The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (23 page)

Caramella wavered, then regained her stride. The fantino raised his whip again and Virginia, without a thought, slashed out with her whip, striking the fantino hard in the face.

The jockey raised his hands, protecting his eyes. The horse slowed, confused by the tension on the bit.

Caramella surged forward, Virginia clamped her torso flat against the filly’s mane, and they crossed the finish line half a length ahead, to the delight of the roaring crowd.

The young nobleman—Giacomo di Torreforte—spat in disgust. He kicked at the wooden barrier set up along the course.

“Maledizione!”
he cursed and turned away, elbowing through the crowd of well-wishers swarming to congratulate Virginia.

Riccardo and his father, Signor De’ Luca, approached her. Signor De’ Luca’s stroked his mare’s neck, then nodded his head.

“You have made the House of De’ Luca proud this day, Virginia Tacci,” he said. Riccardo stared up at Virginia saying nothing, but his face radiated joy.

“Will you, Virginia Tacci, do the Contrada del Drago the honor of riding the Siena Palio on Caramella in August?”

Virginia’s mouth opened in a gasp of joy. She sought Giorgio’s eyes, then her padrino’s.

“Sì,” she said, clasping Caramella around the neck. She buried her face in the mare’s mane, drinking in the warm smell of horse. Then she heard her padrino clear his throat.

Virginia straightened up, sitting tall, the way she had been taught to ride from that first night in the hills of Vignano.

“It would be the greatest honor of my life to ride Siena’s Palio for Drago,” she said.

C
HAPTER
55

Florence, Palazzo Vecchio

M
AY
1581

Francesco de’ Medici slit the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Governor di Montauto’s letter reached from the granduca’s eyes to his waist.

“Too wordy, this di Montauto fellow,” said the granduca to his secretary.

He hurried through the document, then handed it to Serguidi.

“It seems I am invited to a Palio in Siena. In August.”

“Serenissimo, of course. As the Granduca of Tuscany, you are always invited to the Palio,” said Serguidi. His forehead creased as he strained to make out di Montauto’s exuberant handwriting.

“But this is a special Palio. Only the contradas will run. Not a single nobile house. It seems that Siena’s Balia has given permission. Damn my father for granting them their own government! The scoundrels shall not have my approval.”

“What do the commoners know of staging a Palio? Where will they get the horses, the money? Preposterous!” said Serguidi.

“He does not say. Only that the Contrada dell’Aquila is hosting the event for the Assumption in August. You will write immediately, insisting Palios are a reserved right of the nobili. We cannot let Senese contradas think they are our equals.”

The granduca clenched his fist. “A Palio for the commoners. It would only foster rebellion.”

The secretary looked down at the letter again.

“Why does di Montauto not use his scribe?” said the granduca. “His handwriting is like a drunken poet. All flourishes and ridiculous squiggles. I can barely make it out.”

Serguidi stood with the letter in his hand. His dark eyes darted left to right. Then his jaw dropped open, like a turtle drinking raindrops.

“My granduca,” he said. “I fear you did not finish the letter.”

“Full of Senese gas, this signore,” said the granduca. “I have not the patience. Tell me what he says. I have work to do.”

“There is to be a special entry in this race of the contradas. A girl.”

“Una ragazza?”

“A fourteen year-old girl, Granduca. Representing Drago contrada.”

“Let me see!”

The granduca snatched back the letter. Serguidi pointed his fine manicured finger at the offending sentence.

“A ragazza! A girl riding among men? In a Palio?”

“Yes, Your Highness. A girl. And it seems the race is dedicated to
tutte le donne
.” All the women of Siena.

“And who is this ragazza?”

“I will inquire immediately. Might I see the letter again?”

“Are there not
. . .
laws?” stormed the granduca, rising to his feet. “These Senese are insufferable and
. . .
sublimely treacherous. Are they doing this to draw attention to themselves? To shame Tuscany? To shame
me
? Letting a girl race a Palio!”

“Might I see the letter again, Your Highness?” asked Serguidi once more.

The granduca flung the parchment to his secretary.

“We must find a law!” Francesco thumped his fist against Serguidi’s writing desk, making the inkpot erupt in a black spurt. “This is against all moral decency. A virgin, I would assume. Riding astride, bareback! We shall write to the Pope, to my brother the cardinal. Women astride on horseback, acting as if they had a cazzo between their legs.”

The granduca crossed his arms over his chest. Serguidi scanned the letter. He cast a quick glance at his master, wondering if he was thinking of his dead sister.

“It seems,” said Serguidi, “the girl’s name is Virginia Tacci. She is of di Montauto’s own contrada, the Drago. And
. . .
she is a shepherdess.”

