A Bolt from the Blue

He trailed off in misery, his fear of the soldiers obvious. I wondered in sudden anger of my own what cruel punishment these men had inflicted upon the servants of Castle Pontalba in the past. Then a shiver of trepidation swept me. If a mere page might suffer retaliation for so a minor a transgression, what might my father be enduring at their hands?

The washerwoman, meanwhile, gave the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I won’t say anything, child. And, besides, maybe it wasn’t even the same wagon as tried to run us down. Do you know where they took it, so I can have a look?”

The page bit his lip, his round face pale, and I feared for a moment he would refuse to answer. Then, reluctantly, he jerked his head in the direction of the barracks.

“They drove it back there,” he whispered. “And a while later, they took the wagon back to the stables. But it was empty by then.”

Tossing the remaining tunics in my direction, he turned on his heel and scampered back to the main building from which he’d come. While I gathered up the garments from the dirt, Rebecca tapped a thick finger to her lips in thought.

“Let’s get these clothes boiling,” she said with a kick of the basket, “and then we’ll visit the stables and the barracks.”

We made our swift way back to the shed, where she sorted the linens and tossed half into the first vat. While Tito used a large paddle to stir, Rebecca added to the boiling water a ladle of brown soap from the covered bucket she’d brought with her on the journey.

“A fine soup,” she said with a grin as the stained clothing swirled about in the pot. “We’ll let it simmer for a time while we tend to our other business.”

The empty basket between us, Tito and I followed the washerwoman to the stables. While she bartered with the stable master for the mare’s care and the cart’s storage overnight, the two of us slipped away for a look inside the stalls. Tito took one side of the long stone building and I, the other.

My search was the first to bear fruit.

“Here,” I softly called, peering excitedly over a low wall. Behind the stalls I’d discovered an open shed where half a dozen or more carts and wagons of various sizes were stored. One of them, in particular, had caught my eye. Not only was it far larger than the other conveyances, but a folded length of rough canvas had been left in its bed.

Tito rushed over to join me, his gaze following my pointing finger. He frowned and then shrugged.

“Come on; let’s take a closer look,” I urged and scrambled over the wall. Tito followed more slowly, so that I had already climbed into its bed by the time he reached the wagon.

“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded in a soft undertone. “The stable master might step in at any minute.”

“Then you must keep an eye out and warn me, for I am looking for clues.”

Though what clues there might be, I could not guess; still, I began scanning the wagon for something that might indicate that my father or Leonardo’s invention had been transported upon it. My diligence was rewarded when I spied a few familiar brown threads caught on the splintered bed. Plucking them carefully from the wood, I held them up to my own brown tunic.

“They’re the same,” I said in an excited whisper. “Look, Tito. Ever since he joined up with the Master, my father has been wearing the same work tunic as we apprentices wear. He must have lain on the wagon beneath the canvas with the flying machine and snagged his clothes on a splinter.”

“Let me see.” Tito drew closer and viewed my find with a skeptical look. “I’m not so sure,” he repeated. “Brown cloth is common enough, you know.”

“Perhaps. But what of this?”

Nimbly, I hopped from the wagon bed and stepped off the distance between the two rear wheels.

“-Seven, eight. There, that matches the spacing of the wheel marks we found in the Master’s shed. Add that to the canvas that could have been used to cover the wagon, and the brown threads that match our tunics, and surely we can be certain that this is the wagon in question.”

“Dino, you sound almost like Master Leonardo,” he said in an admiring tone. “Very well, you have convinced me. But now that we know where the wagon is, we must find out where its cargo has gone. Quickly, before we are spotted.”

We hurried to rejoin Rebecca, who was keeping the stable master entertained with her ribald jests.

“Ah, there are my fine young sons,” she declared, pausing to give us fond maternal smiles. “Handsome fellows, ain’t they?” she said to the stable master, adding with a wink, “Course, they look like their sires and not me.”

While the man left to gather his linens, I gave Rebecca a quick, whispered account of what I’d seen.

“Seems likely,” she agreed when I’d finished. “Let’s see what the barracks have to offer.”