Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

“And here.”

While I was busy stepping off the distance between the two marks, Tito had risen to indicate a portion of the floor just inside the doors. “Look at the way the smooth dirt has been chopped up, as if by hooves. Surely there were two horses here, if not more.”

Spotting yet another fragrant pile of manure, I had to agree with that last. Though I was impressed by his skill at deduction-indeed, his reasoning was worthy of the Master-my anger did not allow for anything more than a grudging nod of approval.

“But that tells us nothing other than that we are looking for a large wagon pulled by at least a pair of horses.”

With a snort of disgust to hide the trembling of my lips, I once more donned my battered cap and marched over to where Tito stood. “We can learn nothing more from this empty shed,” I decreed. “What is important is discovering the identities of those three men. Once we know that, we can better guess at their direction. Surely that page who summoned your last night would be of some help. Tell me, what did he look like? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

Tito’s look of misery returned. “I–I’m not sure. It was dark. He was a page.”

“Then we shall search out all the pages until we find the right one,” I shot back and grabbed him by the elbow. “Hurry, and be sure to lock the shed behind us.”

To my relief, he sighed and nodded.

“You must hate me, Dino, and I cannot blame you,” he said as he pulled the doors closed again. “All that has happened is my fault. But I swear I will do everything in my power to help find your father.”

I heard the grim purpose in those humble words, and my anger eased enough for me to give him an encouraging nod in return. “Surely you will remember something of significance. But let’s take another look at the Master’s quarters first, lest I overlooked a clue there.”

“And we must ask the guards at the gates if a wagon tried to leave in the dark of last night,” he suggested as we started at an urgent pace across the quadrangle once more.

Tito had claimed he’d never seen the faces of the three men; still, I was careful to scan the faces of every man I passed, lest one appear out of place. So intent was I on my task, however, that I did not see the familiar bulky figure of one particular female until it was too late.

Broad brown skirts and cape billowing, Rebecca the washerwoman swooped upon us like a ragged hen as we approached the workshop.

“Aha,” she proclaimed in satisfaction. “I have found some errant mice, out playing in the field while the cat is napping.”

Before we could protest, she had wrapped a beefy arm around both of our necks and was hugging us to her ample breast. “Does your master know that you are wandering about the castle grounds instead of laboring with your fellows?” she demanded, her cheeky grin belying her severe tone.

Tito was the first to extricate himself from her formidable grasp. With an offended air, he tugged at his tunic hem to straighten that garment again and slapped a quick hand to his chest-checking, I was sure, to make certain that his knife had not been dislodged by this assault.

“We are on Master Leonardo’s business,” he retorted, drawing himself up so that he towered over her by almost half a head. “Pray, step aside and let us pass by.”

“Here, what sort of attitude is that for a young man to take with a lady?” the washerwoman shot back, her dark brows knitting in displeasure. Then, her pique vanishing as quickly as it had come, she added with a return of her grin, “You should take lessons from your young friend Dino. He knows how to speak like a gentleman, do you not, my boy?”

I had succeeded in escaping the older woman’s genial embrace and was busy straightening my disheveled cap. Another time, I would have been pleased to engage her in banter; today, however, the seriousness of our current situation left me with nothing but blunt words.

“Good day, signora,” I replied with a quick nod. “I fear that Tito is right. We are on a mission for the Master and cannot tarry. Please excuse us.”

“And I am here to gather Master Leonardo’s laundry. . and perhaps have a few words with young Dino’s handsome father,” she added with a broad wink in Tito’s direction.

Surveying the youth up and down, she added, “Course, I wouldn’t say no to a bit of fun with a younger man, either.”

While Tito blushed in equal parts anger and embarrassment at this ribald remark-for, admittedly, he was a comely enough youth if one overlooked his unfortunate complexion-I was eying Rebecca for quite different reasons.

The soft brown wool cloak she wore was far fi ner than the rest of her clothing, which was as rough-spun as she. Its fabric had been cut from a smoothly woven bolt, its edges hemmed in flamboyant blue thread in a distinctive stitch. But most important was the fact that I had seen this particular garment enough times to be certain of its true owner, no matter whose back it covered.

“That’s my father’s cloak you are wearing,” I cried, clenching my fingers into fists lest I forget myself and snatch it off her where she stood. “My mother made it for him; I would recognize her work anywhere. Quickly, where did you find it?”

“What, this rag?” came the washerwoman’s coy response as she preened a little, stroking its smooth lines. Then, seeing the determination in my face, she shrugged.

“Oh, very well, I found it upon the road as I was heading into the city at daybreak. But you know what they say. Something lost belongs to the finder, and bad fortune to the loser. Besides, how was I to guess it belonged to Signor Angelo? If I left it there in the road, someone else would have snatched it up.”

“What road?” Tito broke in, his words as urgent as mine.

She gestured vaguely. “Toward the south, near the stream outside town where all the women do their washing. But what does it matter?” she added with a sigh. “I’ll find another old rag to wrap myself in. Here, take it back.”

Her expression one of martyrdom, she unfastened the cloak and tossed it to me. I hugged the garment tightly, breathing in my father’s familiar scent, overlaid by the faint if persistent tang of onions that always accompanied Rebecca. Tears having nothing to do with onions pooled in my eyes, and I rubbed a brusque hand across my face to dash them away lest she notice. Unfortunately, I was not swift enough, for she peered at me with keen interest.

“Here, is something wrong?” The black brows dipped ominously, almost touching the bridge of her crooked nose. “Has something happened to Signor Angelo?”

Tito and I exchanged quick glances, and he nodded. I knew what he was thinking, that Rebecca might well be our best source of information. A woman of her station came and went as she pleased, so there was little of what happened at the castle that missed her. Already, she had unintentionally uncovered what could be a clue to my father’s fate. Perhaps she also had seen something that would help identify the men responsible.

“Quickly, come into the Master’s quarters so that no one overhears,” I replied, “and we shall tell you all.”

Still clutching my father’s cloak, I unfastened the door and ushered the pair inside. For a foolish instant, I was prepared to see my father sitting at the table where I had last seen him. But, of course, the room was as I had left it, save that Pio no longer slept upon the bed.

While I fastened the door shut behind us, Rebecca took the opportunity to wander the small room, staring with avid interest at the Master’s belongings crowded onto the wall shelves and strewn across the worktable. At my stern look, she put down the tiny clay horse that she’d pick up off the shelf. One of the remaining models for the immense, and as-yet-to-be-cast tribute to Il Moro’s late father, it had languished there for more than half a year waiting for Leonardo to resume work on the project.