Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

“Very well, I went back to the castle,” I told him, “and this time, I found my father. If you swear that you can keep silent and say nothing, not even to Rebecca, I will tell you all I know.”

After gaining his oath, I explained how I’d earlier discovered the duchess in her meager cell and told him of the odd coincidence of two washerwomen named Rebecca. I explained, as well, that I had returned in hopes of learning more from her, to discover Marianna gone from the cell and my father imprisoned there in her place.

“And he wishes us to return to Milan,” I finished. “He will remain here at the castle. Once he finishes building the craft, he will make good his escape by flying it from Pontalba to freedom. By then, Il Moro will have been warned of what has happened and can pursue retribution against the Duke of Pontalba for his crimes.”

Tito shook his head in amazement as he finished listening to my dramatic tale.

“This is serious business, Dino. I agree with your father. We must return to Milan as soon as possible and leave the rest up to Master Leonardo.”

“Then let us get some rest. And remember, not a word of this to Rebecca. She may well be an innocent in all of this, but if she is not, we must watch her carefully lest she betray us, as well.”

We arose to the cock’s crow and made swift work of the now-dry laundry. By the time we had returned the linens to their owners, the pouch at Rebecca’s waist jingled tellingly. She pulled out a handful of coins, which she split between Tito and me.

“Your share for your efforts. How does it feel to earn a few soldi for your hard work, my fine young gentleman?” she asked, her grin directed at Tito.

Tito eyed his share with suspicion. “I do not think this is one-third.”

“And who said we would split the money evenly?” she countered, her black brows drawing down to her nose. “Besides, all earned was not profit. The kitchen master had to be paid.”

“You are very generous, Rebecca,” I interjected, giving Tito a not-so-subtle elbow to the ribs. “Shall I bring the mare and wagon, so we can be off?”

Not many minutes later, we had passed through the gates of Castle Pontalba and were driving at a quick pace toward the forest. It was not until we reached the trees, however, that I released the breath that I felt I had been holding ever since our arrival there the day before. Still, I could not help but glance over my shoulder several times lest the duke’s men come in pursuit. Tito must have feared the same thing, for his gaze was fi xed on the road behind us.

Sparing a glance at Rebecca, I wondered at her thoughts. I could read nothing in her expression, however, save an air of determination as she drove the mare with swiftness toward home.

As with the outward journey, we passed but a few people in either direction, so that the road belonged mostly to us. The washerwoman kept us going well past dusk, far later than she’d let us travel before. Still, I had to stop myself from protesting when we finally stopped for the night.

Though a chill hung in the air, we did not bother with a fire but wrapped ourselves tightly in our cloaks. We made a meager meal of bread and cheese, Tito having finished off the remaining figs the day before. By unspoken agreement, we limited our conversation to the latest gossip of Castle Sforza, but our talk had an air of forced joviality that fooled none of us. With the same silent accord we retired to our blankets soon after eating. Still, from the paucity of snores that followed, I suspected that I was not the only one having a hard time falling asleep.

Indeed, it seemed I had just dropped off into slumber when Rebecca was shaking me awake. The mare was soon hitched to the wagon, and we set off again as first light was breaking over the horizon. We were back among rolling hills interspersed with small groves, so that our travel took on a slower pace as compared to the day before. Heavy shrubs and sturdy pines flanked this portion of the road, which wound like a serpent’s trail. We would reach Milan, I judged, at about the same time that the sun reached its zenith. From there, who knew what would be the next step. . full-scale war, perhaps, or maybe stern diplomacy?

So caught up was I in such thoughts that, as we rounded the next curve, I took a moment to register what the appearance of a fallen pine tree across the road and a single man ahead meant.

Tito had no such moment of confusion. “Bandits!” he cried. “Bandits are awaiting us!”

More correctly, there appeared to be but a single lone bandit, stocky of build if stooped in posture. He stood a short distance before a thick tree trunk, which had been positioned most effectively to block the trail. But though he was alone, he was armed with an old-fashioned crossbow almost as large as he, which lethal-looking weapon he held aimed in our direction. He was helmed so that his face was mostly covered, and he wore a heavy brown jerkin over a black tunic and black trunk hose. Likely, he’d been a legitimate man in some noble’s private force before turning to a life of unsanctioned thievery and murder.

Rebecca had pulled the mare to a swift halt, so that there were a dozen or so wagon lengths between us and the brigand. Despite my quite reasonable terror, I had to concede that his choice of ambush was clever. Even if we did not have his weapon to fear, we still could not drive around his roadblock for the trees on either side of us. Neither was there room to turn the wagon and flee in the other direction. The choices were surrender. . or confrontation.

“Let go the reins and climb down,” the man shouted, his guttural voice hinting at a Germanic accent.

I clutched at Rebecca’s arm, which felt like warm steel beneath my hand. All the tales I’d heard of bandits robbing their victims ended with the bandits murdering those poor unfortunates. I doubted this man would be more merciful than his fellows in his treatment of us. If we did not take some action to evade him and his crossbow, the three of us would be found lying by the roadside, stripped of pouches and tunics and anything else that could be of value.

Thus confronted, my mind had gone swiftly blank when it came to clever plans. Praying the others had better kept their wits, I frantically murmured, “What shall we do?”

“If we climb down from the wagon, we are dead,” Rebecca softly replied, echoing my unspoken fear. “But we have a small advantage in that he can kill but one of us with his crossbow. In the time it would take him to fletch it once more, the remaining two of us could be upon him. Tito must make ready his knife-yes, I know about it! — and I shall charge this brigand with our wagon.”

She flicked a look at Tito.

“You and Dino, both of you shield yourselves as best you can until he has fired his weapon,” she instructed in the same quiet voice. “With luck, we’ll take him by surprise, and his aim will be off. My plan is to run him into the earth. Otherwise, if you and Dino can wrestle him down, I will put your blade into his black heart.”

Though once I might have balked at so casual a plan of murder, I was no longer a sheltered girl with no knowledge of the cruel world. I had seen examples enough of man’s depravity these past months to know that righteous self-preservation was the logical response to such a crisis. And so I gave a swift nod, while Tito murmured his assent.

But even this brief delay appeared to have enraged our assailant. He was moving toward us at a quick pace, his blond mustachioed lips-all that we could see of his face-twisted into a sneer as he shouted, “Get down, now!”

“Pray, do not harm us!” Rebecca cried in a high voice unlike her usual hoarse tones. “I am but a poor washerwoman. My boys and I have nothing of value. By the saints, let us pass in peace!”