A Bolt from the Blue

By then, we had reached the workshop, so I had time for but a grateful nod before we rejoined the others. While an air of solemnity still hung over our small band, the mood was lighter than the evening before. Once our usual nighttime tasks were complete-new brushes from boar bristles and weasel hair carefully tied, charred sticks ground to black powder for pouncing stencils, new wood panels sanded for later use by the Master in his painting-Davide called a halt to our labors.

“Tommaso, perhaps you will play your lute for us tonight,” he suggested.

Tommaso obliged by fetching the battered instrument and strumming a few chords. This was Paolo’s cue to pull out his dice. Within a few moments, an affable game of chance had commenced near the glowing hearth, with the youths eagerly wagering bits of broken pottery in place of the coins that we, as mere apprentices, lacked.

I could not help but be cheered by these signs that our collective heart, while still sorely wounded, had begun to mend. The humble Constantin would not have wanted us to mourn him unduly, I was sure. And so I joined Tommaso in a song about a page who cleverly bested every noble he encountered. Once I was certain the others were engrossed in their amusement, however, I pretended a need for the privy and slipped out of the workshop.

My knock at Leonardo’s private quarters was tentative as I recalled my graceless leave-taking from them that morning; still, I knew that my embarrassment was mine alone. My father would already have forgiven my sulky manner, and I suspected that the Master had long since forgotten our exchange. I had no chance to confirm that last, however, for it was the former and not Leonardo who answered my summons.

“It’s good you have come,” my father declared as he thrust his head out into the night. His quick glance in either direction reminded me of Tito’s similar gesture.

Apparently satisfied that no spies lurked about, he motioned me inside and with a fi rm hand closed the door behind me. His expression was one of worry as he took a seat at Leonardo’s worktable. A few pages of notes lay scattered there. He moved them aside along with the now-empty bowl that had held his stew, and I noticed that but a single evening’s repast had been eaten. The Master’s usual spot was conspicuously empty.

The bed was unoccupied, as well, the blankets stretched neatly across it and Pio lying curled upon the Master’s pillow. He opened a sleepy eye; then, apparently deciding that slumber was preferable to greeting a late visitor, he yawned and settled back to sleep again.

Gesturing me to sit, my father began, “I wondered how to send word to you without drawing the notice of your fellows. Does anyone else know you are here? Good,” he replied when I shook my head. “You must keep what I tell you a secret from all of them, including your friend Tito.”

It was my turn to frown as I saw that no candlelight glowed from beneath the closed door that led to Leonardo’s private workshop. If the Master was neither here in his quarters nor toiling in his workshop, perhaps he was still locked away in the storehouse with his flying machine. That, or he’d set off on yet another nocturnal adventure. But why should his absence this particular night seemingly have caused my father dismay?

My own uneasiness growing, I demanded, “What is going on, Father? Has something happened to the Master?”

“Fear not. Signor Leonardo is well,” he was quick to assure me. “But his concern over the murder of young Constantin was such that he has set off on a mission this very night. While he did not divulge his destination, he confided that his plan is to ride to the spot where the duke and the French king’s representatives are meeting. Leonardo intends to inform his patron what has happened here at the castle in his absence.”

My eyes widened. Still, the news was not surprising, though it was somewhat disconcerting. The Master had always been a man to take matters into his own hands. If he feared Constantin’s murder was but the beginning of some larger violence to come, surely he felt duty-bound to stop it if he could. And if that meant bringing Il Moro back to Milan, he would somehow contrive to do so.

But what if he encountered Constantin’s assassin while traveling along the road to this rendezvous?

I’d not forgotten the possibility the Master had raised that the bolt that had struck down Constantin was of foreign make. The Master-and perhaps even the duke himself-might be risking assassination by consorting with the French! As my worry would serve no good purpose, however, I contented myself with a swift, silent prayer for Leonardo’s safety and addressed my father.

“What is to happen with the flying machine in the Master’s absence? Shall you and Tito continue to work on it?”