Tito muttered a few uncomplimentary things beneath his breath, but I knew he could not disagree with my words. Despite my advice to him, however, I waited with barely restrained impatience of my own while the washerwoman chatted with her friends. Finally, Rebecca bade them farewell and started back to the wagon. As for Tito, for all his posturing, he quickly resumed his place among the baskets well before she reached us.
“What did they tell you?” came my anxious query as soon as the woman was in earshot.
Rebecca waited until she had climbed back onto the seat and settled heavily beside me before she replied. “We’re in luck, boys. They say a large wagon did pass this way soon after dawn. It carried something large, but it was covered by canvas. And there was at least three men that they saw.”
“I don’t suppose that the wagon was flying the Duke of Pontalba’s standard?” I asked with a sigh, knowing full well that was unlikely. “But could they tell that’s where the wagon was headed?”
“It was that direction, and they was traveling like bandits was after them. So unless the pope has set up housekeeping someplace besides Rome, the Duke of Pontalba is our man.”
“But how can we know that is the right wagon?” Tito protested. “If it is not, then we have lost many days going in the wrong direction.”
Though his concern was a valid one, I clung to my resolve. “There cannot be many large wagons journeying between here and Pontalba,” I pointed out, smoothing the edges of my father’s cloak. “I recall the Master once saying that Il Moro had made a poor choice of allies, because there was nothing to be found in that province save sour bread and sour men. Why, Pontalba doesn’t even have a grand city like Milan, just a crumbling castle on a hillside.”
“Well, they’ve got a cabinetmaker and a flying machine now,” Tito muttered, and then gave me an apologetic nod as he realized the carelessness of his speech.
Rebecca, meanwhile, favored us both with a dark look. “It’s not too late to change your minds, boys,” she told us. “We can still head back to the castle and tell my friend Fritz-he’s the captain of the guard-what happened. He’ll send his men out, if I ask him nice.”
I gave my head a stubborn shake. “We already told you, Rebecca, no one else must know what has happened… not unless the Master himself approves it. We’ll go on to Pontalba, with or without you, and find out the fate of my father and the flying machine. Tito and I are not afraid, are we?”
That last was directed at my fellow apprentice. Tito met my questioning gaze with a sharp shake of his head and a telling pat of his chest.
“We’re not afraid,” he boldly echoed. “You can go back to your laundry, washerwoman, if you’re frightened. We don’t need you. No matter what, Dino and I are traveling to Pontalba.”
“Pah, you need me if you don’t want to wear out your shoe leather,” she said with a snort. “Now, hold tight. We’ve got a lot of miles to go before the sun sets on us tonight.”
Taking the reins from me, she gave them a snap. The brown mare rolled an annoyed eye but obediently took off at a smart clip, heading south toward the province of white hills, where I prayed that my father would be found.
12
The air moves like a river and carries the clouds with it…
– Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript G
The brown mare kept up a swift pace, hauling the three of us with ease along the road south to Pontalba. The road became progressively rougher, however, as we put distance between us and Milan.
At times, what had been a smooth highway dwindled to nothing but ruts running parallel to one another. Along those primitive stretches, the center strip of dirt and rough grass was seeded with rocks large enough to break an axle, so that Rebecca was forced to slow the mare to a careful walk. Despite the slow pace, we still bounced against the wooden seat with force enough to leave one’s hindquarters bruised. But we were fortunate in clear weather and the beauty of the surrounding countryside that was liberally strewn with delicate new buds and leaves in celebration of spring.
For the most part, we had the road to ourselves. We passed but one other small cart, and only a handful of travelers making their way on foot, all of which had come from the direction of Pontalba. None, when queried, however, recalled seeing a large wagon pass them by.
After hearing that same response each time, it was all I could do not to give way to discouragement. More than once I heard Tito mutter, “I told you we were going the wrong way,” making me wonder if he were right, after all. But Rebecca did not yield her course, the loose edge of her wimple flapping triumphantly as she drove the wagon with skill.