A Bolt From the Blue (8 page)

Above me and clinging to the rough stone walls were the same twisted olive trees in whose limbs Tommaso and I had hidden that memorable night, watching for the assassin. No longer draped in shadows, they bent quite benignly over the garden, gaps in their branches allowing a cheerful dappling of sunlight to brighten the ground beneath. Nearby was the familiar pair of turf seats, cleverly formed from packed dirt and covered by a velvety layer of grass to create a bench where people could take their ease. Spreading palms swayed in all four corners, while a series of informal flower beds made for bright isles of blooms amid the lush green sea of grass.

I paused at the tiny reflecting pool, a low stone trough filled with pink and yellow water lilies into which trickled a steady stream from a hidden pipe. Not far from it in the lawn protruded the flat boulder where a mysterious figure had rested that same dark night that Tommaso and I had stood guard. Now, however, Leonardo had opened his leather sack upon the granite’s smooth surface and was neatly arranging what appeared to be a dozen or so wood dowels as long as my arm.

He gestured me to join him. “Come, Dino; set the craft here while I arrange our test area.”

In a matter of moments, he had fastened the dowels together to form two poles a little taller than he. With my father’s assistance, they settled both into the ground so that they stood half the width of the garden apart from each other. Between them he strung a tight wire. Then, retrieving the model from its wrappings, he tied one end of a long leather cord to that small craft and looped the other end around the wire. The result was that the flying machine dangled at about chest height from the line.

“Come; we shall begin our tests.”

With those words, Leonardo took up another dowel almost as thick as my finger. Using it as a crank, he manipulated the wooden figure atop the model so that its legs moved in a pumping motion, causing the craft’s wings to move up and down. Even that small demonstration left me impressed, so that I was eager to see more.

For the next hour, he and my father took turns with the model. One would run alongside it while cranking away at the wooden man, so that the craft made wobbly progress along its prescribed path; the other would call out observations. While the resulting motion appeared more like that of a startled bat abandoned to the daylight than an eagle’s smooth glide, after a few adjustments the model did undeniably fly!

Of course, they were not content with this performance. Each time the machine moved back and forth along the line, the men continued to tweak its angles and pitch. Sometimes, the Master would pause to grab up his notebook and make a note or a sketch. For my part, I stood to one side, handing either man the tools they needed and generally staying out of the way. But, watching their progress, my certainty increased that a functional, man-sized version of the craft was possible.

Half of the morning had passed before the garden—again and perhaps inexorably—became a scene of a new tragedy. The disturbance began outside its crumbling walls, however. So intent were all of us on our work that it took a moment for the cries to register upon our ears.

“Master, Master!” a frantic voice was calling, the words faint yet growing louder with every repetition.

My heart gave a lurch at the sound. Surely it must be one of my fellow apprentices crying for help, I told myself, or the shout would have been a summons for Signor Leonardo, instead.

Leonardo dropped his notebook and, my father and I on his heels, rushed to the barred gate. He unfastened the catch with haste and threw it open. No one stood outside it, however. Frantically, we abandoned that tack and scanned the garden, looking for the source of that frightened sound.

“There!” I cried, my attention caught by a movement atop the wall.

It was at the very spot where Tommaso and I had scaled the stone barrier to hide within the olive trees’ twisted branches. The climb had been slow and more than a bit painful, the rough stones scraping bare flesh and tearing at trunk hose and tunic. Still, anyone agile enough—certainly, any of the apprentices—could make the ascent.

I glimpsed a familiar brown tunic over green trunk hose as a youth scaled the wall and balanced atop it. I could not make out his face for the tangle of branches blocking my view, but it was certainly one of my fellows. He stood unmoving for an instant; then, with a sharp cry of pain, his body jerked.

I gave an answering cry as I watched him sway there for what seemed a lifetime, though it would have been but the space of a few heartbeats. Finally, with an uncertain flapping of his arms that uncannily resembled the motion of the flying machine, the youth tumbled from the wall to land in a heap at the foot of the olive tree.

