The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (17 page)

“See how beautiful it is, Orione.”

I slipped the collo over my own neck. I held the rope in my hand, twisting the end into a knot. Now I had two reins to hold.

I rubbed his muzzle, my hand flat against his lips.

“You see! No iron bit. You will be as free as the day you were born. Just the two of us. See how I wear it?”

I put the halter around my head, the leather cavesson against my nose. Orione flared his nostrils, his breath warm against my check as he sniffed the collo. He shook his head, retreating.

“With this, we can jump the way she did, Orione. You and me. Together.”

Turning my back on Orione, I walked out into the inky darkness. He followed close behind me. I walked to the stone wall.

When I turned again, he stood with his ears alert and forward.

“You want to try?”

We touched heads, the crown of my head against his star. Slowly, ever so slowly, I lifted the collo over my head. I let the weight of it rest against his forelock.

He did not pull back. When I lifted my head, he stood his ground.

“Now,” I said, unbuckling the left strap. “Let me do this, Orione. Come on, boy.”

I slipped the collo below his nose.

“That’s my good boy. Bravo, ragazzo!” I whispered as I pulled it up.

He stood, it seemed, almost against his will. I saw his flesh twitch as I buckled the strap. My hand stroked his neck.

“Bravo, bravo
,
” I cooed.

He mouthed the remains of the apple. He bobbed his head, the halter buckle clinking.

“No bit, Orione. No iron against your lips.”

I let go of the rope tied to both sides of the cheekpieces. My hands searched for a purchase in the stone wall. I tried to climb up, tripping on my skirt.

“This will not do,” I explained to Orione. I looked out into the darkness. My fingers searched for my apron tie and the hook for my overskirt. I peeled off the layers of clothing, laying them across the stones.

I shivered in my linen shift, despite the warmth of the summer night. Should I go back for my leggings or, wiser yet, crawl into the straw of the lambing shed and forget this? Perhaps I should wait to have Giorgio at my side. When there was a little more moonlight, when
. . .

Pazza, Virginia, pazza. You crazy girl.

I forgot the danger. I trusted my intuition, I trusted my horse. This was the moment. I could not dwell on the risk, only seize this chance. As Orione sidled next to me along the wall, I slid my right leg over his back, knotting my fingers in his mane. My little finger hooked the rope shank, keeping it high on his neck.

I made the transfer of weight as gently as I could. I waited for him to buck, to rear. I waited for him to bolt, to gallop.

He swung his head toward my leg, sniffing it. Then he straightened up again, looking off into the distance.

If I did not know better, I would swear he was looking at the thin slice of moon, balancing open-ended in the night sky.

That night, I sat on the colt’s back for only a few minutes. I knew better than to move too far too quickly. In a low whistle, I breathed the tune of “Per Forza o per Amore.” I felt his muscles relax under me, his ears swiveling to catch the melody he had heard since birth.

From that night on, he would follow me anywhere—no fence could keep him away. He stood near the stone wall for me to mount him, though before long, I could swing up on him like a Palio fantino.

The first time he felt pressure from my legs, he broke into a trot. The makeshift reins on his halter frustrated him, and he threw his head, threatening to rear.

I dropped the reins on his withers. With his head free, I used my calf and inner thigh to direct him. He responded more quickly to the pressure of my seat to halt than he did to my hands. I soon realized I didn’t need the halter at all.

But I kept it on him, hoping one day he would accept a bit and bridle. Besides, the fluttering rosette blew in the wind, making us both feel like champions in the night.

It was only in the morning, when the mares whinnied from the far pasture, that he would leap the fence again back into the paddock, galloping to the far end to be near the mares.

He would stand there in the dark before the sun rose, before my cousins would descend to gather up the flock.

C
HAPTER
42

Florence, San Lorenzo Church

J
ULY
1576

Morgante flared his nostrils like a beast smelling death. The simple wood coffin of Leonora lay open in the nave of the San Lorenzo chapel, and Morgante smelled the rancid fear and hatred in the clammy air of the small room.

The rainy weather makes the silks of the mourners stink like wet curs.
No matter how costly the cloth might be.

A handful of candles, a paucity unknown at a de’ Medici funeral, cast capricious light and shadow over the faces of the family.

The granduca was burying his first cousin and sister-in-law with virtually no ceremony. And the de’ Medici vault under the floors of San Lorenzo would not be opened to receive Leonora de’ Medici’s body.

