The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (3 page)

C
HAPTER
4

Florence, Pitti Palace

J
ANUARY
1573

Leonora di Toledo, first cousin of Isabella de’ Medici, and thus first cousin—as well as wife—of Isabella’s brother Pietro, sat in front of the polished looking glass as her attendant brushed her red-gold hair.

“Do not put the tortoiseshell comb in my hair, Maria. It makes me look too Spanish,” Leonora complained. “I am a de’ Medici now.” The stiff rustling of brocaded satin made Leonora turn as two women brought in her dress for the afternoon.

“The peacock blue is a beautiful color and contrasts magnificently with your glorious hair, signora,” said Maria, addressing her mistress in Italian, though her tongue still yearned for Castilian sounds.

“Yes, it suits me, I think,” said Leonora, “though Pietro despises it. He calls the color vulgar. It is good that he will not attend Isabella’s salon,” she added, smiling, which made Maria’s job easier as she outlined her mistress’s lips in beet juice and beeswax.

“Our discussions bore my husband,” sighed Leonora. “But there are others who find Isabella’s concerns quite stimulating.”

Leonora’s retinue exchanged knowing looks. Their mistress saw their reflection in the mirror. She raised an eyebrow, causing the women to look at the floor.

“If it were not for Isabella, I would die of boredom,” Leonora continued, her ladies properly chastened. “Isabella and his grace, Cosimo, the old duca.”

Again, two of the ladies exchanged looks. Maria scowled at them.

“Duca Cosimo calls us his huntresses, his Dianas! Ah, if only the de’ Medici sons were like their charming father—”

A knock on the door interrupted her. Maria stopped powdering her mistress’s face, the plumed puff in midair.

“See who it is, Clara,” said Leonora.

The attendant nearest the door opened the door a crack.

“Mistress, it is your husband.”

Pietro de’ Medici threw open the door, slamming it hard against Clara. She shrieked with pain, her hands thrown up over her face.

Leonora rose from her vanity, pulling her dressing robe tight around her.

“What—you’ve returned from Siena earlier than—”

“The stablemaster informed me you requested the gray mares tonight to pull your carriage. We have no engagements this evening!”

“I am attending Isabella’s salon—”

Pietro took two strides toward her. Maria stepped closer to her mistress, blocking him.

Pietro flung the elderly maid to one side.

“Do not dare to come between me and my wife,” he snapped. “You ignorant Spanish cow!”

“Do not address my lady in that way, sir!” said Leonora, squaring her little shoulders.

“I will address her as I see fit.”

His eyes shifted to her mouth.

“And what is that red sap on your lips? You look beastly—”

Leonora’s hand flew to her mouth, covering it.

“It is only beet juice to enhance my—”

“Since when does a de’ Medici have to enhance herself in order to discuss linguistic dilemmas?” said Pietro. “Take it off immediately, you look like a puttana
.
And you shall not have the grays tonight. I have my own plans in Fiesole.”

Leonora’s back stiffened. Pietro’s favorite mistress lived in the hills of Fiesole, in a villa he had paid to furnish despite the debts he could not pay for his own family.

“But—”

Pietro grasped Leonora’s arm, twisting it.

“You are hurting me—”

He whispered, his breath hot in her ear, “If you do anything that brings dishonor to my name—if I hear gossip of another man—I will kill you, as God is my witness. Do you understand?”

“Sì, Pietro, but let go of my arm! Please!”

He flung her arm away. She rubbed her skin, her eyes blurry with tears.

“I mean what I say,” he snarled, moving to the door. “Do not trifle with me, Leonora, you Spanish whore.”

The ladies-in-waiting scattered like pigeons as Pietro de’ Medici strode out the door.

Leonora stood clutching her arm, her face crumpled in pain.

“Write to the Spanish king, your uncle!” said Maria, rushing to her side. “A di Toledo should not endure such a beast as this man!”

“I cannot hide behind the robes of my uncle,” Leonora answered, her voice hushed. She blinked away the tears, her reddened mouth hardening. “I am a de’ Medici now.”

C
HAPTER
5

Siena, Village o
f
Vignano

J
ANUARY
1573

Zia Claudia cursed Cesare Brunelli and made the sign of the cross every time his name was uttered. She called him a gambler and a pagan who never crossed the threshold of any church. And it was true that Cesare Brunelli never set foot in a church if he could help it. That stubborn refusal made him all the more mysterious and feared by the faithful.

“He has the weird Etruscan ways about him,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“But, Zia! He cures horses. People from all over Tuscany travel to see him,” I said.

“He consorts with the devil,” she spat. “A horse witch. He brews sorcerers’ concoctions from devil weeds. Never speak with him, or he will steal your soul.”

“But he is my
padrino
,” I protested.

Cesare Brunelli had been my father’s best friend, and he was my godfather. I was proud of his reputation.

“Padrino!” scoffed Zia Claudia. “A
scherzo
your father played, entrusting him with your soul.”