“A shepherdess! He is joking, yes?”

“No, Your Majesty. Already there are poets who write sonnets to her talents, according to di Montauto.”

“A girl riding the Palio? A shepherdess, at that? Find a law, Serguidi. Or create one, damn it, subito!” This minute!

Serguidi dipped his head, acknowledging the granduca’s instruction.

“Might I offer counsel, Granduca?”

Francesco expelled his breath so fiercely, Serguidi could smell the red wine and garlic from his noonday repast.

“Speak!”

“I will look to see if there is such a law, but I doubt there is. My counsel to you would be to accept the invitation. I think it is a challenge. I think the Senese mean to make you look weak, threatened by a mere shepherdess.”

Francesco glared, but said nothing.

“If you write to Governor di Montauto and forbid this girl from riding the race, it will only bring back memories of—forgive me, Your Highness—”

“Speak, damn you!”

“Memories of Princess Isabella and Lady Leonora. Everyone knew how you despised Isabella’s independence, including her riding and hunting.”

Francesco shot a look at his secretary.

Serguidi paused. When the granduca remained silent, he continued. “Let the Senese do as they please, I beg you, Granduca. Permit the Palio. The Contrada dell’Aquila will soon see that the expense of hosting such a race is ruinous. And the girl will most likely fall off early in the race, humiliating herself. Then you can justly amend the law to forbid girl fantini forever. For their safety and well-being, of course.”

Francesco pulled at his mustache. He looked across the room where the Bronzino painting of Isabella used to hang.

“The Senese fling sand in my eyes. But damn it! Yes, as always, your counsel is wise. I shall sidestep their trap, damn them to hell! But I shall have some words for the loquacious di Montauto. Clearly he needs to straighten his mast, for it leans windward toward Siena.”

C
HAPTER
56

Siena, Palazzo
d’
Elci

J
UNE
1581

The dark interior of Palazzo d’Elci was a cool marble refuge from the heat of the Siena summer. Giorgio drank in the chilled air, lingering to enjoy its refreshing embrace before mounting the stairs.

A clatter of horse hooves and the creak of wooden wheels rushed into the dark quiet of Via di Città.

The great door behind him opened again, the heat spilling over the threshold. He could hear di Torreforte speaking to his coachman in gruff tones.

“Push past the other coaches, then! I expect you to be right here in front when I descend. The street is dusty, the street cleaner shirks his duty. It sullies my clothes to walk so far from the entrance of the palazzo.”

Di Torreforte entered the dark foyer. His eyes momentarily blinded, he stood blinking in the transition.

Giorgio studied his features, committing them to memory.

“Who’s there?” said di Torreforte, reaching to the sheath where his dagger should be.

“Do not fear,” chuckled Giorgio. “I have no weapon either.”

“Ah, it is you,” said di Torreforte. He pushed past Giorgio and up the travertine steps.

Giorgio called up to him, his voice echoing up the stairwell.

“Did you enjoy the Palio in Monteroni d’Arbia?”

Other art students above them stopped on the stairs, even coming from the open hall of the art studio. Heads hung over the railing, ears cocked to hear. Word of Virginia Tacci’s victory and di Torreforte’s defeat had spread quickly.

Di Torreforte stopped at the landing in front of a marble bust. He let out a disgusted grunt.

“Yes, I saw your ragazza-fantino race, Brunelli, if that is your meaning. Disgusting display.”

“Ah,” said Giorgio, crossing his arms. “Then you saw how she was victorious. Impressive, wouldn’t you say? A girl astride a horse.”

Voices echoed above in the stairwell. A low, approving whistle from a Senese floated down. Di Torreforte jerked his head up, searching in vain for the culprit.

The stairwell filled with laughter.

“Not a true victory!” said di Torreforte. “A fluke, entirely. My fantino said his horse’s tendons were swollen at the start of the race. Otherwise he assures me he would have beaten her by ten strides. She did not know how to rate her horse, she took the corners with dangerous imprecision—”

“Is that so?” said Giorgio, taking a step closer to the staircase to meet di Torreforte’s eyes in the dim light. “Because it certainly looked as if your fantino struggled at the end of the race. As if he couldn’t fend off Virginia’s whip to his ugly face.”

Di Torreforte’s nose pinched down, his entire countenance narrowing like water through a funnel.

“Monteroni is meaningless. The Siena Palio is a different race. A filly might win on a level course like Monteroni, but never in the ascent from the Porta Romana to the Duomo. A filly—”

“Are you referring to the filly Caramella or to Virginia?” taunted Giorgio. “Both would beat any match.”

“Damn you, Brunelli, you
pezzo di merda
!” Piece of shit.

