A Bolt from the Blue

It took me longer than I expected to find the stone stair-well that led to the hall where the locked cells were. I paused before making that climb to pluck from my belt pouch the stub of candle I’d had the foresight to bring. Lighting it from a guttering oil lamp, I shielded the tiny flame with one hand and made my cautious way up the steps. The trapdoor above me opened easily as before and, taking care not to splash candle wax about, I climbed through it.

The archer’s windows provided scant light, but enough that I saw an oil pot in the recess nearest the hatch. I prudently lit it lest I make a misstep and tumble back through that hole in the floor, putting a gruesome end to my escapade. But the added illumination did not add much in the way of comfort. My shadow before me wavered wildly, a diabolical image that set my artist’s imagination to work. Before, the maze of halls and odd-shaped rooms had seemed cold and unwelcoming. Now, draped in darkness, they hinted at phantoms and spirits that might well walk the place.

Shaking my head to rid myself of such fanciful notions, I made my cautious way down the hallway. I paused at the final cell and, lifting my candle, peered through the slot in the door. With an effort, I made out the swaddled figure lying on the cot, so silent and still that it might have been one of the Master’s clay casts.

“Marianna,” I softly called. “Marianna, are you awake? It is I, Delfina.”

I heard the rustle of blankets, and a shadowy figure rose from the bed. I raised the candle high again, so that my face could be clearly seen. I prayed that she recalled my earlier visit, and that she had not attributed my presence to some fevered dream brought on by the strain of her captivity.

“Delfina?” a voice from within the cell echoed… a voice not Marianna’s, and yet that was known to me. “Delfina, can that be you?”

The figure rushed toward the cell door, while I gaped in disbelief. But it was not until I saw the familiar face peering back through the slot that I was able to choke out in joyous relief the single heartfelt word, “Father!”

16

*

… the stronger wind will be the victor…

– Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus

“Father, what are you doing here? This is Marianna’s-the Duchess of Pontalba’s-cell.”

“I know of no duchess,” Angelo della Fazia replied, “but the better question is, what are you doing here, my daughter?”

“Why, I have come to rescue you!”

Choking back a sob, I reached my hand through the slot in the door. My father caught my fingers in his, and I was relieved to find that his hand, while chilled from the dank cell, was as strong as ever.

“You’ve suffered no harm, Father?”

“I’m as well as can be for having spent two days tied in a wagon and a few hours more in the good duke’s dungeon,” was his wry reply.

He released my hand and peered through the slot, his kind brown eyes suspiciously damp as he surveyed me. “How did you find me, child? Have you brought Signor Leonardo with you?”

“I fear not. He had not yet returned from his mission to find the duke when we left, so there is but Tito and Rebecca the washerwoman and I.”

I told him of the past days’ events, explaining what had brought the three of us together, while he alternately nodded and shook his head at my tale. I recounted, as well, the clues that had led us to Pontalba, along with our theory that the duke’s men must have seized him in error, having mistaken him for Leonardo.

“They took me without explanation,” he confirmed with a nod. “It was well past midnight when I answered a knock at the door, thinking it might be you. Instead, it was three men in dark robes. They overpowered me, and before I knew it, they had bound me, hand and foot. Then they carried me to the shed where the flying machine was stored.”

He paused and shrugged.

“They must have had little to go on to find their quarry save a description that fits me as well as it does your master. And as I was the only one in Signor Leonardo’s quarters, their mistake was understandable. I could not protest that they had the wrong man, for they had gagged me when they tied me.

“But as I lay in the wagon while they waited for dawn to leave Milan-you and young Tito were right in your guess that we did not depart until morning-I overhead them speaking about me. Or, rather, the person they assumed me to be. Since I had seen their faces and knew something of their plan, I thought it the better part of wisdom to let them keep on thinking that I was Leonardo,” he finished.

A frustrated tear slipped from my eye as I once again tugged at the lock. “And so you must keep pretending,” I told him, “until we can rescue you from this foul place.”

If I could manage to free him, we could sneak my father from the castle in Rebecca’s wagon and let Il Moro worry about recovering the flying machine. I would have to find some way to steal the keys from the guards or else find a tool that would break the lock apart.