barely able to hide the anxiety in my voice, “will you demand my father’s release first thing?”

“I will not tip our hand immediately,” he replied with a shake of his plumed head.

Frowning in the castle’s direction, he went on. “I shall begin by appealing to the Duke of Pontalba as an ally of Milan and let him think we wish his help in tracking down those responsible for the crime. He will have but two choices at that point . . . either claim ignorance of the matter or admit his culpability and offer me terms for the return of your father and my craft. I suspect that he will not relinquish either without a fight, but I hope our show of force will at least make him consider that option.”

“But what if that does not work?”

He glanced my way again and laid a comforting hand upon my shoulder. “Fear not, my boy. We shall retrieve your father, one way or the other.”

He motioned the other apprentices closer.

“Should I be able to talk myself past the castle gates,” he addressed us all, “I have instructed Davide how to maintain our illusion in my absence. Follow his orders as you would mine. You draftsmen are not to leave your posts unless Davide deems the situation too dangerous and calls a retreat. Most important, you are not to engage anyone from the castle unless on my express orders.”

We murmured our assent and stepped back as the Master climbed into his war machine. Paolo and Tommaso each put a heel to flank, setting their steeds toward the forest’s edge. Leonardo and his chariot followed after, the machine’s deadly blades keeping to their sheathed position until the trio broke out into the open.

I could almost hear the gasp from the opposing forces as soon as the chariot with its singing blades came into view. The sun was high enough so that it reflected off those whirling scythes with blinding radiance, the sight calling to mind Ezekiel’s fiery chariot. Had so small a force of men ever before stirred hearts to such awe? I wondered, eyes wide. Surely, in the face of Leonardo’s grand invention, Nicodemo would see the prudence of negotiation rather than war.

After what appeared to be a deliberately circuitous route—doubtless meant to allow everyone from the castle who was watching a good look at the magnificent machine he was driving—Leonardo and his two men halted before the duke’s contingent.

Of course, we could hear nothing from our vantage point at the forest’s edge. Neither could we see much of what was happening beyond a few broad gestures exchanged between the Master and the man who appeared to be Nicodemo’s spokesman. After but a few minutes’ conversation, however, Paolo and Tommaso abruptly wheeled their horses about.

“Why are they leaving the Master alone with the duke’s men?” Vittorio asked in some alarm as the pair began a brisk trot back toward us. “And, wait—he’s being captured!”

“He’s not captured,” Bernardo protested, his voice quavering. “They’re just taking him to the castle. Right, Dino?”

“No weapons are drawn,” I assured him with more confidence than I felt, “so I’m sure that is the case. But let us watch to see what happens.”

For, as we were speaking, we could see the soldiers splitting their ranks in two. Now three of the horses and riders made a wide circle around to the rear of the chariot. The other three soldiers remained in place and simply whirled their steeds about, leaving Leonardo and his scythed machine neatly positioned between the two groups of mounted men. At a signal from their leader, they began a measured trot back toward the castle . . . keeping, of course, a prudent distance between themselves and Leonardo’s whirling blades.

Tommaso and Paolo had returned by this time. Quickly dismounting from their horses, they hurried over to where the rest of us stood. Paolo raised his hand to stave off the questions we fired at him; then, plucking off his helmet, he addressed Davide while making sure that the rest of us could hear him.