My zia might not have approved of my padrino, but he was often summoned by wealthy
nobili
to shoe their finest horses. His meaty, gifted hands could fit a shoe to the most cracked hoof and make it hold, and they could deliver a breech colt. His shoeing could cure a lame horse; his liniments performed miracles on sore legs and fetlocks. His tinctures made from herbs, roots, or bark could save a horse from colic.

My Zio Giovanni swore he saw him seize a crippled Palio horse by its neck with his great arms, give it a twist, and straighten its spine. The horse dipped his head. His tongue made smacking sounds against his lips.

“Just as if the beast were trying to talk. Trying to thank Cesare. Then he dropped the halter and smacked the horse on the hindquarters. It trotted off, cured and sound.”

No wonder the Senese whispered that old Brunelli was a horse sorcerer. But I sensed only his solid strength. His hands were always sticky with the pine tar from spackling cracked hoofs and the white sugar crystals he used to cure festering wounds. I smelt the clean scent of wintergreen oil on his skin as he pounded iron shoes on his anvil.

Smithy Brunelli was so sought after that he had to refuse work, shaking his enormous shaggy head.

“I cannot come,” he’d say. “No time to leave my forge.”

The rich noble families would send their horses to him, along with a servant who begged or bribed old Brunelli to work his magic on their ailing animals.

“Just a few hours of your time, maestro.
Per favore
!
”

And so it was at his stables that I met the Duchessa d’Elci and saw the most beautiful mare in all Tuscany.

After a grueling morning in church—with Zia Claudia pinching me to emphasize each point the priest made about the sins of pride—I finally escaped, walking to the village with my uncle.

“I must negotiate prices for our wool,” he told Zia. “Virginia will accompany me.” He raised a finger. “And we must tend the sheep close tonight, once Franco brings them down. The rams sense when the castration knife is sharpened. We cannot risk having the flocks scatter.”

Before Zia Claudia could open her snapping-turtle mouth to object, we turned down the lane toward the center of the village.

Purple-gray clouds gathered overhead, and soon icy rain pelted our heads. I pulled my cloak around me, its rough wool scratching my neck.

We slipped inside the dark stables of the smithy, where my uncle liked to throw dice a few hours a week. I kept his secret faithfully from Zia Claudia. And I would have traded my soul for the time I could watch Padrino Brunelli work his miracles on horses.

Shivering from the winter rain, we stomped the mud off our shoes. The warm horse smell—spicy and intoxicating, mixing warm hay and grassy dung—welcomed us.

I drew in a deep breath.

“Take your fingers out of your mouth,
cara
,” whispered Zio. He said it gently, knowing the spell horses cast on me. I twisted my wet fingers into the folds of my overskirt.

Zio Giovanni was greeted with backslaps from other men, who rose from their crouched positions on the floor. They passed a terra-cotta jug of red wine. He took a deep draught and gave a lopsided grin, his teeth berry red.

Zio took his place in the gambling circle as Smithy Brunelli leaned over a horse’s hoof aligning a shoe, five nails clenched tight in his teeth.

“You smell like a dirty sheep, Tacci,” said the baker. Flour gathered in the furrows of his moist brow, etching white lines in his ruddy skin.

“It is the livelihood God provides me,” said Zio. “I am not ashamed of it.”

“Better than the tanner,” grumbled the miller. “I swear I cannot draw a breath near him.”

Brunelli grunted, removing the nails from his mouth. Tanning leather in urine and feces was a vital but unpopular occupation.

“Stinking but honest,” he declared.

The cobbler laughed. “I agree. Let him stink—I need his good leather!”

“Roll the dice, Giovanni,” said the baker. “See what luck your sheep-scented hands can throw today.”

I sat close to Padrino Brunelli on a section of tree stump, watching my uncle throw the wooden dice on the stone floor. The men hunched over the dice, straining to see in the darkness.

Padrino lit another oil lamp suspended above us on a chain, the storm having snuffed the late afternoon light. He looked up at me, showing his broken teeth in a smile.

“You love the horses, don’t you, cara?” he said pinching my cheek with his blackened fingers.

I nodded, staring wide-eyed at the horse he was shoeing. There was a gnawing in my belly like hunger.

“You must be careful how you love these creatures,” he said. “One day, you may give your heart away forever.”

He watched my face in the lantern light.

“You have the fever, I see it in your eyes,” he said with a sigh. “What a pity you are a girl.”

Sympathy glowed in his eyes. My smile dissolved. I turned away from my beloved padrino before he could see my tears of frustration—the unfairness!

“Le due!”
called Zio from the circle of gamblers, rattling the dice in his hand.

The dice rolled from his palm and came to rest next to the lantern.

Two black dots stared up at the small group of men.

“Ho vinto!”
shouted Zio Giovanni.

As he reached for the coins strewn in the dusty circle, we heard a clatter of hooves, the clanging of iron shoes on the courtyard cobblestones. Brunelli, an enormous pair of tongs in his fists, stopped his work and listened.

