A Bolt from the Blue

With my words, the others resumed their earlier tasks. I applied myself to my work, as well, concentrating on the youths’ quiet chatter lest my thoughts drift back to Constantin and the unknown assassin who might still be lurking within our midst. Maintaining my air of unconcern took no little effort, though I was relieved that no one seemed to notice my subdued air and false smiles.

No one, that was, save Pio. After a few moments, he roused himself from the pew and padded over to where I stood. He stared at me with liquid brown eyes and touched an inquiring paw to my leg in an innocent show of canine concern.

I bit my lip hard lest it tremble and bent low to give the hound a fond pat, taking that opportunity to discreetly brush the sudden dampness from my eyes. For a moment, at least, my grief lightened.

I sighed. Though welcome, the sweet innocence of Pio would not suffice to assuage the mourning that would ensue in our workshop once the Master brought word of Constantin’s senseless murder. I could only hope that his would be both the first and the last killing… could only pray that no other apprentice would fall victim to yet another bolt from the blue before the duke’s flying machine was completed and his victory ensured.

The Master waited until we apprentices had finished our evening meal and were gathered back at the workshop to break the grim news of Constantin’s murder to us. His handsome features drawn into hard lines, he gave the terse explanation that he’d settled upon that afternoon. It was a sadly familiar tale of brutal bandits and swift death on the road leading from Milan.

“But you may rest easy on one score,” came his solemn assurance as cries of disbelief met his words. “Know that your fellow apprentice died most bravely in defense of his master. And know, too, that I am both humbled and grieved by his sacrifice… and that I would have taken the arrow in his stead, were it possible.”

“Master, we must avenge him!” came a shrill cry from behind me, rising over the muttered curses and muffled sobs that had begun to fill the room.

The speaker was Bernardo. The youngest of the apprentices, he could have modeled for the cherubs in any of the Master’s frescoes, with his round, pink face and halo of curly brown hair. Now, however, the soft curls trembled in rage, while the plump cheeks were dark with anger and dampened by tears.

“We must find the bandit who murdered Constantin and kill him ourselves,” he cried, shaking his fist. “Master, give me leave to go, and I shall search him out.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tommaso exclaimed, his beefy features tight with grief. “What of you, Paolo, and you, Tito… and the rest of you? Will you not join us?”

Bold calls of agreement promptly rose from the others. Swept by that tide of emotion, I found myself clenching my own fist and vowing vengeance along with the rest. But as the clamor grew, Leonardo lifted a quelling hand.

“Your loyalty to the good Constantin is admirable,” he said, his stern gaze moving across the room until the cries settled to a few mutters, “but such a dangerous mission is a matter for Il Moro’s guard. A group of them left the castle soon after my return and now are scouring the countryside for the men that set upon us.”

His passing glance halted on me for a few seconds, and I caught the faintest of nods from him.

The gesture reassured me that the duke’s men were indeed combing the hills and tree-dotted plains around Milan. And while the brigands they sought were fictional, Constantin’s murderer was not and might be lurking somewhere beyond the castle walls. The soldiers would surely be on the alert for any suspicious person, no matter if he were dressed in a bandit’s rags or showed himself as my mysterious robed stranger.

To my surprise, Leonardo added, “But though the duke’s men are beyond the gates searching out this villain, that does not mean there might not be danger lurking here at the castle. Until this man is caught, I urge all of you to remain vigilant. Do not wander about the grounds alone, and keep a keen eye out for strangers.”

Had I not known the true circumstances of the day’s events, I might have been puzzled. And, indeed, a few apprentices glanced uncertainly at one another at these last instructions. The only question asked, however, was regarding the fate of our fallen friend.

“Master, what becomes of Constantin… That is, shall he be buried here?”

This question came from Davide, one of the older apprentices. Blond and of wiry build and measured temperament, he was known as the workshop’s peacemaker, the one who stepped in to settle squabbles and mend torn friendships. He and Constantin had been close friends, I knew. And thus Davide’s words echoed with gravity far beyond his years, while his stricken expression reflected all of our grief.