Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

“And now,” Leonardo continued, pointing to a pair of large barrels beside him, “if you are to play the part of soldiers, you must look the role. I have assembled a fine collection of tunics and jerkins, as well as mail, which should serve our purpose. Each of you choose a proper uniform for yourself and then gather in the empty wagon outside the workshop.”

The next few minutes took on the element of a mock battle as we apprentices scrambled to find white tunics and dark blue cloth jerkins that fit from the one barrel, and appropriate bits of armor and mail from the other. The swiftest among us claimed breastplates and helmets, while the others had to be satisfied with mail headpieces and gloves.

Once I had my own gear in hand, I slipped away to the Master’s makeshift forge. A few moments’ foraging among the leftover bits of iron and other metals yielded success. Concealing the objects that I’d sought inside my belt pouch, I brushed the soot from my hands and rejoined my fellows.

Soon enough, it was a respectable-looking contingent that clambered into the fourth wagon reserved for the “troops.” Tommaso, Paolo, and Tito each took the reins of one supply wagon, while Davide prepared to drive the one that would carry the remainder of us apprentices. All four conveyances were, in turn, harnessed to matched steeds that must have come from Il Moro’s own stables. I wondered how the Master had managed so bold a feat and then shrugged. Leonardo had his own way of laying hands on whatever he needed, be it horses or tunics.

Eying my borrowed helmet with its fl amboyant black plume in satisfaction, I balanced it upon my knee as Davide whipped up our team and drove our wagon into the main quadrangle. The other three wagons followed in precise formation after us, making a grand sight as we slowly rolled toward the main gate.

But where, I wondered, was the Master?

The sudden clash of hooves accompanied by what sounded like a dozen swinging swords heralded his approach from behind us. As one, we turned and then gasped, our eyes wide with awe. For Leonardo, now wearing a warrior’s gleaming breastplate and helmet, was driving what could only be but another of the fantastic war machines he had designed for Ludovico.

But while pulled by a pair of ordinary black stallions, this was no commonplace chariot. Each elaborately carved wheel was equipped with twin scythes mounted at its axle that spun as the vehicle moved forward. Evil-looking spikes studded the wheels’ frames and provided additional defense should the spinning blades not suffice to stop a flank assault. Larger scythes were mounted on a shaft protruding behind the chariot and turned in concert with the wheels to protect against a rear attack. The largest blade of all was mounted on yet another shaft, which rose high above the driver’s head, spinning like a silvery bird of prey.

Impressive as the sight was now, I could imagine how it would look in battle, the scythes enveloping the driver in a whirlwind of steel and singing a sure promise of destruction for any man or beast who drew too near the chariot. Never had any of us seen such a machine before. . nor, I guessed somewhat smugly, would the Duke of Pontalba’s men ever have been privy to such a sight.

We gave a fine cheer as Leonardo passed us by to lead our convoy toward the castle gates. Whatever agreement he had concocted with the captain of the guard must have been successful, for the heavy wood and iron grille was already raised, and the path before us was clear.

With a dramatic flick of a lever, the Master shut down his whirling blades, so we departed the castle with far less fanfare. . and with far less likelihood of endangering any innocent passersby! He took a quicker route through the city than Rebecca had used, so that before long we were on the road and headed toward Pontalba.

“Wait! Signor Leonardo!”

We were but a short way down the road when several of us heard that faint salutation, repeated more than once over the rumble of wagon wheels. Curious, we all peered back, but the remaining wagons blocked our view of the way from which we’d come. It was not until we reached a small curve in the road that we could see past the last wagon again to discover the source of those frantic cries.

I was not sure whether to laugh or groan at the sight of a familiar cart bearing down with eager speed upon us. This time, the mare who pulled it was gray, and the driver was a beautiful young girl. . but the sturdy figure doing the hailing was none other than the washerwoman Rebecca.

By the time we slowed for another curve, the nimble Novella had maneuvered the cart alongside us. Rebecca, arm bandaged and wimple restored, gave us all an offended look.

“You cannot be off without me!” she cried. “What if you need my help again?”

“Rebecca, you are injured,” I countered in no little concern. “You should be resting and tending to your arm instead of driving about the countryside.”

“I can rest later. Signor Leonardo needs my help now.”

I glanced over at Novella in appeal, but she merely lifted a slim shoulder and kept driving. Doubtless the girl had long since learned that her mother was to be treated as a force of nature, something to be endured and not to be contained. As for Vittorio, he was grinning broadly. Gesturing the girl closer still, he stood and with a nimble hop went from our wagon to the cart.

“Do not worry,” he declared as he took the reins from an admiring Novella and settled in. “I shall keep them apace of us, and when we stop to rest the horses, the Master will decide if they stay or go.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to reflect that the Master might not have much choice in the matter. After all, it was a public road, and the washerwoman had as much right to it as he. The battle between Milan and Pontalba might not be the only fight we witnessed these next days, I wryly told myself. But I would not protest her coming with us, should I be queried on the matter. Indeed, I found myself unaccountably cheered by the washerwoman’s doughty presence.

Settling more comfortably myself, I let my thoughts linger on my father’s determined words he’d spoken the night I had left him. He had put aside his past doubts to envision himself soaring from the highest rooftops of Castle Pontalba and swooping like a hawk out of his enemy’s reach. If my father dared to attempt so dangerous a feat on his own, then perhaps the Master’s plan was not so impossible, after all.

Perhaps an army of untrained boys with no weapons but paint and their wits might find victory against an army when led by such inimitable generals as Leonardo the Florentine and Rebecca the washerwoman.

Led by Leonardo, our makeshift army traveled south at a swift pace toward the Duke of Pontalba’s castle. As before, the road between both points was but lightly traveled, and even the Master’s fantastical chariot drew but a few curious glances from the pilgrims that we passed.

The expected clash between Rebecca and the Master did not occur, after all. I guessed that he had anticipated this turn of events, for he’d been quite cordial to the two women. In a courtly gesture, he’d positioned their cart in the place of greatest safety between his chariot and our wagon. I was grateful for this action, for I could see that Rebecca was yet weak and feverish despite her protests of fine health.

And though all of us knew the import of our mission, it was to be expected that a band of young men could not remain somber for hours on end. Thus, we passed the time that first day with stories and riddles. We had but a few hours of sunlight to guide us, however, for our journey had begun well after noontide. We stopped when darkness made travel too difficult along the dark, rocky road.