A Bolt from the Blue

I was not sure whether to laugh or groan at the sight of a familiar cart bearing down with eager speed upon us. This time, the mare who pulled it was gray, and the driver was a beautiful young girl… but the sturdy figure doing the hailing was none other than the washerwoman Rebecca.

By the time we slowed for another curve, the nimble Novella had maneuvered the cart alongside us. Rebecca, arm bandaged and wimple restored, gave us all an offended look.

“You cannot be off without me!” she cried. “What if you need my help again?”

“Rebecca, you are injured,” I countered in no little concern. “You should be resting and tending to your arm instead of driving about the countryside.”

“I can rest later. Signor Leonardo needs my help now.”

I glanced over at Novella in appeal, but she merely lifted a slim shoulder and kept driving. Doubtless the girl had long since learned that her mother was to be treated as a force of nature, something to be endured and not to be contained. As for Vittorio, he was grinning broadly. Gesturing the girl closer still, he stood and with a nimble hop went from our wagon to the cart.

“Do not worry,” he declared as he took the reins from an admiring Novella and settled in. “I shall keep them apace of us, and when we stop to rest the horses, the Master will decide if they stay or go.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to reflect that the Master might not have much choice in the matter. After all, it was a public road, and the washerwoman had as much right to it as he. The battle between Milan and Pontalba might not be the only fight we witnessed these next days, I wryly told myself. But I would not protest her coming with us, should I be queried on the matter. Indeed, I found myself unaccountably cheered by the washerwoman’s doughty presence.

Settling more comfortably myself, I let my thoughts linger on my father’s determined words he’d spoken the night I had left him. He had put aside his past doubts to envision himself soaring from the highest rooftops of Castle Pontalba and swooping like a hawk out of his enemy’s reach. If my father dared to attempt so dangerous a feat on his own, then perhaps the Master’s plan was not so impossible, after all.

Perhaps an army of untrained boys with no weapons but paint and their wits might find victory against an army when led by such inimitable generals as Leonardo the Florentine and Rebecca the washerwoman.

19

*

The flight of many birds is swifter than is the wind which drives them…

– Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus

Led by Leonardo, our makeshift army traveled south at a swift pace toward the Duke of Pontalba’s castle. As before, the road between both points was but lightly traveled, and even the Master’s fantastical chariot drew but a few curious glances from the pilgrims that we passed.

The expected clash between Rebecca and the Master did not occur, after all. I guessed that he had anticipated this turn of events, for he’d been quite cordial to the two women. In a courtly gesture, he’d positioned their cart in the place of greatest safety between his chariot and our wagon. I was grateful for this action, for I could see that Rebecca was yet weak and feverish despite her protests of fine health.

And though all of us knew the import of our mission, it was to be expected that a band of young men could not remain somber for hours on end. Thus, we passed the time that first day with stories and riddles. We had but a few hours of sunlight to guide us, however, for our journey had begun well after noontide. We stopped when darkness made travel too difficult along the dark, rocky road.

As with my journey with Rebecca and Tito, we did not bother with a formal camp but sheltered beneath the wagons. We were fortunate this time in having Philippe take charge of our meals. One of the newer apprentices, he had spent time in the castle’s kitchens before joining Leonardo’s workshop. His stint there served us well, for he was as talented with a ladle as he was with a brush, conjuring tasty meals from the meanest of rations.

We resumed travel at dawn. That departure was accompanied by much lamentation from those youths unaccustomed to the wagon’s constant jostle through the day, followed by a night’s makeshift pallet upon the ground. As I had been one such youth but a few days earlier, I had taken pains to pad my chosen spot in the wagon with both cloak and jerkin. Thus, I was perhaps the only one of my fellows not nursing bruises upon his nether regions from the earlier ride.

Spirits lifted with the sun, however, and no one complained when the pace grew quicker. The one bad moment-at least, for some of us-came a few hours later when our convoy passed through the glade where Tito and Rebecca and I had confronted the bandit little more than a day before.