As one, we rushed toward him.

Leonardo reached him first, carefully gathering him into his arms. As he did so, I saw that a bloody stain was rapidly spreading down the back of the youth’s tunic. And, to my horror, I glimpsed something that resembled a small arrow lodged between his shoulder blades. The youth stirred restlessly in Leonardo’s arms, and I heard a final breathless gasp.

“Master,” he managed once more, and sagged into stillness.

His head lolled toward me, so that I had my first glimpse of his face. At the sight, I dropped to my knees as if struck, frantically wishing I could scrub the image from my mind but unable to tear my gaze from the waxen features of my friend.

Vaguely, I was aware of my father kneeling beside me and placing one hand protectively upon my shoulder. Softly, he asked, “Do you know this boy?”

“Y-yes,” I choked out, the word rough with tears that I did not bother to hide. “He is our senior apprentice, Constantin.”

I stared down at Constantin’s white face, his half-open eyes staring sightlessly over my shoulder, and did not need to ask if he was dead. Still, disbelief filled my heart. How could he be alive one moment and his life cruelly snuffed in the next? Surely it was not possible!

Leonardo was the fi rst to stir from the momentary paralysis that gripped us.

“Quickly, we must run the assailant to ground. The murder weapon was a crossbow, which means the killer likely was near the garden wall when he shot Constantin. There is still a chance we may catch him fleeing his crime!”

Barely had the words left Leonardo’s lips than my father was sprinting toward the open gate with a speed I never knew he possessed. I scrambled to my feet and rushed after him, my own feet hardly touching the ground in my haste.

It occurred to me as I ran that perhaps I should be fearful. Constantin’s murderer would have had time to span his crossbow with a new bolt and could easily fire upon me or my father once he saw us in pursuit. But any fright I might have felt at my own potential danger was consumed by the righteous fury that seemed to roar through my veins.

I burst past the garden’s gate to see that the quadrangle before me bustled with court activity, as usual. Panting while my ribs struggled against my confining undergarment, I halted for a sweeping glance across the expanse of green lawn, looking for a man in flight. The only one moving at a rapid pace, however, was my father. He was headed toward the main gate but in pursuit of no one in particular, though several people had stopped in their tracks to stare after him. I gave a despairing little groan. Had the killer already escaped us?

Or was he instead strolling about in plain sight among the servants and nobles, his deadly crossbow hidden beneath a cape or tucked into a sack?

I allowed myself a swift, grim nod. He could not have fled so quickly, not without drawing attention to himself, as my father unwittingly had proved. Thus, he had either slipped into an outbuilding or else was masquerading as one going about his everyday business.

“He must still be upon the grounds,” Leonardo echoed my thoughts, appearing at my side. His gaze swept the grounds with its intersecting graveled paths, just as mine had.

“We will leave your father to question the guards at the gate,” came his swift decree, “while you and I keep our search to the quadrangle and the outbuildings.”

“B-but what of Constantin?” I choked out, for I’d not thought the Master would abandon the dead youth. “We cannot leave him unattended in the garden.”

“I have settled him there decently, and the gate is locked so that no one other than I may enter again.”

I nodded and poised myself to begin the hunt. Before I could take another step, however, the Master put a stilling hand upon my shoulder. The movement mirrored my father’s earlier comforting gesture, but Leonardo’s expression was filled with cold purpose.

“I shall not let you go, Dino, until I have your promise that you will attempt no heroics. If you see someone who appears suspicious, do not draw attention to yourself. Follow him at a distance and see where he takes refuge.”

He paused, and his grip on me tightened.

“But under no circumstances are you to confront any man, no matter that you see a spent crossbow dangling from his hand and guilt written upon his face. I have already lost one apprentice this day, and I will not lose another.”

My gaze dropped to the splash of fresh blood—Constantin’s blood—across the Master’s tunic, and I felt my features harden into the same cold mask of determination that he wore.

