The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (29 page)

C
HAPTER
65

Tuscan Countryside

A
UGUST
1581

“We have never been formally introduced, Virginia Tacci,” he said. “I am Giacomo Giovanni di Torreforte,” he said, bowing in the cramped quarters of the coach. “We are about to make a very long journey together.”

I was sore and dusty, choking on the gag in my mouth. The straps on my arms and legs bit into my skin as I struggled. And struggle I did. The gag was soaked with my saliva as I tried to scream.

To curse Giacomo di Torreforte, my kidnapper.

The coach drove for two days, bumping along dusty roads. Fat flies clung to the linen curtains, light brown dust gathering on their wings. Between my sweat and my captor’s, the cabin stunk.

Giacomo di Torreforte sat across from me, dressed in expensive traveling clothes. He darted glances at me but would not look me in the eye.

I tried to kick him, but my legs were secured to the coach seat.

“Stop struggling,” he said. “It will do you no good. We are now beyond Siena’s old territories, even beyond Florence’s. No one knows you. You’d best learn to accept your fate.”

Of course I could not answer him. More saliva soaked the gag.

“If you calm down, I will allow you to eat and drink. I had some particularly good Chianti wine, but I drank it all, I am afraid. But we still have salami, cheeses, and bread, all from excellent sources.”

I tried to kick again at him.

“You mustn’t kick me. I have to appear fresh when I go about my business on our arrival. I am negotiating your future, Virginia.”

I opened my eyes wide.

“Ah, I have your attention. Yes, my business concerns you. And believe me or not, you should be grateful. You are still alive because of my intervention.”

I stared at him with hatred. A crow cawed outside, and I saw it launch heavily from its perch on a plane tree into the air.

My future? Where was he taking me?

I had heard of women sold to the Ottoman sultans to become part of their harem. Was I kidnapped to be bartered among the foreign savages?

What enemies did I have?

I heard a hard thumping on the back of the coach. The coachman pulled to an abrupt stop. Billowing dust engulfed the coach.

“What the devil?” shouted di Torreforte. He pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief over his nose to block the dust.

“The stones and ruts in the road have bounced the dowry chest loose. I must lash it down again.”

Dowry chest?

I shook my head, my eyes wide.

“There is business we could discuss if you were not so agitated and savage, Virginia.”

He bent forward to untie my gag. His face grew disgusted with the effort. He took a dagger from his waistband. The metal flashed near my cheek.

Di Torreforte saw my eyes follow the blade. He let the knife linger there.

“Just so we understand each other, Virginia,” he said. “I come on the granduca’s business. I follow orders—had the de’ Medici henchmen taken you themselves, I doubt you would have survived.”

If Granduca Francesco could murder his own family, he would think nothing of ridding himself of a Senese peasant.

“No one knows where we are traveling. You could be easily disposed of here and now. Death leaves no wagging tongues. But, thanks to my insistence, the granduca has other more
. . .
Christian
. . .
plans for you.”

He slipped the knife through the knot of the gag. The wet linen fell to my lap. My mouth moved like a fish’s gasping for air.

I struggled to speak, but words wouldn’t come.

Di Torreforte turned his attention to the hamper of food.

“Where are you taking me?” I finally managed to say.

“It is best you do not know. Somewhere you will be safe, but where no one will find you.”

“Safe? How could I ever be safe in your hands?” I said. “Or the granduca’s?”

Di Torreforte shook his head. “You do not understand, Virginia. When we reach our destination, not even de’ Medici hands can reach you.”

I eyed him, still working my sore mouth and jaw.

“A cup of wine, Virginia? The wines of Ferrara may not be up to Tuscan standards, but that is what the village had to offer us.”

“Ferrara? Why are we here?”

“Later you will have time to contemplate that. You will have an abundance of time to
. . .
” He looked away. “
. . .
reflect,” he said at last.

“Please give me wine—and water.
Acqua!
I am so thirsty.”

“Water? I will have to stop the coachman for water. He has buckets for the horses.” He gestured at the stream that ran beside road. “You do not mind sharing your drink with horses?”

How many times had I bent over the water troughs, drinking beside horses?

“It does not matter. Per favore. Water,” I pleaded, my voice raspy with thirst.

“You are indeed a horsewoman.”

Di Torreforte rapped his fist against the roof of the coach. The horses slowed to a stop.

“Sì, signore? Your desire?” said the footman, blinking in the swirling dust.

“I need to get out for a moment. Let the horses rest here. You may accompany our visitor to the trees if she needs to make water. Unbind her hands so that she may lift her skirt. But keep a tight grip on her arm. Never mind her precious modesty. I wager our little shepherdess could outrun you.”

My captor descended from the coach, stretching his arms over his head languidly.

“And fill a jug with water from the stream. Virginia Tacci is thirsty.”

He did not look back as he strode away from the coach, down to the stream to refresh himself from the choking dust.

We traveled until late at night, when di Torreforte rapped on the roof for the driver to stop.

I heard their conversation outside the coach.

“The horses must rest,” di Torreforte said. “They need at least eight hours grazing and their fill of water before they are harnessed again.