Giorgio basked in the echoing curse. He heard shrill whistles of appreciation echo down the stairwell.

“You listen to me, bastardo,”
said di Torreforte
.
“If you care about that girl, you will keep her from riding next month in your foolish contradas’ Palio. There is a distinct possibility she might get hurt. Or worse.”

The young nobile pivoted and continued up the stairs toward the painting hall. The students hurried away from the banisters to the easels overlooking Il Campo.

Giorgio suddenly felt the air chill his bones, despite the heat of a Tuscan summer.

Di Torreforte was not blind. He had seen Virginia Tacci’s shining dark hair fly out from under her racing cap, the gleam of determination in her eye. Those dark eyes against her skin tanned by the Tuscan sun had not escaped his notice.

But he did not see her as a beautiful girl.

She was the essence of Siena, descended from ancient bloodlines that were Roman, perhaps even Etruscan. As he watched her ride, he recognized the strength of a people raised from time immemorial on the grapes and grains of the ocher soils, a ferocity of spirit that was unmatched.

He knew how the surging Senese pride had enraged the granduca.

Di Torreforte would use that rage to his advantage.

Granduca Francesco was a distant relative—the di Torrefortes had married into the de’ Medici family during Lorenzo the Magnificent’s reign. Di Torreforte’s grandfather had distinguished himself, battling the Turks as a naval commander. He was richly rewarded with tracts of land in southern Tuscany as a result of his faithful service to Cosimo.

Di Torreforte’s father had done nothing to burnish the family’s military honor, but he had done quite well in Senese banking when the de’ Medici had seized Monte dei Paschi, Siena’s ancient financial institution.

His father’s financial triumph had enabled young di Torreforte to pursue painting. He would eventually inherit his father’s money and lands, so there was no need to seek his own fortunes.

It pleased him greatly to paint, to dine in Florence with art collectors and hold forth, discussing art. He sold canvases to Florentine merchants who wished to curry his family’s favor. He loved their flattery and their shiny florins for his artwork.

But one person—another artist—soured his joyful pursuit: that damned Senese horse trainer whose talent far outshone di Torreforte’s efforts.

And that was where Virginia Tacci entered his plans.

Di Torreforte had seen the gleam of pride in Giorgio Brunelli’s eyes when he watched Virginia Tacci ride. He had never seen Giorgio as proud of his art as he was of the Senese girl.

The key to Giorgio’s soul was this shepherdess. To destroy her would destroy his rival.

C
HAPTER
57

Siena, Crete Hills

J
UNE
1581

After the Palio at Monteroni d’Arbia, I felt I could fly. News of my victory reached Siena and Vignano before I did.

Riccardo De’ Luca accompanied us, never speaking to me but riding alongside as if he were a servant. When I turned to speak to Giorgio, I caught Riccardo’s eyes glowing.

“Did you want to say something?” I asked him.

“No. Sì—” he said. His flesh took on the color of a toad’s belly. His blue eyes blinked at me.

“Sì? What is it, Signor De’ Luca?”

“I want—I want you to call me Riccardo,” he said. His lips were rigid, as if a fish were talking to me.

“Va bene. Riccardo,” I said, finding the sound pleasant in my mouth.

“You—Virginia. You rode very well. My father was pleased. Caramella does well under you.”

He turned from white to red in a blink of an eye, and looked away toward Siena in the distance.

Giorgio shrugged, looking disgusted with his companion. He gestured toward the city on the high hills.

“Nearly home.”

“She is
bella,
” I said. The Duomo tower and the Torre del Mangia were visible, rising before us.

“Bella,” croaked Riccardo. “Bellissima!”

“But I love the Crete just as much,” I confided, looking at the fields of grain that had turned golden in the last few weeks. The undulations of gold and green comforted me.

My padrino was strangely silent during our ride. I considered this to be a sign of his advancing age, for it had been a long few days.

I was between sets of horses the next day when my padrino took me aside.

“Virginia, I want to talk to you,” he said. Because he did not call me ciccia, I suspected something.

“Did I not ride the new colt well today?”

“It is not that. It is about Monteroni d’Arbia.”

I relaxed, beaming at him. I could never get enough of praise.

“Sì?”

“You made a terrific error in the race.”

My smile fell.

“I won, Padrino! I won!”

“That is not enough. You were lucky,” he said. “You let your temper control you, and your horse was left abandoned.”

“What do you mean? When I whipped the jockey on the course?”

“Not that. That was good, in fact. Brava! I’m referring to the start, at the mossa. You were more interested in emotions around you than in communicating a sense of calm to your horse. She felt it. When the rope dropped, she left you because she felt only a senseless weight on her back, like a sack of barley. You are lucky you had the strength to pull yourself up and stay mounted.

