A Bolt from the Blue

“You mean, wash clothes?”

The choked question came from Tito, a look of horror settling on his face at the prospect. Rebecca shook her head and gave him a gentle smile, though the gaze she fi xed upon him held more than a hint of steel.

“Don’t worry, my young apprentice, such work is far too undignified for a fine gentleman like you. No, I’ll tell them you two are my sons and that I need you to gather up the linens and load them in the wagon for me. I’ll do all the washing.”

“But what about my father?” I broke in. “When will we search for him?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said with a careless wave of one chapped hand. “While we’re gathering up the laundry, we’ll grab a tunic for you from one of the pages. Put it on, and you can wander about the castle with no questions asked.”

“What about me? Do I get a tunic?” Tito wanted to know.

The washerwoman shook her head. “I’ll need you to help sort the clothes. Besides, it’s Dino’s father we’re searching for, so his son should do the looking.”

The familiar mutinous look flashed over Tito’s face. Then he seemingly thought the better of whatever protests he had and simply nodded. “You’re right; it should be Dino. And I can cause a distraction if someone takes note of him.”

The washerwoman’s expression was approving as she gave him a nod. Shrugging, she added, “But it’s a big castle. You’d best let me nose around first and see if anyone knows anything.”

At that, she gestured us back onto the wagon and urged the mare forward.

“How do you know so much about strategy?” I wondered in a respectful voice as we began rolling toward the clearing.

Rebecca flashed her bawdy grin at me. “Comes of bedding lots of soldiers, I guess.”

I heard Tito’s snicker behind me, but I contented myself with an absent nod. We had reached the clearing, and Castle Pontalba was coming into full view, distracting me from any further ribaldry.

My first thought was to acknowledge where the name of the small province must have originated. Ahead of us rose a broad hillock strewn with tiny white flowers, so that it appeared at first glance to be dusted with a light snowfall. Though surely this was a phenomenon that occurred only in the spring months, the periodic sight would capture the fancy of all but the most hardened of men. Whether or not the remainder of the Pontalba lands possessed such charm, I could not guess, but the parcel upon which the stronghold was built deserved its evocative name.

Less charming was the castle itself, which crouched like a malevolent toad atop that scenic rise.

Squat and gray, it rose gracelessly from the blanket of white flowers, commanding in its breadth if not its height. I guessed its age to be far older than the starkly elegant castle at Milan. Even at a distance, I could see that part of the outer wall was crumbling, and at least one tower was in sore need of repair.

I suppressed a reflexive shiver. Once, this castle might have been a proud fortress, but that would have been several generations ago. Each subsequent duke doubtless had modified the original symmetrical design to his own liking, adding a turret here and another storehouse or barracks there. The result was an untidy sprawl that bulged at the seams of the surrounding wall and gave the appearance of a round of bread dough that had slipped to one side of the cooking stone.

Still, nothing of this scenario should have been threatening. I would have shrugged aside my sense of disquiet, had I not known why we were searching out the Duke of Pontalba. The man was guilty of theft and kidnapping and-at least, indirectly-murder. I did not think myself too fanciful to believe that the brazenly careless neglect of the castle reflected the similar shortcoming in the soul of the castle’s owner, as well.

By now, we had reached the foot of the long rocky slope that led to drawbridge and twin gatehouses. Once past that point, and with the bridge raised for the night, we would be trapped within those rugged walls. Thus, any rescue and escape would have to occur in the bold light of day.

I dared not guess how we might accomplish such a thing. Instead, I wondered how my father had felt as he’d been driven up this ramp and into the castle. Surely, he’d been bound-perhaps blindfolded and gagged-and doubtless hidden beneath the same canvas as the flying machine. Did he know where he was? And did his captors yet realize that he was not Leonardo the Florentine… or did he have them convinced he was the same genius who had invented that craft?

I could only pray that he had; otherwise, his life might well be forfeit.

Two craggy-faced guards started toward us, staves at the ready and their attitude one of distrust. “Keep still, boys,” Rebecca muttered, putting a hand on my knee as I gave a reflexive shudder. “And don’t worry. If I can’t get us past these fine-looking fellows with a few sweet words, I’ll let you strap me to Signor Leonardo’s flying machine and send me sailing off the top of this here castle!”

13

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