Who knows where her body will be interred? And where is the murderous fiend, Duca Pietro?

Morgante’s eyes darted between the grief-stricken Isabella and the expressionless face of her brother Francesco.

The little man swallowed hard, watching the cruelty hardening the granduca’s features. Morgante recalled the petulant look in Francesco’s eyes as a boy when he did not get his way. He remembered how Cosimo’s son would sooner break a toy than share it with his siblings.

Morgante did not approach any closer. His legs planted like roots in the dark corner where the feeble candlelight did not reach, he silently watched the funeral of Leonora di Toledo de’ Medici, remembering her tinkling laughter.

Tears welled in his dark eyes, splashing over rims of chubby flesh.

He felt the cold of the stone church on his wet cheeks and wiped away his tears with a knuckle.

Tears at this funeral were risky. Morgante knew better than to demonstrate his sentiments in front of Granduca Francesco de’ Medici.

The granduca gave a curt nod, dispatching the priest when the last word of benediction still rang in the cold air. It was a hasty service, a ceremony fit for a pauper, but Francesco would permit no more. There was to be no public display of Leonora’s body, no mourners to grieve her death except the most intimate members of the de’ Medici family.

A summer shower darkened the lead-cased windows of the church as Isabella lay a red rose across her sister-in-law’s breast. She bent over the dead young mother, whispering in her ear.

Morgante watched the silver and ivory brocade of Isabella’s gown shudder as she cried silently.

“Basta!” Francesco pulled her away from the coffin. “Comport yourself with dignity, sister.”

Morgante saw Isabella, her face white with horror, unable to speak to the granduca.

“We will return to the Pitti now for luncheon,” he said, turning to walk out the door.

“But Francesco—”

“The funeral is finished. Her life, her treacherous infidelity, is finished. I will not tolerate her name spoken again in our Court!”

Francesco walked to the door, ordering the carriages to be brought at once. As the granduca’s servant opened the portal and ushered his master out, Morgante saw the crescent moon hanging over Francesco’s shoulder. The lunar sickle cupped to the left, waxing.

Isabella returned to her cousin’s coffin.

“Madonna, aiutami!”
she implored. Mother of God, please help me!

Morgante watched as Isabella’s finger traced the cold forehead, sweeping an errant strand of red hair back behind the dead woman’s ear.

Isabella gasped as she examined the bruises on her neck, the signs of struggle.

“Principessa,”
whispered Morgante, the last of the mourners.

Isabella’s hand flew off the corpse, covering her mouth.

She stared at the little man, her shoulders relaxing enough to make the embroidered material of her dress rustle.

“Remember how I could make you laugh when you were a child,” he said, approaching her, his legs swinging from side to side. “You laughed at my antics—your father—”

“I am not a little girl anymore, Morgante. And my father would kill both my brothers were he alive still. His heart would break to see this beauty buried at such a tender age. She was his favorite. Not me, not my sisters. Leonora, always his favorite.”

Morgante took Isabella’s hand in his. Few people could presume such intimacy, but Morgante was as much part of the de’ Medici family as a courtier could be.

“I know, Principessa. I know. Your father’s ghost will haunt your brothers. I have dreamt as much.”

“Have you, Morgante?” She smiled grimly. “That gives me comfort.”

The dwarf looked around, judging the distance of the last mourners waiting for the coaches to take them to the Pitti Palace.

“I worry. I fear for
your
life, Donna Isabella.”

Isabella sniffed back her tears.

“My life? Why ever would you fear for me?”

“If the granduca condones the murder of his own cousin, he is mad. And madness knows no limits. You must be careful, my lady.”

Isabella looked over her shoulder at the simple wood coffin.

“Go to France,” said Morgante. “Your cousin Catherine will protect you!”

Isabella straightened. The flickering candles illuminated her white skin and long forehead.

“The thought of escaping Firenze has crossed my mind more than once in the past few days,” she whispered. “But my husband has planned a trip—”

Francesco’s secretary, Serguidi, entered the church. He gave a startled look, seeing Morgante at Isabella’s side.

“The last coach is ready, my lady.”

“I am coming,” she said. She gave a curt nod to the dwarf and turned to leave. Her stiff brocaded skirts brushed over the marble floors of the church.

