Da Vinci's Cat Read online

  Bee jerked her chin down the corridor. “He went that way.” She eased herself toward the wardrobe—

  The guard grabbed her by the back of the neck. “He is not in the villa. I checked.” He was almost lifting her off her feet. “His people are insane with worry.”

  “I mean—” Bee pulled at her collar. “I mean he wasn’t there earlier. He went there just now.”

  The guard was quiet. So quiet that Bee could hear bells in the distance, and music.

  She squirmed. “Um, we had a fight.”

  The guard turned her face, studying her in the moonlight. “Two nights ago, I found his lordship wandering the city with some poppycock tale about Raphael. Tonight, Raphael had a poppycock tale about him.”

  “Yeah.” Bee gulped. “It’s a long story.”

  “Why was he sprinting through the garden this afternoon like an errand boy?”

  “Because . . .” Bee couldn’t think! And the guard’s eyes were so angry—like white fire. “Um, remember when you asked about the girl? Miss Bother?”

  “You said”—his voice harsh—“that she was better.”

  “She was! But it’s different now. It’s really hard to explain.” The wardrobe was only three steps away. If she could just twist free, she’d jump in—

  The guard pushed her up the corridor. “Enough.”

  “You can’t do this—I’m trying to explain—” She scrabbled at his arm, her fingers slipping on the velvet. “Fred!” she screamed.

  “Hush,” the guard ordered, opening the door to the palace. “You’ll wake people.”

  This was not good. This was really, really not good. “Seriously, what do you want to know?” Bee babbled as he marched her through the dark rooms. “It’s the wardrobe, okay? It was made by da Vinci—there’s a cat—”

  “Silence.” He half-pushed, half-carried her down a narrow staircase. A second staircase. Bee’s hose-shoes slipped; she had to grab at the wall. The guard’s hand never moved from her neck.

  A third staircase, so dark Bee could see only blackness. The air pressed at her face like a wet towel, reeking of old meat and garlic and poo. “Um, excuse me,” she said, as politely as she could. “I’m just wondering where we are going. Please. If you wanted to tell me—”

  “His lordship is only a boy.”

  “Me, too!” Bee exclaimed quickly. But that didn’t seem to help.

  A lantern flickered in the passage ahead, lighting the rough walls. A man paced—another Swiss Guard, helmet under his arm, rubbing his short hair.

  “My duty is to His Holiness,” the huge guard intoned, opening a plain wooden door. He looked down at Bee. “But I do not want to see harm befall him.”

  “Franz!” The second guard hurried over. “The young lord has left the city. I saw it myself.”

  The huge guard—Franz?—shook Bee. “What is this?” He leaned close, scowling. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything!” Bee winced back a sob.

  Franz glared at her. “Useless,” he spat, tossing her through the door. A slam. Footsteps stomped off.

  Bee stumbled, gasping for breath.

  She rubbed her neck, peering around. She was in a tiny cell that stank of leather and sweat. Moonlight lit a narrow bed heaped with blankets, and a finely carved shelf. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I thought Fred was going back to his room.” She wiped her nose. “Moo? Mom? I need help.”

  A creak—a movement.

  Across the room, the blankets shifted.

  Screaming, Bee hurled herself at the door.

  “Oh, sad one,” a voice murmured. “What have you done?”

  Chapter 27

  The Ride

  And now Federico was outside Rome, far beyond the city walls, pounding across the wild Roman countryside. Bathsheba’s hoofs beat a steady rhythm that devoured the miles; her coat showed not a bead of sweat. A horse should not run too long, Federico knew, for like a person it will tire. A soldier who walked his horse journeyed farther in the end, and arrived with both of them fresh. So Federico let Bathsheba gallop away the staleness of the stable, then slowed her to a trot. “Do not fret, pretty girl.” He patted her neck. “You shall run again soon.”

  In the distance behind them rose the towers of Rome, silhouetted against the mountains and the star-filled sky. Moonlight lit the highway so empty and flat, the wheat fields, the few rough huts; the breeze smelled of manure and swamp. How naked Federico felt without cap or cloak—but tonight he was a messenger, not a lord. Fine clothes would only mark him as someone important, someone worth robbing or holding for ransom. Men of power traveled this highway in daylight, with guards and hired soldiers. A humble messenger, however, would not attract attention at this late hour. . . .

