A Bolt from the Blue

“That’s my father’s cloak you are wearing,” I cried, clenching my fingers into fists lest I forget myself and snatch it off her where she stood. “My mother made it for him; I would recognize her work anywhere. Quickly, where did you find it?”

“What, this rag?” came the washerwoman’s coy response as she preened a little, stroking its smooth lines. Then, seeing the determination in my face, she shrugged.

“Oh, very well, I found it upon the road as I was heading into the city at daybreak. But you know what they say. Something lost belongs to the finder, and bad fortune to the loser. Besides, how was I to guess it belonged to Signor Angelo? If I left it there in the road, someone else would have snatched it up.”

“What road?” Tito broke in, his words as urgent as mine.

She gestured vaguely. “Toward the south, near the stream outside town where all the women do their washing. But what does it matter?” she added with a sigh. “I’ll find another old rag to wrap myself in. Here, take it back.”

Her expression one of martyrdom, she unfastened the cloak and tossed it to me. I hugged the garment tightly, breathing in my father’s familiar scent, overlaid by the faint if persistent tang of onions that always accompanied Rebecca. Tears having nothing to do with onions pooled in my eyes, and I rubbed a brusque hand across my face to dash them away lest she notice. Unfortunately, I was not swift enough, for she peered at me with keen interest.

“Here, is something wrong?” The black brows dipped ominously, almost touching the bridge of her crooked nose. “Has something happened to Signor Angelo?”

Tito and I exchanged quick glances, and he nodded. I knew what he was thinking, that Rebecca might well be our best source of information. A woman of her station came and went as she pleased, so there was little of what happened at the castle that missed her. Already, she had unintentionally uncovered what could be a clue to my father’s fate. Perhaps she also had seen something that would help identify the men responsible.

“Quickly, come into the Master’s quarters so that no one overhears,” I replied, “and we shall tell you all.”

Still clutching my father’s cloak, I unfastened the door and ushered the pair inside. For a foolish instant, I was prepared to see my father sitting at the table where I had last seen him. But, of course, the room was as I had left it, save that Pio no longer slept upon the bed.

While I fastened the door shut behind us, Rebecca took the opportunity to wander the small room, staring with avid interest at the Master’s belongings crowded onto the wall shelves and strewn across the worktable. At my stern look, she put down the tiny clay horse that she’d pick up off the shelf. One of the remaining models for the immense, and as-yet-to-be-cast tribute to Il Moro’s late father, it had languished there for more than half a year waiting for Leonardo to resume work on the project.

I gestured her to the bench. “What Tito and I are going to tell you must be kept secret,” I began. “And so, before we say anything more, you must first swear an oath to God that you will not repeat it to anyone else.”

I watched as various emotions flickered across her broad face, and despite the grave situation, I could not help a small inner smile. Her desire to learn one of Leonardo’s secrets was surely battling with the keen knowledge that she would not be able to repeat that same tale to all and sundry. For I knew she was a pious woman who would not break such an oath should she make it; thus, her quandary.

Finally, she sighed and nodded. “Very well, I swear on the blood of our Lord that I will not repeat what you tell me,” she agreed, crossing herself for good measure.

Satisfied, I nodded in return. “Very well, to start, have you heard rumors about Signor Leonardo’s flying machine?”

“You mean Signor Leonardo’s folly,” she replied, her frown returning. “No man can fly like a bird, unless he has the devil’s help.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, “but enough people believe in his invention that already one life has been forfeit over it.”

I hastily revealed all we knew thus far about Constantin’s murder. From there, I explained what had happened from the time I discovered my father missing to the point where Tito and I had learned that the Master’s half-built flying machine had been stolen. I told her, as well, our theory that my father had been kidnapped in error, likely mistaken for Leonardo in the Master’s absence. Tito interrupted a time or two to correct me or add a few details. By the time I finished, Rebecca’s mouth hung open, and her face was as white as her wimple.

“But you have given us a fine clue,” I added, “for you have found my father’s cloak. It must have fallen from the wagon as he was driven that way… or perhaps he deliberately dropped it for someone to discover.”

“And if you can take us back to that spot,” Tito eagerly added, “perhaps someone nearby saw the wagon pass and can point us in the right direction.”