“I promise, Master, that I shall confront no one . . . but I vow that I shall find who struck down my friend and bring him to justice.”

“Then, quickly, to work.”

We parted on those words, each taking a different direction across the quadrangle. Despite my urgency, I kept a restrained pace, aware that I had the advantage in this search. Being both young and humbly garbed, I was likely to be overlooked by almost everyone I encountered. Leonardo, on the other hand, garnered attention simply because of his handsome features and confident air. The fact that he was well-known here at the castle made it more difficult for him to wander about unnoticed.

But while I might have drawn little scrutiny, no one escaped my gaze as I walked past him . . . or her. I dared not assume that a woman could not have been Constantin’s assassin. After all, I had already encountered more than one murderous female in my time here at Castle Sforza, so that I knew full well how deadly the fairer sex could be. And a crossbow was a light enough weapon that most women could capably handle one.

Still, what could have driven anyone, male or female, to murder someone whose kindness to his fellows was surpassed only by his talent with a brush?

I gave a furtive swipe at my damp eyes, willing away the tears. Later there would be time enough to grieve him. For the moment, I must set aside my sorrow and search out the one responsible for this tragedy.

But after many minutes of fruitless searching, I feared that the killer had slipped through our grasp. I had stared into the faces of both servants and nobles, some of whom I saw daily and others who were unknown to me. I’d peered into privies and stables, startling more than a few men and beasts but finding no likely suspects.

Once, I thought I glimpsed the same robed figure that I’d suspected of watching me at the parade grounds, and my heart began to beat faster. Barely had I begun my pursuit, however, when the swaddled form vanished behind a columned portico. But even as I cursed my bad luck, the figure reappeared a moment later at the public fountain.

Aha, I have you,
I thought in triumph and rushed in that direction. But by then the concealing hood had slipped back to reveal an old woman’s crinkled face, and a fragile, bony hand reached to cup a bit of water for drink. Shaking my head in mingled dismay and relief—for, in truth, what would I have done if the figure had proved to be a burly man with a crossbow wrapped in disguise?—I decided further searching was fruitless.

Leonardo and my father must have had the same thought, for I found them waiting for me at the garden gate. “How did you fare, my boy?” Leonardo asked at my approach.

“I was quite diligent, Master, but I fear I bring no news. I discovered no one out of place, nor anyone who hinted by his actions that he was guilty of murder.” With an anxious look at my father, I asked, “Did the guards notice anyone trying to flee the castle grounds with undue haste?”

“It would seem I was the sole one the guards observed behaving oddly,” he replied with no little chagrin. “So intent was I in trying to discover that poor boy’s assassin that I did not realize my own actions might be looked at with suspicion. The captain of the guard questioned me thoroughly himself.”

My father gave a wry snort at the memory.

“An unpleasant fellow, he was . . . foreign, and quite large, with blond mustaches,” he proclaimed, describing the man I knew as the new captain of Il Moro’s guard. “At any second, I expected the point of his sword to appear at my throat and for him to lead me away. I had to invoke Signor Leonardo’s name several times before he was content to leave me be.”

With a sidelong look at the Master, he added, “I fear that I misled him with my reasons for my haste. Since I am but a visitor here in Milan, I hesitated to speak the word
murder
aloud when I did not have you there to bear witness in my behalf. Instead, I told him that one of your apprentices had been sent on a fool’s errand, and that I was trying find the boy before he wasted a day wandering about the city looking for a merchant who did not exist.”

The Master gave a brisk nod of approval.

“I can see where our young Dino has learned his clever ways. It is well that you kept your peace, Signor Angelo. But we should not tarry in sight of all where we might draw suspicion,” he added and pulled open the gate. “Let us return to the garden so that we may discuss what must happen next.”

Once inside, he closed the gate behind us again and stood before it as if barring our escape. I was glad to focus on him rather than gaze toward the spot near the boulder where I knew Constantin lay. But for the moment, the Master’s attention was for my father.