  Or would he?

  Their first misfortune came as they climbed a hill. Aware of the distance they must ride, Federico had dismounted. All weight is heavy, Señor Pedro often scolded. It felt good to stretch his legs, though pebbles poked at his thin soles. He kept an eye on the road as he walked, reins in hand, Bathsheba’s pretty head turning this way and that.

  Her ears pricked forward.

  “What is it?” Federico clambered into the saddle. From horseback he’d have a much better view. No sooner was he seated, however, than the bushes erupted. Men lunged at him, and a snarling dog the size of a mastiff—

  Bathsheba leaped forward, kicking the dog. “Go!” screamed Federico, knife drawn, as the giant dog snapped at her hoofs. Four men ran toward them, swinging cudgels. Their hats covered their faces with shadow. Or perhaps they wore masks. Or perhaps they were demons. . . .

  “No!” he screamed, at the bandits and the dog and fate itself.

  Bathsheba shot away, the bandits in her dust. The dog kept pace till she kicked it again, and it rolled howling into the ditch.

  Federico risked a backward glance as he crouched in the saddle, the wind whipping his hair. “Ha!” he shouted, waving his knife. What a triumph. He wished his parents could see him. And Bee. And Herbert.

  Federico settled into the saddle, grinning. “Good girl.” How brave they’d both been.

  Eventually the mare slowed to a rocking canter that ate through the miles. Federico never stopped scanning the road, the bushes, the fields. He held his knife tight when they passed overgrowth, or vineyards knotted with shadow. Kidnapping no longer worried him. Bandits such as those four men would not kidnap a solitary messenger. They’d kill him for the horse. Had Michelangelo encountered bandits? Though even bandits would be mad to take on Michelangelo, who had muscles and hammers and rage.

  At long last Federico caught sight of a lantern. He sighed in relief: a post inn for travelers. A stable boy ran out as he trotted into the courtyard. “Bathsheba,” the boy cried. He took her reins, barely glancing at the rider.

  Federico slipped from the saddle. At that moment the splash of the horse trough sounded sweeter than honey. “Has a man passed recently?” he asked, gulping down water. Beside him, Bathsheba drank deep. “He has an odd neck.” Federico cocked his head to demonstrate.

  The stable boy nodded. “He smelled something terrible. And he said terrible things about Mantua.”

  “How dare you—” Federico caught himself. “Might my horse have some grain?” he asked politely, tugging Bathsheba away from the trough. She’d get colic if she drank too much. As she ate, he listened to the stable boy describe how the smelly man had refused to change horses, so desperate had he been to leave the pope’s country. “Then I must hurry, too,” Federico said grimly, leading Bathsheba back to the road.

  Though he yearned to gallop, Federico walked Bathsheba some distance, letting the water and grain settle within her. At least, he comforted himself, he could play a messenger. The stable boy proved that.

  The terrain was rougher now, with long stretches of climbing. The moon crept its way across the heavens; morning, it seemed, would never come. Federico walked the hills and rode Bathsheba at a slow pace on the downslopes, fearful
she might stumble. Otherwise they trotted, and only sometimes cantered when one or the other could not stand the slowness of the pace.

  Trouble returned during a climb. Federico walked silently, knife in hand, listening for any rustle. Bathsheba set each hoof with purpose, ears pricked. At the sound of hoofbeats, they both started, and Federico was in the saddle before his next breath.

  Bathsheba ran, her neck long, but she was not fresh, and the riders were soon upon them. A bandit, bearded and scarred, pounded next to Federico, his horse matching Bathsheba stride for stride. He grabbed for her reins—

  Federico stabbed at him, slashing the bandit’s gloved hand. Again he stabbed—

  Cursing, the bandit let go. But Federico had not a moment of rest, for a second outlaw appeared on his left—

  Galloping with all her might, Bathsheba bit at the other horse, screaming like the fighter she was. Federico caught the bandit’s reins with his knife blade, and with a fierce tug sliced them through. The rider fell back at once.

  Bent low on Bathsheba, Federico struggled to hear over her pounding hoofs and the pounding of his heart. Did more men follow? He did not have the courage to look back.