The absolute silence of San Lorenzo returned. The dwarf breathed in the heavy air, redolent of melting beeswax and ancient stones.

Morgante finally allowed himself to cry. Without restraint.

C
HAPTER
43

Florence, Pitti Palace

J
ULY
1576

At the funeral meal, Francesco’s wife, the Granduchessa Giovanna, sought the company of her sister-in-law. The two noblewomen consoled one another, wet cheeks pressed together.

“Be careful, dear sister,” whispered Giovanna. “I beg of you! I do not trust—”

Francesco pulled his wife away from his grieving sister. The Austrian ladies-in-waiting gasped to see the duke’s rough hand on Emperor Maximilian’s sister.

“Leonora was not a good wife—she disgraced the de’ Medici name,” hissed Francesco. “A marriage between two first cousins should never have been permitted!”

His head pivoted, looking around the room.

“Giovanna, tend to the children. They are quarreling again. Make them stop immediately!”

Giovanna picked up her skirts and walked away, her hand covering her mouth to stanch a sob.

When his wife was out of earshot, the granduca gave Isabella an icy look.

“Do you now comprehend what happens to those who disgrace the de’ Medici name, sister?”

Florence learned quickly there had been no formal ceremony for their beloved Leonora. They heard that the Granduca de’ Medici demanded a
damnatio memoriae
of his young cousin—her memory was to be erased. Any trace of Leonora was removed. Portraits, poetry, references of any kind were forbidden. Even the mention of her name was forbidden.

The people of Florence mourned the loss of their beautiful princess. They heard servants’ reports of her bruised body, the signs of struggle, and the injured hand of the hated Pietro de’ Medici, her husband, her murderer.

Paolo Girodano Orsini wrote to Isabella that he was en route to Florence. He had heard of the terrible accident. He would come to comfort his beloved wife. A few weeks hunting in the countryside would do her good.

Isabella was ill for five days. She lay in her bed, her eyes swollen with crying. She could not eat. The Granduchessa Giovanna, not knowing what else to do, sent the dwarf Morgante to Palazzo Medici to cheer her up.

He approached Isabella’s bed, waddling on his short legs, listing like a little boat against a current.

“To think Francesco and Pietro both have Leonora’s blood on their hands,” Isabella whispered to the little man she had known since birth.

Morgante blinked back his own tears.

“Your father told me to beware the duca’s moodiness, the darkness of his nature,” he whispered in return.

“My father is uneasy in his grave now,” said Isabella. She covered her face with her hands, weeping.

“You must leave Firenze, my lady,” said Morgante.

“Stay by my side, Morgante,” she said. “I implore you.”

“Ah, my duchessa, I am but a silly jester. I have no power to help you.”

“You are wrong,” said Isabella, looking into Morgante’s eyes. She remembered how she had once watched him wrestle a monkey in her father’s court. The first Morgante had killed one such monkey brutally, much to the amusement of the Court. This second Morgante only played with the monkey, ending the match with the creature perched on his shoulder, taking grapes from his fingers.

“You have the gift of friendship,” she said. “And what I need now is a friend.”

Isabella took the dwarf’s hand in hers. She pressed the man’s palm to her cheek and thought of her father.

The day he arrived in Florence, Paolo Orsini informed his wife that they would be leaving immediately for the Cerreto Guidi, a favorite de’ Medici hunting villa.

He had written to the Duca d’Urbino days before, asking for special hounds and harriers. He had invited his Roman neighbor and good friend Massimo, a Knight of Malta, to join them at Cerreto. Paolo made plans for a grand party but allowed Isabella to bring only a few of her ladies-in-waiting. Reluctantly, he agreed that the dwarf Morgante could accompany them.

Because the de’ Medici princess was still overcome with grief from Leonora’s death, Paolo made arrangements for her to be transported on a
lettuccio
—a small cot.

Isabella, relieved that her husband was not forcing her to return with him to the hated castle in Bracciano, agreed to the trip to Cerreto, where she and her father had spent so many pleasant days hunting. She was desperate to leave Florence and escape the sight of her brother Francesco.

Morgante rode in a coach with Isabella’s ladies-in-waiting. Usually the journey with Isabella’s women was festive. Morgante had always entertained the ladies with his antics, filling the coach with the sweet titter of saucy gossip. But not on this day.

