Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

When we’d finished, we settled in one of the dusty pews. While Constantin filled in the rest of his sketch, we talked about my father’s arrival in Milan.

“I am not surprised that the Master kept your father’s arrival a secret from you,” Constantin assured me with a grin. “He enjoys a clever trick as much as any boy. I am sure he will laugh to himself for many days each time he recalls the look that must have been upon your face. The one thing I do not understand is how he could have known beforehand that Master Angelo was your father.”

I recounted the Master’s explanation, and the senior apprentice nodded. “Your father must be a talented master, indeed, for Leonardo to have requested his services.”

With his next words, however, his amusement sobered into a sigh, and his reedy voice took on a somber note.

“Ah, Dino, you do not know how fortunate you are to have your father here with you. My father is long dead, and yet I still miss him as if he were just now gone. I know I would gladly give ten years of my life to have him back long enough to share one last meal with him.”

Then he brightened. “But let us not speak of sad things. We are finished here, and we still have some time before the evening meal. Why don’t we go watch the soldiers practicing with their horses in the quadrangle?”

I readily agreed. It was a favored pastime of us apprentices, observing Il Moro’s mounted men and their immense steeds as they conducted their warlike maneuvers upon the parade ground. Though they used wooden weapons and practiced prescribed drills, the sight of the armored men and colorfully blanketed horses dashing about still was exciting, no matter that it happened almost daily.

We found a spot a safe distance from the action, though still close enough that we had to duck the occasional clod of dirt sent flying by a shod hoof. Constantin and I were not the only observers, for two of the stableboys and a handful of pages were already gathered where we sat. We youths clapped and cheered each skillful move, all of us secretly picturing ourselves performing such dramatic feats.

I had leaned closer to Constantin to praise one soldier’s particularly adroit use of his sword, when I noticed the group of serving women milling not far from where we sat. Some juggled baskets and bundles, others stood empty-handed, but all seemed as enthralled as we by the soldiers’ performance.

All, that was, save for one robed figure.

Male or female, I could not tell, for the simple brown cloak muffled the person’s form sufficiently that I could distinguish neither broad shoulders nor womanly curves. But what sent a sudden shiver through me was not simply the way that that hood of the figure’s cloak was pulled over his head so that the sturdy fabric partially concealed his face. Rather, it was the fact that this decidedly ominous presence appeared to be focused not upon the soldiers, but directly on me.

Shaken, I turned to Constantin and gave him a swift nudge. “Look,” I whispered, though I could not have been overheard for the sound of the mock combat, even had I shouted. “Do you see that person watching me?”

“Watching you? Where?” Constantin obediently glanced about, and then grinned a little. “Do you mean those serving women? I fear you think too highly of yourself, Dino, for they are reserving their admiration for the soldiers, and not you.”

“No, I mean the one in the robe. .”

I trailed off as I realized that, in the few seconds I’d been distracted by talking with Constantin, the object of my uneasiness had vanished. Or perhaps the person still stood there but had shrugged off the robe and was merely one of the ogling females, so that I had been mistaken in attributing anything sinister to the incident.

I heard a few shouted commands from one of the soldiers, signaling the end of the demonstration. I rose and brushed the grass from my tunic, deliberately ridding myself, as well, of the uneasy feeling that had gripped me. Obviously, it had been far too long since I’d last joined the Master in a dramatic adventure, I thought with a wry shake of my head. Why else would I be seeing menacing figures where there was none, and attributing sinister motives to innocent passersby? Perhaps it was fortunate that I now had this new assignment working as my father’s assistant to keep my imagination in check.

But for the rest of the day, I found myself glancing over my shoulder, lest I discover a robed figure standing behind me and inexplicably watching my every move.

By the next morning, my eagerness to begin work with my father and the Master had banished all memory of the previous day’s odd incident in the quadrangle. While the other apprentices had gone off to begin assembling the scaffolding in the duke’s private chapel, I had hurried to Leonardo’s private quarters to learn my assignment. Now I was too busy juggling the cloth-draped model of the flying machine and fearing at any moment I might drop it or break it, to be concerned about an unknown person wearing a long cloak.

“Let us make haste,” the Master urged, shouldering a leather sack that he’d pulled from beneath his table. “There is much work ahead of us, for Il Moro wishes a demonstration of the flying machine as quickly as possible.”

“Shall we return to the shed to start modifying the wings?” my father asked, grabbing up his own bag of tools.

Leonardo shook his head. “The duke has arranged for a secluded spot here on the castle grounds where we may finish proving my design away from spies and other curious eyes. It has the advantage of being open to the sky, while being a pleasant place in which to spend a day at labor. We shall give the model that young Dino carries a full battery of tests today and then decide if we are ready to apply what we’ve learned to the full-sized model.”

My father and I followed the Master out the workshop door, the flying machine balanced carefully in my arms. Even swaddled in cloth, the scale craft was as light as Leonardo’s tiny mounted hawk. I carried it with the same care I might have used to handle that small creature, arms stiffly extended before me as if in a gesture of offering. Given the secrecy of our work, I was relieved that the three of us drew no unwarranted attention as we marched across the quadrangle in the direction of the duke’s familial quarters.

As it turned out, our destination lay not far from the Master’s workshop. Halting before its wooden gate, I realized in some dismay that this place was all too familiar to me. It was secluded, as Leonardo had said, surrounded by rough stone walls twice as high as me and accessible only by that single gate. He unlocked the narrow entry and, ushering us in, carefully fastened it shut behind us.

Leonardo would have been familiar with the place, too; thus, it was with some surprise that I saw his expression was untroubled as he strode along the informal stone path that wended its way through the soft, clipped grass. I made my way most reluctantly, unable to forget what had happened the last time I set foot here in this spot. Indeed, how could I not remember the garden where, soon after my arrival at the castle, I twice had looked upon the frightening countenance of Death?

My first encounter had taken place while the rest of the court was being entertained by a living chess match that Leonardo had arranged at the duke’s command. I had been on an errand for the Master, bidden to search out Il Moro’s cousin, who was inconveniently absent from the festivities on the playing field. I had all but stumbled across that missing man’s body sprawled on the lawn not far from where I now stood, a bloody knife protruding from his back.