Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

“Or he could be nowhere,” Tito replied, what little I could see of his expression gloomy again, now that he no longer had the girls to ogle. “Remember, we don’t even know if those men brought him and the wagon here.”

“But we must go on that assumption. Besides, Rebecca will find out something. You saw how easily she handled the guards at the gate.”

“Pah, I could have gotten us past them,” Tito replied. Then, with a shrug, he added, “Don’t forget that the Master had the flying machine stored in an old shed. That’s where I’d look first, anyhow.”

I did not get a chance to reply, for Rebecca reappeared, a broad smile upon her face. She gestured us to jump down from the cart and join her.

“Good news, boys,” she softly declared as she hooked an arm around either of our necks, drawing us to her in the now-familiar embrace. “I cut a deal with the kitchen master. He’ll let us use the laundry shed and as much wood as we need for the fires. All he wants is a quarter of our profits, in return.”

“That sounds like a lot,” Tito protested as he tried to extricate himself.

Releasing her grip, the washerwoman shook her head. “He wanted half at first, but I made him see reason. So, boys, help me fill the pots and get the fires going, and then we’ll collect our laundry.”

“But what about the wagon?” I asked, my tone anxious. “Did you learn anything about it?”

“By Saint Jerome’s lion, you are an impatient one,” she replied with a shake of her head. “We’ll find that out as we gather the clothes. First things first.”

Retrieving the empty baskets, she sent Tito off to the stables with the mare and wagon. She and I began readying the kettles, each large enough to easily hold Tito and me both. There was water for boiling to be had from the cistern on the roof, so that filling the four vats-two for washing and two for rinsing-was an easy matter. By the time Tito rejoined us, we had fine blazes burning beneath each pot.

“With that much water, it’ll take some time to boil,” Rebecca reminded us. “Come on; let’s get some laundry.”

Carrying a basket between us-we would return for the second one once this one was full-we followed the washerwoman as she began her rounds. As before, Tito and I let Rebecca do all of the talking while he and I gathered the filthy bed linens and stained tunics. Her casual question as she bandied with each potential customer was the same: had they seen a large covered wagon carrying perhaps three men arrive at the castle earlier that morning?

“They about run me and my boys off the road, they was going so fast,” Rebecca would indignantly explain. “If they’re here, I want a word with them about frightening good people because they’re in a hurry. By the Virgin, we’ve got the same right to the road as them!”

At first, no one admitted to seeing any such men or wagon, and my spirits became as gloomy as Tito’s. For surely so large a conveyance would not pass unnoticed by the entire castle. But then, one of the pages-a smooth-cheeked boy in a pale blue tunic who was struggling beneath a small mountain of clothing collected from his fellows-nodded at her query.

“I saw a big wagon come into the castle this morning,” he agreed with a self-important air. “I couldn’t tell what they were hauling, though, because there was a cloth covering it.”

Then his eyes widened, and he stared at Rebecca in unfeigned alarm. “Pray, don’t say anything to them! It was the duke’s men driving the wagon. If you’re lucky, they’ll simply laugh at you. But if you make them angry, they could do worse! And if they find out I was the one who told you. .”

He trailed off in misery, his fear of the soldiers obvious. I wondered in sudden anger of my own what cruel punishment these men had inflicted upon the servants of Castle Pontalba in the past. Then a shiver of trepidation swept me. If a mere page might suffer retaliation for so a minor a transgression, what might my father be enduring at their hands?

The washerwoman, meanwhile, gave the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I won’t say anything, child. And, besides, maybe it wasn’t even the same wagon as tried to run us down. Do you know where they took it, so I can have a look?”

The page bit his lip, his round face pale, and I feared for a moment he would refuse to answer. Then, reluctantly, he jerked his head in the direction of the barracks.

“They drove it back there,” he whispered. “And a while later, they took the wagon back to the stables. But it was empty by then.”

Tossing the remaining tunics in my direction, he turned on his heel and scampered back to the main building from which he’d come. While I gathered up the garments from the dirt, Rebecca tapped a thick finger to her lips in thought.

“Let’s get these clothes boiling,” she said with a kick of the basket, “and then we’ll visit the stables and the barracks.”

We made our swift way back to the shed, where she sorted the linens and tossed half into the first vat. While Tito used a large paddle to stir, Rebecca added to the boiling water a ladle of brown soap from the covered bucket she’d brought with her on the journey.

“A fine soup,” she said with a grin as the stained clothing swirled about in the pot. “We’ll let it simmer for a time while we tend to our other business.”

The empty basket between us, Tito and I followed the washerwoman to the stables. While she bartered with the stable master for the mare’s care and the cart’s storage overnight, the two of us slipped away for a look inside the stalls. Tito took one side of the long stone building and I, the other.

My search was the first to bear fruit.

“Here,” I softly called, peering excitedly over a low wall. Behind the stalls I’d discovered an open shed where half a dozen or more carts and wagons of various sizes were stored. One of them, in particular, had caught my eye. Not only was it far larger than the other conveyances, but a folded length of rough canvas had been left in its bed.

Tito rushed over to join me, his gaze following my pointing finger. He frowned and then shrugged.

“Come on; let’s take a closer look,” I urged and scrambled over the wall. Tito followed more slowly, so that I had already climbed into its bed by the time he reached the wagon.

“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded in a soft undertone. “The stable master might step in at any minute.”

“Then you must keep an eye out and warn me, for I am looking for clues.”

Though what clues there might be, I could not guess; still, I began scanning the wagon for something that might indicate that my father or Leonardo’s invention had been transported upon it. My diligence was rewarded when I spied a few familiar brown threads caught on the splintered bed. Plucking them carefully from the wood, I held them up to my own brown tunic.

“They’re the same,” I said in an excited whisper. “Look, Tito. Ever since he joined up with the Master, my father has been wearing the same work tunic as we apprentices wear. He must have lain on the wagon beneath the canvas with the flying machine and snagged his clothes on a splinter.”

“Let me see.” Tito drew closer and viewed my find with a skeptical look. “I’m not so sure,” he repeated. “Brown cloth is common enough, you know.”

“Perhaps. But what of this?”

Nimbly, I hopped from the wagon bed and stepped off the distance between the two rear wheels.

“-Seven, eight. There, that matches the spacing of the wheel marks we found in the Master’s shed. Add that to the canvas that could have been used to cover the wagon, and the brown threads that match our tunics, and surely we can be certain that this is the wagon in question.”