A Bolt From the Blue (9 page)

“As I said, Signor Angelo, you spoke prudently when you suggested we would do well not to fling about words such as
murder
. Until we know the reason that my apprentice met so cruel a fate, we must keep such speculation to ourselves.

“And that is why we must make haste to remove Constantin’s body from the garden and carry him far from the castle grounds.”

6

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Atlanticus

 

 

 

 

 

M
y gasp was audible, even as my tongue momentarily failed me. As for my father, his mild features darkened in outrage.

“I cannot permit such a travesty, signore,” he decreed, his tone defiant. “The boy is dead, and by another man’s hand. We cannot pretend this did not happen. We must discover the villain responsible and bring him to justice.”

“Master, surely you cannot mean to abandon Constantin’s body,” I cried before he could answer, having finally regained my voice. “He is—was—my friend and your loyal apprentice. He deserves better than to be left for a carrion eater’s feast! Why can you not go to Il Moro’s guard and tell them of this crime so that they might attempt to find his killer?”

Leonardo raised a hand in protest, his expression as stern as my father’s. “Temper your outrage, and I shall explain further . . . but first, I must show you what I discovered tucked into Constantin’s purse as I was settling him beneath a cloth.”

He reached into his tunic and withdrew a thin sheaf of folded papers. Smoothing their creases, he wordlessly proffered them for my father’s examination. He began to peruse them, while I shamelessly gazed over his shoulder to see what secrets they held.

I needed but a glimpse to realize that the papers belonged to Leonardo. The tightly scribed writing in the familiar mirrored hand that ran from right to left could belong to no one else. As for the sketches that illustrated that text, they showed sections of the very flying machine that we had spent the afternoon testing. I noticed, as well, that one edge of each page was uneven, and I guessed that they must have been cut with haste from one of the Master’s many notebooks.

I ventured as much aloud, earning his approving nod.

“The volume that once held these pages is even now sitting on the table in my private workshop.”

He paused and shrugged.

“When they were removed from their binding, I cannot say, though these particular sketches were completed perhaps a month ago. And I am not in the habit of reviewing my work once it has been committed to paper. Thus, if not for this day’s tragic incident, another few weeks might have passed before I ever discovered the theft.”

“And you believe that these drawings of your flying machine are the reason for the young man’s murder?” my father asked, his frown deepening.

Leonardo nodded. “As I told you on your arrival, the duke is most anxious for a demonstration of the flying craft. He has fears regarding his treaty with France, which is in jeopardy.”

He paused to lower his voice, though there was no one about save my father and me to hear him.

“It is not commonly known, but as we speak Il Moro and a contingent of his men are on their way to a secret rendezvous with the French king’s representatives,” he went on. “But his greater concern is his alliances within the province . . . particularly the treaty with his newest ally, the Duke of Pontalba. Ludovico’s military might on the ground, while adequate, is insufficient to give him free rein in this region.”

He raised a cautioning finger skyward. “Should Il Moro prove to these nobles that he holds domination in the sky—a feat that no one in history has ever before accomplished!—his problem is solved. They will have no choice but to submit to him. But if someone else manages to conquer the clouds before he does, both he and Milan will find themselves subject to another man’s rule.”

While we considered that state of affairs, Leonardo managed what was, for him, a humble expression.

“Certainly, we must allow for the possibility that another man in the region has the intellect to conceive of a similar design on his own,” he conceded. “But word of such a genius would surely have come to my ears by now, just as my own reputation spread beyond Florence. And as I have heard tell of no comparable man, I deem it unlikely. But should a person gain access to my design, my notes . . .”

The Master trailed off with a shrug. Returning the pages to him, my father stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“Your drawings that I have seen thus far are detailed. With them, a man with an apt hand and sharp mind might manage to build his own flying machine,” he agreed. “But if that had been the intent, who of the duke’s allies—or enemies—would be bold enough to set a spy out to steal your design? And why was your apprentice murdered, and yet these pages left behind?”

“Those are the questions that plague me, and the reason I am loath to let word of Constantin’s murder spread until I have a chance to speak with Il Moro.”

As he spoke, Leonardo started toward the spot where Constantin lay. Reluctantly, I followed after him, my father at my side with his hand again resting upon my shoulder.

I was reassured to see that the apprentice’s face and upper body were covered by the same cloth in which the small flying machine had earlier been wrapped. But barely had I registered that relief when Leonardo knelt beside the still figure and drew back the fabric, exposing the youth’s pale, still features.

“Now, we must connect these stolen drawings to Constantin,” he coolly declared, his gaze unyielding as he looked down upon his senior apprentice.

“As I see it, two possibilities exist,” he went on. “The first is that Constantin accidentally discovered that someone had stolen the pages—perhaps caught him in the very act—and attempted to recover them. But, tragically, his bold attempt was met with violence. The thief dared not let his identity be revealed and so stooped to cruel murder lest Constantin reveal his treachery to all.”

He paused and drew the cloth lower, revealing the bloody bolt, which he must have pulled from Constantin’s back. The short arrow lay upon the youth’s thin chest like a spent bird, its metal tip and sleek wood shaft stained in dried blood, the fletched feathers tipped in gore. I shuddered at the sight, knowing this was one image I would never scrub from my memory.

“The second possibility,” he continued, “is that Constantin himself stole the sketches . . . perhaps at someone else’s behest, or else with the idea that he might find a person willing to pay him good coin for the information. But something went wrong—treachery among thieves, perhaps—and he was killed for his efforts.”

