A Bolt From the Blue Read Online Free PDF

attention.
    “It was during my visit to Florence at Christmastide,” he continued, “that I saw an example of a door he had made for a noble’s private chapel there. The grapevines he had carved upon it were so real that I had to touch them with my own fingers before I was convinced they were not living plants. And so when I determined I needed a master woodworker to assist me, he was the man who came to mind.
    “Of course,” he added with a shrug, “I first had to learn his name and next discover his home. Then came the task of convincing him to leave his family behind for the opportunity to toil under Ludovico’s patronage for a few months.”
    “I’m certain he was honored by the offer,” I responded as I fondly thought how my father had always dreamed of receiving such a commission . . . and my mother, more so!
    To be sure, the artisan with a noble patron ofttimes found that a duke’s purse strings were tied more tightly than those of the middle class. This I had learned from listening to Leonardo’s laments regarding Ludovico, whose disinclination to make good his debts was well-known. But the prestige of having had a patron of rank served to bring other clients more inclined to pay their bills.
    The Master, meanwhile, was nodding at my words.
    “He seemed pleased with the offer, particularly when he learned the commission would bring him to Milan. It happens that he has family here whom he has not seen for some time.”
    He gave me a conspiratorial grin and added, “His sole obstacle was his wife, who objected to the possibility of his prolonged absence. But he finally wrote to assure me that he had gained her permission and so would be here to meet me at noon of this day.”
    He paused to glance at his right wrist. Strapped to it with twin bands of leather was a flat metal box perhaps the size of my palm. This was one of his inventions, which he called a wrist clock. A miniature version of the tower clock above us, it was designed in much the same way to track the day’s hours. Though I’d scoffed when I first saw it, I had quickly come to admire the clever device and secretly wished for one myself.
    The wrist clock began chiming the hour at the same moment its far larger brother above sounded its own call. Leonardo peered through the open gateway, his expression expectant as he flicked his elegant fingers in the reflexive gesture of his that always indicated impatience.
    “Let us hope that our new craftsman views punctuality as a virtue and not as a vice,” he remarked, “for I am anxious to begin work this very day.”
    And I was anxious to return to the workshop, I thought a bit resentfully. I still could not fathom why the Master required my presence. After all, there was no mystery to be solved, no cruelly murdered corpse to identify.
    Aware that such thoughts were unworthy—as Leonardo’s apprentice I was bound to obey him—I dutifully strove for a moderate demeanor. Meanwhile, his expression brightened.
    “See, I had no cause for concern,” he exclaimed, “for our good cabinetmaker approaches.”
    Curious, I followed Leonardo’s gaze, squinting against the glare of the midday sun to discover the subject of his scrutiny.
    A knot of milling tradesmen and servants had parted to reveal a tall man of middle years striding toward the gate. His moderate garb—a brown cloth hat and belted, knee-length brown tunic over yellow trunk hose—marked him a craftsman, as did the patched leather sack that doubtless held the tools of his trade. In the opposite hand, he carried a tall, carved stick such as many pilgrims carried while trudging the rocky roads that led to and from the city. Designed to ease one’s way over uneven paths, the sturdy stick served equally well as a means of defense should the traveler be set upon by bandits . . . not an unheard-of event in this province.
    I frowned, for something about this man seemed familiar. Indeed, with his mane of wavy dark hair and neat beard, he