  But if bandits did trail them, they lacked Bathsheba’s spirit. On she flew, tension easing; her hoofs now sounded out rhythms instead of alarms. “You are worth your weight in silver,” Federico whispered, stroking her neck.

  By now Federico’s bottom was so sore that he welcomed walking on foot. Bathsheba lagged, her head low. Perhaps they’d never catch Michelangelo. Perhaps Federico was fated to die after all, the last of the Gonzaga.

  Ahead rose a hilltop marked by lights. An enemy, or an inn? Federico could not be sure. It took effort to climb into Bathsheba’s saddle, for exhaustion filled his bones. Exhaustion and fear.

  Cautiously he rode forward.

  “Halt!” bawled a voice. “Halt in the name of Florence.”

  Federico almost collapsed with relief. He had reached the border. Dismounting, he did his best not to fall. “I seek a man who rode through here—”

  “Michelangelo, you mean?” A stable man approached, lantern high. “You look a right beggar, mate.”

  Federico held out the reins. “Might you care for her, please?”

  The stableman took the reins with a nod. “You know you’re bleeding?”

  Federico glanced down. His sleeve was slashed and bloody. “That’s from a bandit, I think.”

  “You’re tougher than you look.” The stable man nodded to the inn. “He’s there. Stay upwind.”

  Federico limped across the courtyard. The eastern horizon held the promise of dawn.

  With a deep breath, he opened the door.

  The inn consisted of a low room with a floor that looked older than time. Embers glowed in the hearth, barely lighting the rough tables and stools. Michelangelo sat alone, head cocked as always. “Hmph. Federico. Come to beg forgiveness?”

  Federico eased himself into a chair. Somewhere close, bread was baking. “Yes. Forgive me. I beg you.”

  Michelangelo dunked a crust into a chipped bowl of water. “Never.”

  “Please. If you do not return to Rome, my family will suffer.”

  A shrug. “How is that my problem?”

  “But Mantua—my country—”

  “Yes. Your country. Not mine.” Michelangelo swept the crumbs into one brawny hand and dumped them into his mouth. “You see this? The greatest artist in Rome, and I eat like a prisoner.”

  Federico sighed. He had heard too many times about Michelangelo’s so-called poverty. “You have money, Master. You own a village.”

  “I am not respected. I am a genius, and people”—he glared at Federico—“sneak behind my back.”

  Federico dropped his head. “Yes. But—”

  “Upstarts copy me. They mock.” Michelangelo stood, head tilted, pushing away the bowl. “But no more.”

  “Master, you cannot.” Federico’s voice rose in desperation. “I need you! The dishonor—”

  “Your dishonor.” Michelangelo strode across the room. “I am in my country now.” His eyes flicked across Federico’s filthy breeches and bloody sleeve. “I don’t have to listen to beggars.” He slammed the door as he left.

  Chapter 28

  The Climb

  Trapped in a moonlit cell in the depths of the palace, Bee stared in horror at the shifting lump of blankets. “Wha—?” she gasped, groping for the door.

  Again the thing moved, and swung its legs to the floor, and became a man in a black shirt with striped sleeves. And that voice: What have you done? She knew that voice. Raphael.

  “Wait—what?” Bee tried to keep her own voice from shaking. “Why are you in jail?”

  “Jail?” Raphael chuckled, straightening his sleeves. “Silly child, we’re in the barracks of the Swiss Guards. They’re quite fond of me here.”

  “But why is that guard so mad at Fred—I mean, Sir Federico?”

  “Franz? Quite the opposite. If His Holiness lost his young hostage. . . .” Carefully he stood, peering into a mirror propped on the shelf. “Saints above. At least I won’t have a scar.” He grimaced, testing his bruised forehead. “So much for seeing the Sistine Chapel.”

  “Wait—” But that was the whole point! “But you still need to draw me.”

  Raphael dabbed at the bruise. “Too bad it’s locked.”

  “It’s locked?” Suddenly Bee’s chest didn’t feel quite so tight.

  “So I’m afraid we haven’t a deal. Now be a dear and find me my cap. Black, tasteful, small . . . There it is.”

  “So if you could get into the chapel,” Bee asked slowly, “you would draw me?”