This day, the 16th of July, 1576, there was no lively chatter. Instead the ladies spoke in hushed voices of Leonora’s death, obsessively repeating stories the way children repeat ghost tales that terrify them.

“She had no chance to escape,” said the youngest handmaiden. “Her ladies say the room was in great disorder. She put up a great fight.”

“She nearly bit off his fingers.”

“Did blood stain the sheets? Surely that would be evidence,” said Madonna Lorenza.

“Who would dare bring evidence against a de’ Medici?” said Elicona, Isabella’s court poet. She dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and looked at Morgante.

Morgante said nothing. He turned away, pulling back the curtain of the carriage, watching the Tuscan countryside slide past. Women in white kerchiefs tended the grapevines, pulling up the ever-grasping weeds. A wizened farmer with a load of ripe melons goaded his donkey forward, coughing in the cloud of dust the de’ Medici carriages raised. Children ran alongside the coaches, jabbering in Tuscan dialect so thick, he could barely make sense of what they were saying.

Morgante had kissed Nora and Virgino good-bye, explaining to them that their mother was sick with grief. This was a hunting expedition, he said. The children knew how much their mother loved her horses and hoped the hunt would cheer her.

Her husband, Paolo Orsini, had insisted a stay at Cerreto Guidi would be the solution for her grief and illness.

Morgante had never known Paolo to be concerned with Isabella’s health, and he strongly disliked the tall, brooding Signor Massimo, who accompanied Paolo.

Morgante rubbed his mouth with his pudgy hand, a sour taste in his mouth.

They would not dare. Not six days after Leonora’s death—

“Stop talking about death,” he snapped at the ladies. “I cannot stomach any more!”

Morgante looked out the window at the throngs of peasant children, running alongside, crying, “Le Palle! Le Palle!”

The de’ Medici emblem: red balls on a gold shield.

The fresh air of Cerreto and the smell of the horse stable revived Isabella.

“I want to get up, Madonna Lorenza,” she called to her main lady-in-waiting. “I want to ride.”

“Oh, Your Highness! Do you think it a good idea to ride a horse in your weakened condition?”

“If anything on Earth can restore me, it is a horse,” said Isabella. “The Duchessa Leonora will ride with me in spirit. Her spirit needs to escape from the miserable funeral in San Lorenzo. Escape that unmarked grave.”

Madonna Lorenza bit her lip, even as she nodded.

“Sì, Your Highness. I will inquire about the horses immediately.”

“Yes. Help me to the window.”

“I beg you sit on the edge of the bed for a minute to regain your strength. You might faint—”

Isabella sat up with her servant’s help, dangling her legs over the bed. Madonna Lorenza fetched her satin slippers.

“There,” she said. “Lean on me.”

“I am too much weight for you. Ask Morgante to assist.”

Madonna Lorenza opened the adjacent door to a room between Paolo’s bedroom and Isabella’s. There, two ladies were unpacking their mistress’s clothes and Elicona was working on a poem to raise her spirits. Morgante sat, sniffing the air like a hound.

“I saw the Roman Signor Massimo walking the grounds with the Duca di Bracciano,” said the poetess. “He dresses in the Roman style, a fine moss green hunting coat. Perhaps I shall write a poem and sing it at dinner tonight.”

She noticed Morgante was not paying attention. He paced the room, distracted.

“Whatever is the matter, Morgante?”

“I do not care for the air here,” he said, looking at Elicona.

“The air?” asked the poet. “Ah, but it is fresh with nature! What a relief after the stagnant Arno in the heat of July.”

Morgante continued to sniff, his face contorting with apprehension.

“Morgante, I need your assistance with our lady,” interrupted Madonna Lorenza. “She wants to look out the window. We need to steady her. I fear she may fall.”

Morgante hoisted himself up on his stubby legs. “Did she mention riding?”

“Yes, can you believe it? She can hardly stand,” said the maidservant.

He smiled and clapped his hands together with glee.

“It is a good sign. She should get out of this house. I smell something—something evil—in the air,” he said. “A horse will take her away from the bad air and revive her spirit.”

The poetess Elicona regarded the dwarf, her soft blue eyes registering his fear. She knew Morgante’s strange ways of thinking. There was something bestial about his mind, instinctive as a feral dog’s. She also knew that he hated Duca Paolo as much as Isabella did. Perhaps the Orsini’s presence here had affected Morgante’s senses.