Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

I promptly thought of the crossbows that Il Moro’s soldiers used. Most of their weapons were of the sort that required not so much skill as brute force to handle. With a broad bow mounted upon a long stock, these weapons were far more powerful at a short distance than a traditional bow, if perhaps less accurate. But while an archer of but moderate strength could readily nock an arrow onto a long bow, I had seen for myself that spanning a crossbow took far greater force.

The older style of these weapons was still carried by some of the gray-haired mercenaries who filled the ranks of Il Moro’s army. This crossbow required the assistance of a large hook that dangled from the soldier’s belt and that was designed to catch the slack bowstring. Pointing the crossbow toward the ground, the man would place one raised foot into the metal stirrup mounted at the end of the crossbow’s wooden stock, almost as if he were climbing into a saddle. But rather than making a graceful leap upward, he’d instead straighten his leg. The strength of that limb pressing downward would effectively pull the hooked bowstring upward along the crossbow’s stock, holding it taut until the string caught upon the stock’s locking nut so that the bolt could be properly set.

Such a complicated ritual took time, however, with the result being that a traditional archer could shoot a dozen or more arrows to every bolt fired from a crossbow. Even those more modern weapons, which used a cranking device, could not be fired as swiftly as the long bow. Still, they could more readily pierce armor or shields, making them fearsome weapons.

I knew, of course, that a far smaller crossbow would be used by men on horseback. Efficient if less powerful, such a weapon was light enough to be carried about. But there was no mistaking its deadly force, as we had learned to our fresh grief. For surely this had been the sort of weapon employed by Constantin’s murderer.

Leonardo, meanwhile, was nodding his agreement with my father’s words.

“As you said, a finely crafted bolt. . one designed to kill with the greatest efficiency. Such a weapon may bespeak a professional assassin in our midst. That is why I wish to keep the circumstances of the attack upon Constantin confidential until I consult with the duke, and it is the reason for the pretense I have proposed.

“Fear not, Dino,” he added with a glance at me. “I shall not have you take part in this grim deceit, nor your father, save that I shall need him to bring me the wagon with which I shall take the unfortunate Constantin from this place. With a bit of misdirection, everyone who sees us depart will believe that the boy merely slumbers beside me. Moreover, you and Signor Angelo will be able to speak truthfully that you saw us leave the castle and plead ignorance of what might have happened beyond its walls.”

I bleakly considered this proposed scenario, picturing Constantin’s limp form propped upon the wagon seat next to the Master. It would be a bold bluff, his passing through the gates beneath the guards’ scrutiny with a dead youth as his companion. Still, I knew that Leonardo was accomplished at creating illusion and could readily pull off such a ruse, such skill at stagecraft yet another reason that Il Moro charged him with conducting the court’s regular pageants.

“I shall remain gone as long as necessary,” he went on, “and I will return with Constantin wrapped in a blanket and the story that he was killed by bandits on the road from Milan. Such attacks are a common enough occurrence these days that no one will question my claim. With his death formally established, we will be able to begin preparations for laying him to rest.”

My father seemingly had doubts about this audacious plan, however, for he shook his head.

“Such a tale may serve for everyone else, but what of this assassin? He will know that the boy was killed here in the garden and not upon the road. Besides, surely the man responsible is long gone from here and would care not what happens next.”

“It is possible,” the Master conceded, “but I am not certain that your theory is correct.”

Leonardo’s expression was considering as he went on. “If Constantin was killed because of my flying machine, the assassin did not achieve his primary goal of obtaining the information to build the craft. He or his confederates may still be among us. Thus, we must gird ourselves against a possible second attempt at theft. . perhaps a second try at murder.”

As he spoke, I abruptly recalled the mysterious hooded figure I had seen the day before, seemingly spying upon me. Though I had not determined why I, of all people, had warranted such strange scrutiny, it occurred to me that perhaps I had glimpsed Constantin’s assassin.

And why not? The flowing robes could easily conceal a small crossbow within their folds, I reasoned in some concern. Moreover, such a disguise could be shrugged off in moments, allowing its wearer to blend into a group of servants or of nobles, depending upon what he wore beneath it.

Not wishing to alarm my father-for surely he would be distressed to learn that I might have drawn the assassin’s notice-I waited while the two men conferred a moment longer. Finally convinced of the wisdom of Leonardo’s plan, my father gave me an encouraging nod and strode with grim purpose from the garden in search of a wagon. Only when the gate had closed behind him did I confide in the Master my fears about this puzzling stranger.

He listened with keen interest to my story, but his response took me aback. “Odd, how this unknown person made his initial appearance at the same time that Signor Angelo first arrived here in Milan,” he coolly observed.

I instinctively bristled at this seeming accusation against my father. Surely he could not think that so fine a man as Angelo della Fazia would have anything to do with murder!

Seeing my reaction, Leonardo was swift to assume a placating tone.

“Do not worry, my dear boy. I do not mean to imply that your sire has any involvement in this matter. But it would seem that someone deduced the reason for my bringing him into the duke’s service and decided the time was ripe to strike.”

“Do you truly believe what you said earlier, then, that someone else might fall victim to this assassin?” I asked with no little trepidation, picturing my father or another of the apprentices-or Leonardo himself! — lying sprawled upon the ground, a bloody bolt protruding from his cold flesh.

The Master stroked his neat beard, his expression grim. “I am loath to play prophet under such circumstances, but I would venture to say that we have not seen the end of this matter.”

“Perhaps since we all dress in identical tunics and trunk hose, he mistook me for Constantin,” I weakly offered, now picturing myself as the one lying in a heap with an arrow in my back and my lifeblood spilling into the dirt.

I had no time to dwell on this unsettling scene, however, for I heard the staccato knock upon the gate that was the prearranged signal for my father’s return. The Master swiftly unlatched the gate, and the pair maneuvered the small cart and sturdy little horse into the garden. Then my father turned to Leonardo, his manner firm.

“I would not have Dino witness what we must do next to carry out your plan. Let him rejoin his fellows.”

“I am of the same mind,” Leonardo said with a swift nod, much to my relief.

To me, he added, “The other apprentices should still be in the small chapel preparing the walls for our next fresco. Make your way there, and if they question you, simply say that I bade you lend them assistance for the day. As for Constantin, you may say that you last saw him leaving the castle grounds with me. Give them no hint that anything is amiss.”