  Raphael set a satchel across his chest. “I’ve got the sketchbook right here. If only our plan had worked.” He arranged his cap in the mirror. “I must thank Franz for being such a good host. . . .” His voice died as he looked down at the key in Bee’s hand.

  “We still have time,” she whispered. That space over Miss Bother’s fireplace—they still had time, right? Maybe?

  Raphael stared at the key, tapping his chin in thought.

  “Michelangelo has gone to Florence.” Bee must convince this man! “Don’t you want to see the greatest art in the world?”

  Raphael stiffened. “That’s a little strong.”

  He was listening, though. He was interested. “It’s what my mom says.” Bee stuck her head out the door. “Excuse me? We need to borrow this lantern.” She turned back to Raphael. “Please? It’s an emergency.”

  “The greatest art in the world?” Raphael sniffed. But he followed her into the hall.

  Together they trotted up the narrow staircase and the second and the third, Bee so excited that she wanted to run. Behind her, Raphael’s eyes gleamed. For all his pooh-poohing, he looked almost hungry. They trekked through dark rooms crowded with ladders, though empty echoing hallways as Bee’s borrowed lantern caught the gold-painted details. . . . Finally they reached the forecourt of the Sistine Chapel with its doors half the size of the wall. Bee forced the key into the lock.

  Raphael laid his hands over hers. “He’s truly gone?”

  She nodded.

  Raphael grinned, licking his lips. Together they pushed open the door.

  The great chapel lay before them, the floor gliding silently into darkness. Moonlight gleamed down from high windows. The enormous canvas stretched above their heads, rustling in the breath of night. Beyond it rose the other half of the ceiling, patient and gray.

  Bee stepped across the threshold, the shadows drinking her footsteps. Her eyes went to the blank part of the ceiling. That’s what the whole thing used to look like. That’s what it’d look like again if—

  Don’t think that, she told herself. “Come on.”

  She climbed the ladder hand over hand, up and up and up. Raphael followed, as silent as a cat. More silent, because he didn’t mrow. Where, she wondered, was Juno now?

  Don’t think that.

  From the top of the ladd
er she could barely see the floor. There wasn’t even a railing! The ceiling curved over her head, ghostly in the lantern light. The scaffolding rose with it like bleachers in a gym. Beneath Bee’s feet, the planks creaked. But the scaffolding was strong—it’d been built to hold Michelangelo plus his assistants. Moo probably knew all their names.

  Moo would love this. She would love it so much.

  Raphael eased his way onto the scaffolding, his head turning as he tried to take it all in. Below them, the canvas whispered and sighed.

  Bee pointed to the top of the ceiling. “That’s Adam and Eve. That’s my mom’s favorite part.”

  “May I?” Raphael asked, taking the lantern. He stepped around a wooden pulley, heading for the nearest wall.

  Raphael might not be interested in Adam, but Bee was. How could she not be? She’d had to look at him so many times. She couldn’t wait to see him close. Up she climbed past a coil of rope, a stack of chisels, heading to the top.

  Do you see his energy? Moo had asked the Japanese tourists. Do you feel it? She’d positioned Bee’s arms to demonstrate Adam reaching for the apple. Join in! she’d told the tourists. And they had, laughing as they felt the energy of Adam and the energy of Moo. Bee had laughed, too. She’d been embarrassed, sure. But she’d also been happy.

  A board squeaked: Raphael. He lifted the lantern to look at the image of a man in a robe, his arm crossed over his chest. Raphael turned his own body, imitating the pose. Letting his hand droop midair . . .

  Most artists, Moo explained, painted the Garden of Eden like it was all Eve’s fault. Like Eve tricked Adam. A woman tricking a man. But not Michelangelo. For Michelangelo, sin was just as much Adam’s fault.

  Raphael strolled along the scaffolding, the lantern light circling him like a halo. He examined a woman rocking a baby, her shoulder turned protectively, her head bent.

  Bee reached the top of the scaffolding, so close that she almost could touch Adam. Moo always got mad when people said Michelangelo lay on his back to paint. He stood! she’d say, stretching her arm up, her head tilted. Now Bee stretched, too. How many people in the history of the world got to see Adam from four feet away? Got to see him reach for the apple?