“No, Master,” I choked out, shaking my head. “Constantin would never betray you in such a fashion! Of that, I am certain. Remember, too, that he called for your help with his last breath. Pray, do not let him go to his grave with such a stain upon his reputation!”

Leonardo surveyed the youth’s face a moment longer before once more drawing the cloth over his slack features. Then, with a sigh, he rose and led us a decent distance from the body.

“Believe me, my dear boy,” he answered my plea, “I do not wish to consider such evil of so fine a youth. But until we discover his assailant, we must prepare ourselves for any explanation.”

Straightening his tunic with its rust-colored slash of dried blood across his breast, he addressed my father.

“The manner of Constantin’s murder is our greatest clue. You will agree that a crossbow is not the weapon of a common man but that of a noble or a soldier. Did you perhaps take note of the bolt that struck him down?”

“It appeared finely crafted of some hard wood, perhaps English yew, and the fletching is expertly tied,” Angelo replied. “But the bolt is short. It must have come from a weapon small enough to be spanned using a simple lever . . . a weapon that could be fired with one hand.”

I promptly thought of the crossbows that Il Moro’s soldiers used. Most of their weapons were of the sort that required not so much skill as brute force to handle. With a broad bow mounted upon a long stock, these weapons were far more powerful at a short distance than a traditional bow, if perhaps less accurate. But while an archer of but moderate strength could readily nock an arrow onto a long bow, I had seen for myself that spanning a crossbow took far greater force.

The older style of these weapons was still carried by some of the gray-haired mercenaries who filled the ranks of Il Moro’s army. This crossbow required the assistance of a large hook that dangled from the soldier’s belt and that was designed to catch the slack bowstring. Pointing the crossbow toward the ground, the man would place one raised foot into the metal stirrup mounted at the end of the crossbow’s wooden stock, almost as if he were climbing into a saddle. But rather than making a graceful leap upward, he’d instead straighten his leg. The strength of that limb pressing downward would effectively pull the hooked bowstring upward along the crossbow’s stock, holding it taut until the string caught upon the stock’s locking nut so that the bolt could be properly set.

Such a complicated ritual took time, however, with the result being that a traditional archer could shoot a dozen or more arrows to every bolt fired from a crossbow. Even those more modern weapons, which used a cranking device, could not be fired as swiftly as the long bow. Still, they could more readily pierce armor or shields, making them fearsome weapons.

I knew, of course, that a far smaller crossbow would be used by men on horseback. Efficient if less powerful, such a weapon was light enough to be carried about. But there was no mistaking its deadly force, as we had learned to our fresh grief. For surely this had been the sort of weapon employed by Constantin’s murderer.

Leonardo, meanwhile, was nodding his agreement with my father’s words.

“As you said, a finely crafted bolt . . . one designed to kill with the greatest efficiency. Such a weapon may bespeak a professional assassin in our midst. That is why I wish to keep the circumstances of the attack upon Constantin confidential until I consult with the duke, and it is the reason for the pretense I have proposed.

“Fear not, Dino,” he added with a glance at me. “I shall not have you take part in this grim deceit, nor your father, save that I shall need him to bring me the wagon with which I shall take the unfortunate Constantin from this place. With a bit of misdirection, everyone who sees us depart will believe that the boy merely slumbers beside me. Moreover, you and Signor Angelo will be able to speak truthfully that you saw us leave the castle and plead ignorance of what might have happened beyond its walls.”

I bleakly considered this proposed scenario, picturing Constantin’s limp form propped upon the wagon seat next to the Master. It would be a bold bluff, his passing through the gates beneath the guards’ scrutiny with a dead youth as his companion. Still, I knew that Leonardo was accomplished at creating illusion and could readily pull off such a ruse, such skill at stagecraft yet another reason that Il Moro charged him with conducting the court’s regular pageants.

“I shall remain gone as long as necessary,” he went on, “and I will return with Constantin wrapped in a blanket and the story that he was killed by bandits on the road from Milan. Such attacks are a common enough occurrence these days that no one will question my claim. With his death formally established, we will be able to begin preparations for laying him to rest.”

My father seemingly had doubts about this audacious plan, however, for he shook his head.

“Such a tale may serve for everyone else, but what of this assassin? He will know that the boy was killed here in the garden and not upon the road. Besides, surely the man responsible is long gone from here and would care not what happens next.”

“It is possible,” the Master conceded, “but I am not certain that your theory is correct.”

Leonardo’s expression was considering as he went on. “If Constantin was killed because of my flying machine, the assassin did not achieve his primary goal of obtaining the information to build the craft. He or his confederates may still be among us. Thus, we must gird ourselves against a possible second attempt at theft . . . perhaps a second try at murder.”

As he spoke, I abruptly recalled the mysterious hooded figure I had seen the day before, seemingly spying upon me. Though I had not determined why I, of all people, had warranted such strange scrutiny, it occurred to me that perhaps I had glimpsed Constantin’s assassin.

And why not? The flowing robes could easily conceal a small crossbow within their folds, I reasoned in some concern. Moreover, such a disguise could be shrugged off in moments, allowing its wearer to blend into a group of servants or of nobles, depending upon what he wore beneath it.

Not wishing to alarm my father—for surely he would be distressed to learn that I might have drawn the assassin’s notice—I waited while the two men conferred a moment longer. Finally convinced of the wisdom of Leonardo’s plan, my father gave me an encouraging nod and strode with grim purpose from the garden in search of a wagon. Only when the gate had closed behind him did I confide in the Master my fears about this puzzling stranger.