The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2015 Linda Lafferty

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

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, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781477822074

ISBN-10: 1477822070

Cover design by Elsie Lyons

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951482

This novel is dedicated to the good people of Siena

Il Palio e’ Vita

(The Palio Is Life)

P
ART
I

A Medici Princess and the Little Shepherdess

A
NNI
1569–1574

C
HAPTER
1

Siena, Contrada del Drago

A
UGUST
1569

One of my treasured memories—one of the few I have of my parents—is riding on my father’s shoulders through the streets of Siena, my mother walking by our side. On sunny days, when there was little work or none at all, my father would close up his tiny leather workshop. His eyes would sparkle with a light of conspiracy as he lifted me up and set me behind his head. I could not have been much more than two.

As he locked the door behind us, the fresh air chased away the scent of oiled leather: saddles, bridles, halters, sturdy bags for travelers. If my father could not afford to have horses, at least he could create the tack to put on their glorious backs.

He pointed across the deep ravine that cut into the heart of the city, between two hills. We gazed at the black-and-white marble walls of Il Duomo, the great cathedral. The view from our neighborhood, the Drago
contrada
, across Siena, and up to Il Duomo was the most magnificent vista in our beloved city. A great swath of green farmland edged the yellow and deep red flanks of brick buildings and ocher stucco. Beyond the city, set on three hills, lay a patchwork of green and gold, the rolling lands of Tuscany.

“We will go visit your horses,” my father said.

My horses.

“But first we must cross the Contrada dell’Oca, the Goose. Are you ready, my brave little girl?”

I nodded solemnly. I knew one day a Goose
contradiolo
would ambush us. In Drago, we were taught from the cradle to distrust our neighboring contradas. As they distrusted us.

“We must be careful of the goose,” whispered my father. “I can smell perfidy in the flap of its feathers. It is a most foul bird.”

My mother rolled her eyes.

“Why do you teach her this foolishness? Do not listen to your
babbo
’s silly stories.”

My father paid her no mind.

“Keep watch, Virginia. Be vigilant,” he warned.

For all the suspicion and anger, the Geese of Oca were our neighbors. If my father threw a rock from his shop, it would land in Oca territory. And we shared more than cobblestones. Although we of Drago had the basilica—which enshrined the preserved head of St. Catherine—Oca was the saint’s birthplace. (Her body remained in Rome, but no one spoke of that in Siena.)

My mother did not join in when we spoke of Oca. Her best friend lived in Oca, and she knew not all Geese were treacherous.

“Stop filling her head with these alliances and enemies!”

“I want her to grow up as a proud
dragaiola
. She needs to know her heritage.”

At this, my mother’s lips tightened. I was too young to know it, but it cost us dearly to live within the city walls. My father’s leather-goods shop did not bring in enough money for us to survive there.

But my parents desperately wanted me to be born here, in the city, in the Contrada del Drago, whether they could really afford it or not. It was my heritage, they told me. My Tacci grandfather had been born here.

“Here we go!” said my father, joggling me atop his shoulders. “Into Gooseland!”

My head twisted and I scowled, keeping a sharp lookout as we descended, then climbed up the steep hill of Oca and toward the Contrada della Selva.

“I will spit on them, Babbo!” I said, proud that I had learned to spit quite accurately through the gap in my two front teeth. “No Goose—”

“You will do nothing of the kind!” snapped my mother.

So, no spitting, but I would not let those Ocas pinch my cheek, no matter how friendly they seemed. I kept a wary eye, glaring at my foes.

“Virginia! Stop that behavior,
subito
!” my mother would cry, and I was forced to let an occasional Goose pet me or kiss my cheek.

A plump, wattle-necked Goose Lady laughed, her dimpled chin wiggling. “Oh, Virginia! We are not truly adversaries! Drago and Oca have lived side by side peacefully for centuries.”

The Goose Lady gave me a sweetmeat, patting my chubby leg. “Do not listen to your babbo. He makes up wicked stories about the noble Goose simply because he is so proud you were born a Drago, like your grandfather.”

“Ah,” said the Goose Lady. “I think I have not convinced you, sweet Virginia. All seventeen contradas have their rivalries. Tartuca and Ciocchiola—how those two carry on!”

My mother rolled her eyes in agreement, and we moved on.

“Do not hate the Goose,
ciccia
. We are all Senesi,” called the woman.

Still savoring my sweet, I nonetheless heaved a sigh of relief when we crossed the boundary into Selva, for the jungle beasts were our allies.

I kicked my heels against my father’s chest.

“Go faster, my pony! Gallop to the Duomo.”

My father’s ears served as reins. I pulled them on either side, directing him left and right. “Faster, Babbo, faster. We are almost there.”

Panting in the heat of the day, my father made a valiant effort to run up the steep hill to the Duomo.

As we emerged from the shade of the little
vicolo
, I shielded my eyes.

“There they are!”

My favorite part of the city sparkled white in the Tuscan sun.

“The horses!” I shouted.

Our magnificent Duomo has a façade as white and thick as cream frosting. Its marble was fashioned into every kind of creature, both fantastic and real. Lions, bulls, winged griffins, saints, and angels emerge from the polished stone.

But my favorites are the horses—
my
horses—supporting the corners of the façade, lashing out of the stone in full stride.

Perhaps I learned to love horses with such passion from those few precious memories of my mother and father.

They left me nothing but memories when they died just a few months later.