A Bolt from the Blue

A bird in the air makes itself heavy or light whenever it pleases…

– Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript E

Once again, Rebecca proved that a glib tongue and bawdy manner were as effective as a pretty face in winning over certain of the male species. Within a few minutes, she had determined that the castle’s occupants were in need of a washerwoman’s services. Not only had the guards agreed that she might solicit business, but they had turned over their own extra tunics to be laundered.

“I’ll get them so clean you won’t recognize them,” she gleefully assured them before whipping up the mare again.

She had been pleased to learn from the guards that a laundry shed with immense kettles for boiling and rinsing clothing was already set up on the grounds. This meant we would not have to haul all the clothing outside the castle walls and find a stream where she could do the washing, and then carry it back again when we were finished. More important, it gave us an excuse to remain upon the castle grounds for several hours without being questioned.

“But if we start doing laundry, we’ll be stuck here at the castle for the whole of the night,” she warned us. “We won’t be able to leave the job half-finished, not without stirring up suspicion. And they’ll raise the drawbridge come dusk, so we can’t sneak out in the middle of the night. That means that even if we find Signor Angelo, we won’t be able do anything about it until morning.”

When we nodded our solemn understanding, she added, “Of course, I’ll have to bargain with the kitchen master for the water and the fuel for the fire. If he’s like the rest of them, he’ll want a few soldi for that privilege.”

The laundry shed-a simple structure open on three sides and built atop a stone floor-was to be found not far from the kitchens. Rebecca hopped down from her seat to negotiate with the kitchen master, leaving Tito and me behind to watch the mare and cart. Although my eagerness to begin my search threatened to burst from me like a flushed quail from the grass, I schooled myself to patience and took stock of my surroundings.

My first thought was that the castle grounds bustled with surprising activity, for all that the walled fortress had appeared from the outside to be but a remnant of some past provincial glory. Indeed, the castle appeared well staffed with servants and artisans, a few of whom nodded our way as they trudged past. Most of these folk would live in the small wooden houses inside the main walls; others likely resided in the scattering of humble dirt and stone structures at the foot of the castle’s outer walls. Of nobles and merchants, however, I saw none.

Satisfied, I turned my attention to the physical layout of the grounds. Here within the walls of Castle Pontalba, the haphazard layout was even more apparent. My artist’s eye wept over the visual discord, one part of me yearning to sketch the fortress as it should have appeared: proud, unyielding, and-most important-symmetrical. But, sadly, no artist had lent a hand to the castle’s ultimate blueprint.

Outbuildings were scattered with no obvious design. Several appeared long abandoned, their wooden roofs caved in and walls little more than stacks of rubble. As for the main structure of the castle, I could see that it had once been U-shaped. But another wing constructed of a paler and more smoothly textured stone-another barracks, I judged from its construction-had been added to the castle’s far side in obvious afterthought. Towers lodged at each of the castle’s four corners, though the one closest to us had partially collapsed into itself. The resulting effect called to mind a finger that had made unfortunate acquaintance with an axe.

Adding to the disharmony, even the surrounding grounds reflected a careless lack of design. Unlike Castle Sforza, with its manicured quadrangle and symmetrical walks, this castle boasted no expanse of green lawn; neither did it lay claim to any carefully tended gardens or shaded porticos. A few patches of green, no doubt growing simply by mistake, were the only flora to relieve the starkness of the hard-packed earth.

But architecture was not my main concern. I craned my neck for a better look at the walls. High above, a few of the duke’s soldiers patrolled the maze of battlemented walks. They would pay those already within the walls little mind, I was certain, for their concern was with what occurred beyond the castle. Thus, our risk of discovery would be here on the ground.

Even so, I was not as nervous as I might have been at the prospect. In previously assisting the Master with solving other heinous crimes, I’d wandered Il Moro’s castle with impunity while disguised as one or another of the household staff. I’d thus come to realize that if one were dressed as a servant and kept a properly humble attitude, very few people would question one’s comings and goings.