“I checked each line and joint,” I hastened to assure him. “And don’t forget that you had already told me you intended to use the flying machine to make your escape. If you were not afraid, how could I be?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I do not doubt your bravery, for few men would have dared such a feat. But why did you disobey Signor Leonardo’s orders and make your way into the castle, in the first place?”

“Tito convinced me that the Master’s plan was flawed, and that your life and his were in danger,” I confessed, realizing once more how well the youth had drawn me into his net of lies. Or had it been Rebecca who had convinced me of the particular plan? Now I was not so sure.

More shaken than I cared to admit by this uncertainty, I explained to my father how I’d secretly witnessed Leonardo’s audience with the Duke of Pontalba… including Nicodemo’s threats to hang both him and the Master, along with the other apprentices. I told him, too, of my final encounter with Tito on the roof, and how he had confessed to Constantin’s murder. My father’s frown deepened, and I knew he had been as stung as we apprentices by the betrayal of the young man he had taken under his wing.

When I finished my account, I asked, “But what of the treaty between Milan and Pontalba? Will there be war?”

“I suspect not… at least, not for the moment. It appears that both sides have agreed to pretend that this encounter never happened, so long as the Duke of Pontalba relinquishes both his wife and the dowry she brought with her. As for the treaty, it likely will not hold any longer than it takes Il Moro’s army to return to Milan.”

“Pah, I would have preferred to see Nicodemo hanging from his own parapets, as he threatened to do with us,” I muttered with no little heat.

Though gladdened to know that the duchess would gain her freedom once more, I could not repress the bitterness that swept me. The duke would suffer no punishment for his evil deeds, no matter that he was responsible for the deaths of two young men and would have commanded many more to be killed had Il Moro’s army not arrived in time to halt that heinous crime. Instead, he would continue to feast with his men, perhaps find another young wife to torment, all the while making war on his neighbors and callously murdering anyone who proved inconvenient.

And none of this was fair.

Once, I would have been swift to make this protest aloud rather than simply harboring the thought. But over the past few months, I had come to accept the Master’s oft-made assertion that life was not fair and never had been. With that acceptance, however, had also come the certainty that the actions of a single person could sometimes tilt those scales back in the opposite direction, so that right could be made to outweigh wrong, and justice could be made to conquer chaos.

Regrettably, I suspected that I was not that person… at least, not this particular time.

My father, meanwhile, was nodding his agreement. “I understand little of politics and less of warfare, but I can recognize a scoundrel when he crosses my path, no matter that he be draped in velvets and silks. The Duke of Pontalba is a villain, and your Duke of Milan is little better. They care only to fatten their coffers and gain glory for themselves. By Saint Joseph, I will be glad when we return home again.”

So saying, he released my hand and smiled. “You must rest, while I help your fellows finish loading the wagons for our journey tomorrow. The afternoon grows late enough that we will remain camped here with Ludovico’s army tonight and take our leave at first light with them.”

It was not until after he left me alone did I have the chance to consider his declaration that we were to return home. Surely my father had not meant that he expected me to accompany him, I thought in dismay. With those words echoing in my ears, I began to prepare my arguments, more than willing to protest any such attempt to roust me from Milan… until a far more alarming possibility occurred to me.

What if the Master truly were as angry as Vittorio claimed? No matter that my motives had been pure, I had flouted his orders and managed to destroy his grand invention before he’d ever had the chance to test it himself. He might decide that I was no longer worthy of my post and dismiss me as his apprentice. Thus disgraced, I would have no choice but to return home with my father, after all.

And if that happened, my long-held dream of becoming a master painter would end as abruptly as had my ride upon Leonardo’s flying machine.

We departed Castle Pontalba at dawn the next day, our small band bordered, front and rear, by the Duke of Milan’s army. Davide again drove the wagon that carried us apprentices. Behind us, my father had taken the reins of the wagon that Tito had driven, while Paolo and Tommaso were once more in charge of the others. With the soldiers setting our pace, we traveled more swiftly than we had even under Leonardo’s command.

The whirling blades of his chariot safely folded down, the Master took his place near the front of the mounted troops behind the captain of the guard and his highest-ranking men. The army’s supply wagons and a company of foot soldiers came next, followed by our wagons. The remaining foot soldiers and a contingent of mounted men brought up the rear, providing more than sufficient defense should the Duke of Pontalba break the treaty before we’d left his small province and send his soldiers after us.

Il Moro’s young cousin Marianna-the former Duchess of Pontalba-perched upon a small white steed among the mounted soldiers before us. Dressed in the same now-ragged finery that she’d worn while in her cell, she was flanked by what appeared to be the two largest of the men-at-arms.

Though their armored chargers were almost twice the size of her dainty beast, I suspected that the soldiers were there not so much to provide protection as they were to catch her should she lose her grip and tumble from her mount. Such was not an unlikely possibility, for she appeared more alarmingly fragile now than she had in her cell. But Marianna had proved herself worthy of her Sforza ancestors, despite her weakened state.

While I lay recuperating upon my pallet the night before, my father had related more of that day’s events. The liberation of the duchess had proved almost as dramatic as the clash between Milan and Pontalba. She had refused the captain of the guard’s suggestion that she be taken from the castle in one of the wagons. Instead, upon learning that she had been freed from the duke’s clutches, she insisted she would ride her own horse through the gate and all the way back to Milan.

“I shall not give him the satisfaction of seeing me carried from this place,” she had declared, her scornful tone leaving no doubt as to her opinion of her husband.

Impressed by her strength of mind, the captain ordered his men to retrieve her mount from the stables and had helped settle her upon the small steed himself. Then, flags flying and trumpets blasting, his soldiers had made a great show of escorting her with every ceremony from the castle grounds.

Listening to my father’s account, I had felt a swell of admiration for the young woman. And if the saints continued to watch over her, perhaps Marianna’s story would end far more happily than had that of the tragic contessa she had replaced.

But as our journey continued, I concentrated my thoughts on my own situation. I had the advantage of my soft pallet at the front of the wagon bed where I could stretch out to rest. The remaining apprentices sat shoulder to shoulder in far less comfort than I, though none seemed inclined to complain. The stories and riddles that had passed the time for us before were not to be heard on this journey, however, for each youth was caught up in his thoughts.