A Bolt from the Blue

Not being a soldier myself, I could not bear to watch what followed but shut my eyes to block the sight. Still, I could not help but hear Rebecca’s soft grunt as she shoved the blade home, nor could I block out the sound of the bandit’s last groan. I waited until the shuffling noise that accompanied his body’s struggle with death had ceased before I dared look again.

By that time, the bandit lay still, and Rebecca was cleaning the knife blade in the dirt. She crossed herself; then, rising with an old woman’s awkward moves, she heaved a weary sigh and handed the knife to Tito.

“We’ve no time to give him a decent burial. Carry him away into the trees, and hurry back. We must move the log blocking the road before we can continue our journey.”

Between us, Tito and I handled the grim task of dragging the dead bandit into the dark glade. When I went to cover him with a few fallen branches, however, Tito gestured me to stop.

“Wait; we’ll need this,” he declared.

Heedless of the blood and urine that stained the dead man’s clothes, he tugged at the man’s belt until he’d freed the large pouch which had hung from it. I saw that the bag contained several fresh bolts, crudely carved but lethal, nonetheless. I nodded at the prudence of this move-had we not just witnessed a most frightening demonstration of why one should travel armed?-and waited while he did a swift search of the bandit’s jerkin for any other weapons.

Finding none, he gave me a quick nod and headed back toward the road. I spared a few more moments to toss the branches atop the still form; then, offering up a fleeting prayer for the repose of the bandit’s cruel soul, I hurried after Tito.

By the time I reached him, the apprentice had already retrieved the crossbow from the road where he’d left it and had hooked the pulling mechanism to his belt. Stepping foot into the stirrup mounted on the weapon’s stock, he managed with an effort to fletch another bolt. He left the armed crossbow in the wagon bed, and he and I joined Rebecca where she stood staring at the fallen tree.

“It can’t be that heavy, not for one man to move it about by himself. See how the large end is propped on a stump?”

She pointed to the half-circular swath in front of the log, which gave the appearance that something had scraped across that portion of the road multiple times. “He would have dragged the tree trunk by the smaller end.”

We found that the log did move easily, almost as if poised upon a pivot. A few moments later, we had cleared the path and were prepared to board the wagon again.

“Here,” Rebecca said with a sigh and tossed the reins to Tito. “My arm is paining me too much to drive.”

While Tito checked over the doughty mare to make certain she’d suffered no harm in the trampling, I helped settle Rebecca upon the blankets we’d brought. I was relieved to see that her injured arm no longer appeared to be bleeding, while the wimple she’d used as a bandage was tied as neatly as any wrapped by a surgeon. But I knew that putrefaction remained a real danger. As soon as we returned from Milan, I would ask Signor Luigi for the same healing salve that, once before, the tailor had used upon me.

“Drive quickly, Tito,” I told him, “but be mindful of Rebecca’s injury.”

He started off at a brisk pace, handling mare and wagon with surprising skill. I did what I could to shield the washerwoman from the worst of the bumps, but I could see her biting back moans of pain each time he rumbled across a particularly rough patch. Seeking to distract her, I spent some minutes describing to her the latest fresco we’d been helping the Master to paint.

“All in all, the images are quite glorious,” I finished, “though some are unaccountably strange. Still, if our Lord did walk upon the water, could it not be possible that he might also have floated above the ground?”

Then I sighed. “It is sometimes difficult to reconcile all I have been taught with what I have learned from the Master. Indeed, sometimes I do not know if Signor Leonardo is merely mocking God, or if his vision is genuine and he sees more than the rest of us.”

“Pah, do not worry, child,” the washerwoman wheezed with a small grin. “I have found in my time that those who protest the loudest against God are those who mostly desperately wish to believe in his existence. Learn what you can from your master, but never fear to stand up for your beliefs.”

“Rebecca, how did you become so wise?” I impulsively asked. “You know so much of the world, and yet you are just a-”

I broke off abruptly and blushed, realizing the affront couched in my intended praise. Yet, rather than take offense, Rebecca merely chuckled.

“Just a washerwoman,” she finished for me. “You may say the word, my boy… It is no insult, despite what some might think. And surely you must see that my job is far more than washing clothes.”