A Bolt from the Blue

The washerwoman clamped her mouth shut again, her dark brows once more diving down toward her nose. “I can take you there,” she agreed, “but I can tell you already that the road runs but two ways… back here to Milan, or else south toward the province of Pontalba.”

Pontalba? The word rang vaguely familiar in my mind, but for a moment I could not recall its significance. Finally, with a cry of surprise, I remembered how I knew the name.

“It was the Duke of Pontalba who agreed to marry Il Moro’s cousin and ward, the Contessa Caterina. And when she died”-I stumbled a little over that word-“he was satisfied to wed another of Ludovico’s cousins to keep the peace between the two provinces. Surely he could not be plotting against Ludovico, when they are related by marriage and bound by truce.”

Or could he?

I frowned. Less than a year ago, Nicodemo lo Bianco, the Duke of Pontalba, had been a sworn enemy of Ludovico Sforza. Of course, I knew nothing else of the man, save what I had seen of him that fateful night of the masquerade when both a new peace treaty and Caterina’s betrothal were to have been announced.

The theme of the festivities had been the card game of Tarocchi, with each guest dressed to represent one of the individual cards in the playing deck. Nicodemo-tall, thin, with a sunken chest and merciless twist to his narrow lips-had chosen the Devil as his costume. I had always thought his choice grimly appropriate for the role he had played that night in damning Caterina to her fate, by circumstances if not by deliberate intent.

Tito, meanwhile, was rubbing his chin in fair imitation of the Master in deep thought.

“Are you quite sure that is the only direction the road takes?” he asked Rebecca.

Not waiting for an answer, he turned back to me and went on. “It is more likely the men were sent by the pope or even by the French king. Think how clever such a plot would be. While Il Moro is secretly meeting with the French king’s representatives, the king’s other men are sent to kidnap the duke’s master engineer and steal his invention.”

I considered his words a moment and then shook my head.

“But would that not be Il Moro’s first assumption? No, I think it must be the Duke of Pontalba behind this treachery. Besides,” I added with a bitter twist of my lips, “I suspect he is the sort of man who would not care if one of his villainous minions shot an unarmed youth in the back.”

Tito looked for a moment as if he would have argued the point, but instead he simply shrugged. “Then let us set off for Pontalba. But it is two or more days’ walk from here, and I fear they have many hours’ start on us.”

“Perhaps not so many hours,” I countered, allowing myself a bit of hope. “After all, they could not sneak past the castle walls in the middle of the night with a large wagon without Il Moro’s guard stopping them. Remember all the horse droppings in the shed? They must have kept the wagon there all night and left once the gates opened at dawn.”

Before Tito could reply, Rebecca snorted and hefted herself to her feet.

“This is a pack of foolishness,” she proclaimed. “You boys can’t be running around the countryside chasing after murderers and thieves. Why not tell the captain of the guard what has happened and let him send his men in search of Signor Angelo and this folly of a flying machine?”

“Because the flying machine is a secret,” Tito and I promptly chorused, earning yet another snort from the woman.

I planted my fists on my hips and met her disapproving frown with an equally dark look of my own.

“Rebecca, not only is my father’s life in peril,” I choked out, “but Signor Leonardo’s safety is at risk, as well. Don’t you understand? What you call a folly is in truth a dangerous weapon, one that would have allowed the Duke of Milan to reign supreme over all the provinces. Bad enough for it to be in his hands, but who can guess what will happen should the Duke of Pontalba gain control of it?”

I turned to Tito for support, and he gave a stern nod of agreement. “Our advantage is that few in the court truly believe that the flying machine exists, save in the Master’s imagination,” he told her. “We must get it back… and in the meantime, no one must guess that it has been stolen, least of all Il Moro. For if he learns that the Duke of Pontalba has made a fool of him, he likely will cast the Master into prison for his carelessness.”

“And don’t forget my father,” I broke in again. “He will remain a prisoner of Pontalba until he is no longer of use to the duke. And after that…”

I trailed off on those last words, unwilling to speak aloud what both Tito and I knew was the likely outcome should we fail. But as I was struggling to maintain my composure, the washerwoman clapped her chapped hands together and gave them a brisk rub.

“So that’s the way of it,” she proclaimed. “Very well, let’s not waste more time. Tighten the belts on your tunics, boys, for we’re off to visit the Duke of Pontalba.”

11

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