“That was a serious error in judgment, not worthy of a Palio fantino.”

Ugly words flooded my head, puckered my lips. I loved my padrino more than anyone else in the world.

“But—”

“No! Listen to me, Virginia Tacci. You listen to me, because what I say could be the determining point of the Palio. Before the race, there is only one thing to focus on: keeping calm. Your horse. And yourself.”

“But I must maneuver at the rope, find the right position.”

“That is second. First, you communicate with your horse—your legs, your seat, your hands—but most of all, your head, la testa. La testa
is the most important part of a Palio for both the horse and the rider. If you keep a cool head, you will allow your horse to conserve his strength for the race.”

I listened. I listened as if I were back again in those first years of riding. That was what Giorgio always taught me. Then I thought again, for a moment, about la testa
.
My Padrino was using that word to refer to my head, my mind, that I had to think for both myself and the horse. But every time I thought about the Palio and la testa
,
I thought about the other meaning of that same word: the head of the race, the rider in the lead.

Yes, Padrino, I will be la testa—and I will be in la testa, too. I will be in the lead. I will win the Palio!

My padrino laid a hand on my shoulder. “Be the rider the horse can trust. Then the two will become one.”

“Yes, Padrino,” I said, my eyes lowered. “Forgive me. Until the rope
dropped and the race started, I was no rider.”

I felt his strong arm around my back in a hug.

“Yes, remember this,” he said, pulling me close. He kissed the top of my head. “Then we will see a winner at the Palio.”

Riccardo could no longer sleep at night. He wandered the streets of Siena.

The de’ Medici guards nodded to him—at first suspiciously, but after several weeks of following him down Banchi di Sopra or Via Termini or Via Terme, they learned his routes and, more important, his destination.

Riccardo would ultimately make his way to the Piazza del Campo and stand gazing silently at the Torre del Mangia in the moonlight.

Lovesick, they said. Riccardo De’ Luca has the
mal d’amore.

The night watchmen in Contrada del Drago would give a two-tone whistle to let the Contrada della Civetta guards further down the street know that Riccardo was approaching.

No danger, advised the whistle. Only the nightly visitor.

Riccardo leaned against the cool stone arch of Vicolo San Pietro that led into the piazza. He watched the moon ascend to the left of the Torre del Mangia.

Virginia.

Has there ever been a more beautiful girl?

Yes, she is young. Fourteen, perhaps. But not too young to ensnare my heart.

Her grace on a horse, her determined face. The iron of a shepherdess raised in the Crete, hard as flint. The essence of Siena.

And the gap between her two front teeth. Enchanting.

He had noticed more and more young men—and older signori—had made the journey from the city to watch Virginia ride. Indeed, Riccardo did not know it, but even the elderly Florentine governor, Federigo Barbolani De’ Conti di Montauto, had fallen a little in love with the girl. He had written letters to his friends in Florence, even to the granduca, praising her virtues of both beauty and horsemanship.

But as he stood at night, under the sparkling stars forming a dome over the piazza, Riccardo did not think of other suitors for the young Virginia. It was he, and he alone, who was her love, even if he found himself tongue-tied for the first time in his life when he watched her ride.

He stood babbling as she dismounted one colt and swung up like a boy from the wilds of Maremma onto the next.

She barely nodded to him; her focus was always on the horse. She ignored the growing throngs of spectators, the cheering, the popping of corks as her admirers toasted her skills. Peasants watched the shepherdess fling herself up on the backs of wild colts. Old men picked their teeth with their fingernails as they gaped in astonishment.

“Guarda! La villanella . . . guarda!”

Look at the villanella, look!

When Virginia galloped her horse out into the fields and hills surrounding Vignano, Riccardo felt as if she carried off his soul as hostage.

“Thinking of a ragazza?” asked a guard as Riccardo blinked up at the stars.

Riccardo pulled out abruptly from his reverie, straightened his posture. He composed himself, his face regaining a semblance of dignity.

But the Florentine guard only chuckled and clapped his hand on the younger man’s back. At first De’ Luca resisted, hating the touch of a Florentine. But the warmth of the gesture was genuine.

“You were far away, signore. Surely you are in love.”

Riccardo shrugged.

“How do you know?”

“It is obvious,” whispered the guard. “I have been in love quite a few times in my life.”

“I shall never be in love again as I am now. There is no other girl—”

“Ah, but that is what we all say. No one like this one.”

“No, you do not understand. Truly, there is no girl like this one. Davvero!”

“Arrivederci,” said the guard, moving on. “Do not drink up too much of the moonlight, or it will make you pazzo.”