Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

Bowls and spoons in hand, my father and I took our leave of Leonardo and began the short walk across the quadrangle.

“An impressive fortress,” he declared as he looked about the series of interconnected buildings that made up the main castle. Glancing up at the battlemented walks of the immense outer walls, he added, “It appears secure against any intruders, and yet the design is pleasing to the eye. The red stone and the white symbolize both strength and vision. And the towers rise with grace, despite their great size.”

“I think it the finest palace in all the world,” I replied with no little pride, as if I were Il Moro himself hearing his compliments.

My father smiled. “Ah, and how many palaces have you seen in your time, my child? Now, let us hope that the quality of the duke’s kitchen reflects the same majesty.”

Though the kitchen boy grumbled a bit at serving us this late, we still enjoyed a fine stew and dark bread that appeared to satisfy my father’s appetite. And as we ate, I broached the subject that had niggled at the back of my mind ever since I arrived in Milan.

“And how does Mother fare?”

“Quite well. Her health is good, her beauty is undiminished, and her tongue is as tart as ever.”

“And does she ever speak of me?” I asked, though without much hope.

My father hesitated before shaking his head.

“I fear she has not forgiven you for leaving as you did, in the dark of night and with no word but a terse note. And, of course, she suspects that I have some idea of your whereabouts. Though she is angered at the notion that I know something that she does not, I think it also brings her some comfort to know that you are alive and presumably well.”

I sighed, a painful knot that had nothing to do with the stew forming in my stomach. From my girlhood, my mother and I had managed but an uneasy truce at the best of times. As I grew older, her exasperation with me had grown in equal measure. What decent man, Carmela della Fazia had argued more than once, wanted a wife more interested in drawing pictures than in having babies? If I did not give up my painting, then I surely would never be married.

She had felt herself vindicated when, by sheer dint of effort, she finally had arranged a marriage for me with a well-to-do merchant willing to overlook my reputation as an eccentric young woman. For myself, I’d been horrified at the prospect of wedding a man more than twice my age who was known for his tight purse strings and his fondness for pretty young servants. And so, with my father’s help, I had conceived the plan that brought me here to Milan.

“What was said to Signor Niccolo, when he came to make his offer of marriage?” I asked with another sigh, referring to the man who would have been my husband.

My father’s lips twitched just a little as he replied, “Your mother told him that you suffered a conversion in the middle of the night and decided to take yourself off to a nunnery where you might devote the remainder of your life to good works.”

“Well, at least that would explain my shorn hair,” I replied with a flicker of a rueful smile. “I wonder if she will ever forgive me for disappointing her so.”

“It is hard to say, my child. Your mother is a woman of stern mind, and she is not prone to changing it. You will need to give her more time, I fear.”

I refrained from pointing out that she’d had more than a year to resolve her harsh feelings. Instead, I deliberately turned the conversation to cheerier topics.

“I am so happy that you are here in Milan with me,” I said in a warm rush. “I always envied Georgio and Carlo for being able to spend their days with you. If you can but convince the Master that I would make you a fine assistant, perhaps we can work together just as you and my brothers do.”

“Do not worry, my child,” he replied with a fond smile. “I have already informed your master that a condition of my employment is having you at my side.”

We went on to speak of other things. The subjects mattered little to me, for I was happy simply to bask in my father’s attention again. But finally, he said, “I know that Signor Leonardo must be growing impatient with us. We must return to the workshop and continue our conversations later. Besides, I am anxious to see where you live and work. Your master has, what, two or three other apprentices besides yourself?”

“There are almost twenty of us, Father,” I proudly told him. “I have made many fine friends. There is Constantin, our senior apprentice, and Paolo and Davide and Tommaso and-”

“You share quarters with that many young men?” he choked out, looking aghast. “I had no idea! Surely, that is highly improper, no matter that they think you a boy. I cannot allow that. I shall speak to your master, and-”

“Father, please!”

I glanced about, hoping his cries had not attracted any attention. Fortunately, the only one about was the kitchen boy, who seemed more concerned with stealing a few choice morsels from the plates he was scraping into the garbage pile than listening to our conversation.

“I swear to you, Father, there is nothing unseemly in this arrangement. We each have our own cot, tucked away into an alcove, so it is like being in our own chamber. And I have always been careful to preserve my modesty. . and theirs, as well. No one has ever questioned whether or not I am a boy. But if you say anything to the Master, suggest any changes to him, he may have cause to suspect the truth about me.”

I finished my plea and watched in dismay the struggle that played across my father’s pleasant, open features. The artist in him understood my dream of one day becoming a master like Leonardo. The parent, however, was aghast at the thought of his daughter living among so many males with no other female around to safeguard her virtue. And while my father always claimed my mother to be the more stubborn of the two, I knew that he could be equally firm in holding to a notion, should he believe it was the right thing to do.

Finally, and to my great relief, he gave a small nod. “Very well, Delfina. . or, I suppose I must get used to calling you Dino. No matter, I shall reserve my judgment for a time. If I can assure myself that your fellows do indeed treat you as a boy, I will rest easier allowing your masquerade to continue a bit longer.”

“Then let us go and meet them,” I urged with a smile. “The Master will be looking for us there, anyhow.”

And we did, indeed, find Leonardo awaiting us in the main workshop. As for the other apprentices, they had begun returning from their day’s outing and were gathered around him sharing their tales of where they had gone and what they had done. Vittorio had returned, as well-the mischievous Pio still at his side-and looked quite pleased with himself, so that I guessed his assignation with Novella had proved a success. While the youths laughed and chatted, Leonardo listened with his usual air of kind interest, occasionally urging the shyest among them to offer their thoughts.

My father and I observed the scene for some moments before the Master finally noticed our presence.

“Ah, Master Angelo,” he exclaimed, giving my father that more formal title now that we were among others. “Let me introduce my assistants to you.”

I felt a rush of pride as my friends made their bows and then listened respectfully while my father, in turn, gave them a brief account of his accomplishments. A few of the boys-Tito and Paolo, I knew for certain-had some knowledge of woodworking and appeared suitably impressed by the commissions my father described. For my part, I stood to one side and contented myself with my good fortune at having been born to a father of such kindness and talent.

When my father returned the floor to the Master, Leonardo said, “If you will recall, draftsmen, I gave you a holiday today. A few more hours yet remain, so again I task you with spending them in some enjoyable manner until it is time for the evening meal.”