A Bolt from the Blue

“Most of what happened is your fault, you know… yours, and your father’s,” he cried in an accusatory tone. “If Signor Angelo had told my uncle’s men that he wasn’t Leonardo, or if you hadn’t listened to Rebecca and insisted on coming here to Pontalba, nobody else would have had to die. But because of your interference, my uncle will have you and all the rest of them-your father, Leonardo, all the other apprentices-slain or thrown into the dungeon, just because it pleases him.”

Even as he’d made that cruel accusation, I heard the sudden familiar sound of the portcullis opening. The shouts of the soldiers drifted up to us as they put heel to flank and began moving toward the gate. Soon, the duke’s men would be riding down the ramp to the open field. They would assemble into formation there, I knew, before beginning their assault upon the handful of boys hiding in the woods.

I had to act as they began that march but before they reached the trees.

“Tito,” I pleaded, kneeling beside him and grabbing his hand. “There is still a chance for you to make amends. Let me take the flying machine as I planned. If I can keep it airborne, I will use it to distract your uncle’s men while the other apprentices make their escape. I can do nothing for my father or the Master, but perhaps I can save some of them.”

“Pah, why do you care what happens to a handful of common apprentices?”

“They are my friends, Tito… just as they were yours.”

Not waiting for an answer, I released my grip on him and hurriedly lay atop the craft again, tightening the belt with shaking hands. Tito remained where he sat beside the craft, watching me with an unreadable expression. The strap fastened, I reached a hand for the end of the rope that held the flying machine tied in place. A single jerk would pull the knot free, and the rope would slip back through the ring as the craft made its descent down the roof.

I shot another anxious look at Tito. Slowly, he stood, and for a frantic moment I feared he would somehow try to stop me. But instead he said, “If I let you do this, you must swear if they capture you that you never saw me here, that I came too late to stop you.”

“I swear by all the saints,” I softly cried as I heard a shout from the duke’s captain of the guard and the answering rhythmic clop of hooves drift up from below. They were moving down the ramp and would momentarily be in formation. “Let me do what I can to save them… please, for Constantin’s sake.”

By way of answer, he stepped back from the craft. I gave him a grateful nod and made another hurried check of the pedals and levers. Lightly, I began to flap the wings, feeling with that tentative movement a slight lift of the craft’s frame. The momentum coming down the slanted roofline would be sufficient to keep me going as I reached its end, but I would swiftly plummet back to earth if I did not pedal fast enough to keep the wings moving at a quick pace. Yet if I flapped too hard as I cleared the roofline, I risked catching the wingtips upon the slate, causing me to lose control.

The rumble of hooves upon the ramp had ceased. I knew they were spreading their mounts into formation, with the foot soldiers taking up their positions to the rear. In another moment, the captain would give the signal to surge forward… and that would be my signal to take flight.

Any fear that I had earlier felt was gone, replaced by an oddly calm sense of purpose. No longer was I concerned with what might happen if I fell from the sky. All that mattered was staying aloft long enough to disrupt the ranks and give my friends time enough to flee. I barely had time for a half-murmured prayer to whatever saints might be listening to keep me strong, when another shout drifted up from below.

Taking a deep breath, I yanked the rope.

For an interminable moment, the craft remained motionless, so that I feared the rope had become tangled in its frame. But an instant later, and with swiftness far greater than I could imagine, it began rolling forward.

Though my descent down the ramplike roof must have taken but a few seconds, time slowed to the point that I took in every instant with an almost languorous clarity. I began to pedal, inwardly counting off each stroke, one, two, one, two. The canvas-covered wings rose and fell with the graceful precision of a dove taking flight, while their soft whoosh reminded me of a night owl’s hushed pursuit of its prey. My confidence grew, for surely this design so closely mimicked a bird’s anatomy that it lacked only feathers!

But as a thrill of triumph shot through me, I heard an anguished shout. I glanced back long enough to see Tito running after me, arms outstretched and face twisted in anger as he cried, “No! Stop! It’s mine!”

Stay back, I tried to shout, but the words lodged in my throat. All I could do was pray that he would come to his senses, though I knew with sudden certainty how this must end.