“Daniele, stay here and keep an eye on the girl,” he said. Taking one of the driving lanterns with him, he walked toward the horses. He ran his hand over their heads, neck, withers, legs. He picked up their hooves, inspecting them with an experienced eye.

“Daniele, where is the doctoring kit?” he asked, coming back to us. “I’ll need the lamb’s wool and camphor. Poggibonsi has a bad sore under her harness.”

“Sì, signore. Everything is in the box.”

“Well, unharness the horses and lead them down to the stream. Only let them drink to the count of twenty-five. Then let them graze. After our repast, we will let them drink their fill. I do not want a case of colic, do you hear me?”

The footman nodded. “Sì, signore.”

“Go ahead, then. Leave a good knife so I can cut the lamb’s wool to fit the wound.” He grabbed my arm. “You come with me, villanella.” I stumbled down to the stream, lying flat on the bank and lowering my mouth to the sweet water.

“You drink like an animal,” he said, looking down at me.

I finished drinking and wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist.

“You behave more bestially than any animal I have known,” I said.

Except for your care with horses. How can a man who cares so much about horses be so cruel to humankind?

I thought of how his fingertips had traced the mare’s withers, how he whispered to her.

What kind of man is he?

“Why has the granduca kidnapped me?” I asked.

He hesitated for a moment. The trill of the crickets filled the silence.

“Since you rode the Palio, you have become a symbol for Siena,” he said at last. “A dangerous symbol. Your disappearance will cool the revolutionary fires. Your flame will flicker and die out.”

“Will you then let me return to Siena?”

Di Torreforte looked away abruptly. “I do not know. These matters with the de’ Medici are not so reversible. And your aunt, whose roof has sheltered you all these years, has given written permission to keep you where you will be safe. Away from revolutionaries, foolish men—”

“Away from horses?” I asked.

Again he turned away from me, looking out into the black night. I saw his throat move as he swallowed.

“Yes,” he said. “Away from horses.”

We passed the night on blankets under the oak trees. I listened to the water play over the rocks, soothing me.

I woke before dawn, thinking of a world without horses, without the Palio. Without Orione.

That world was unimaginable.

“Why Ferrara?” I asked him, as we jolted and rolled on over the rutted roads. I knew almost nothing of Ferrara. Why would I? I was Senese. Ferrara was nothing to me. They had sympathized with us as we fought the de’ Medici during the siege. Cosimo and Alfonso of Ferrara had been the bitterest of enemies, each pursuing the title of granduca until Cosimo had won it from the Pope.

“The Senese will search all Tuscany, but Ferrara? Never! Not with de’ Medici relations so tenuous with Duca Alfonso.”

He handed me a cup of water mixed with wine. I drank it in one gulp, then made a face.

“Ah! You do not care for Ferrara’s vintages?” he said.

“There was something else in the cup,” I said, staring at the dregs in the bottom. I looked up in terror. “Have—have you poisoned me?”

“No, Virginia. Just something that will help you sleep. The de’ Medici chemist prepared this. Here, eat something now while you still can.”

The next thing I remember, di Torreforte was shaking my shoulder. It was night when I opened my eyes. The world spun around me.

I saw the driver hand a paper to a guard at a bridge across a slow-moving river. I gazed out at the deep red brickwork of a city wall.

The coach clattered across the bridge and through the gates. I felt the bone-rattling jolt of cobblestones beneath our wheels. Frantic curiosity kept my eyes open.

“Look at the sights of Ferrara,” said di Torreforte. “Ah, there! The Este castle—a vain attempt to emulate the elegance of Palazzo Vecchio and the de’ Medici. As if they could compete with Florence!”

I pulled myself up on the seat, staring at the crenellated castle built all in brick. I had never been to any city beyond Siena.

The castle was magnificent. Oil lamps around the piazza and torches on the walls flickered and leapt with each breath of wind, casting light and shadow across the stone and brick. People chatted and laughed as they walked arm in arm across the great square, filled with the sound of music floating down from the castle windows.

I caught a glimpse of green water sparkling in the moat. A man embraced a woman beside the water. She looked over her shoulder in a wash of shadow and light, and our eyes met.

The great marble cathedral gleamed in the moonlight, rose and white. But I could barely keep my eyes open.

Again, di Torreforte shook my shoulder hard. My eyes opened wide when I felt the sting of a slap on my cheek.

“Rouse yourself,” he said. A cool rush of air flooded over me as he opened the door of the coach. I moved my feet and hands—he had slit my bonds with his knife. The coach had stopped in front of a church.

“You must walk through the doorway yourself,” he said. “But remember, I walk behind you with my dagger under my cloak. Behave, or you will feel its blade in your back.”

“You are indeed the devil,” I spat.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I am your savior. Even if you will never believe that.”

I stumbled ahead of him into the church, my legs so unsteady I was sure I would fall.

A golden cross with our lord Jesus Christ crucified upon it shone in front of me. That is all I remember, except for the soft hands of two nuns, helping me to a straw pallet where I slept, dead to the world.