There was a sharp rap on the wooden door.

Brunelli gave a quick jerk of his chin to the gamblers.

Zio Giovanni slid the coins into his pocket, and another man grabbed the dice just as a well-dressed rider strode in.

“La Duchessa d’Elci requests assistance from Cesare Brunelli.”

“That would be me, signore,” said my padrino.

He extracted a glowing red horseshoe from the forge with his tongs. With two deft blows of his hammer, he shaped the open ends. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

The d’Elci messenger stood fidgeting in the doorway.

Brunelli tossed the shoe in a trough of water. The sizzling hiss filled the sudden silence.

“What does the duchessa require that cannot be done by the good men in the Contrada dell’Oca?” asked Brunelli, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

The men nodded. Oca—represented by the noble house d’Elci—had won the Palio more times than any other. The d’Elci horses were legendary.

“A Palio mare is in foal, but something is wrong. We fear she is dying. She is the duchessa’s favorite horse, La Stella.”

“La Stella,” the men murmured in reverence. They had seen the mare race the narrow streets of Siena. I, too, made the sign of the cross at the mention of her name.

“A mare with a great heart,” said Brunelli. Concern knitted his sooty brow.

“Please, won’t you come to see her? Per favore—”

Brunelli rubbed his hands on his leather apron.

“Is she within the walls in your contrada?”

“No, no. She is pastured just above, in the hills beyond your village of Vignano—in the shadow of Castello di Quattro Torra. There are some wooden lambing sheds close by. If we could get her to move, she could rest there for the night in shelter. You could tend to her—”

“Zio Giovanni!” I whispered. “Those are our sheds!”

Brunelli shot a glance at me. He considered.

“And what will the Duchessa d’Elci give me if I can save her mare?”

“She will reward you commensurate with your skill, I assure you. You can name your price.”

Brunelli snapped his finger against his stout thumb.

“Giorgio!” he called.

A red-haired boy appeared: one of his sons—the one Brunelli had sent away to Florence for years, who was said to have talent for painting pictures.

He was about nineteen, almost a man, with big hands and long fingers stained brilliant blue and crimson. What had stained his skin, I wondered. Scarlet St. John’s oil, tincture of violet? So many horse potions I had seen in the illustrations painted in Brunelli’s book of horse remedies.

“Fetch me my gray gelding,” Brunelli said to his son, “and my doctoring kit.”

“Sì, Babbo,” said the boy, bobbing his head. His red curls brushed his freckled neck.

I squinted at him, my fingers crossed to protect me from the hex of his flame-colored hair. Aunt Claudia had warned me about those witches’ locks. Licked by Satan with his fiery tongue, she said.

A loud whinny erupted. The horses tied to a rope highline down the stable nickered and fidgeted as Giorgio hurried away.

Brunelli looked out the open door, past the rider. The cold gust made me shiver.

A black carriage with a crowned, double-headed eagle insignia stood waiting. An elderly woman pulled the velvet curtains apart, exposing her face to the rain. I watched her silver hair slowly mat against the pink crown of her head.

“That is the duchessa?” asked Brunelli.

“Yes,” said the rider. “She is distraught. She begged to accompany us.” He tilted his chin up and sniffed. “Though I assured her this stable is no place for a duchessa.”

“She is a true horsewoman,” said Brunelli. “One of the few noblewomen who still is. Of course she belongs here, though I am not sure you do.”

The gamblers chuckled, watching the servant flinch.

“Tell her I will attend the mare,” said Brunelli. “But on one condition. You must give the owner of the lambing shed and his niece a ride to their home in the carriage. Those sheds are their own.”

Zio Giovanni stood up in amazement. I stuck my fingers in my mouth.

“But—” protested the servant, taking a look at him and then at me, wild-eyed with excitement. “She is the Duchessa d’Elci!”

“You told me that. You also told me she was desperate to save her mare,” said Brunelli.

The servant swallowed hard.

“These are your terms?”

“Absolutely. Ah, no. One more thing. I will ask for some paints for my son. He fancies himself another Michelangelo.”

Laughter erupted again from the gambling circle.

“Lapis blue is what he craves now,” said Padrino Brunelli. “I trust you can procure it in the markets of Siena?”

“
Oltremarino
, Babbo!” Giorgio called from the recesses of the stable. “But I must pick the stones to crush myself for quality. The vendors will cheat us if I do not choose them myself.

“And some madder lake!” he called out. “From the cloth dyers by the Arno in Florence. They hoard the best from the Silk Road.”

“You heard him,” said my padrino. “That will be my payment. Paints and transportation.”

The servant gave a curt nod and ducked back into the rain. I scrambled to the stable door to watch him. I saw the old duchessa’s swollen eyes, the flash of a white linen handkerchief.

As the servant spoke, a look of amazement mixed with annoyance crossed her face. She looked up and saw me staring at her from the stable door.

She dipped her chin once, consenting.

“We are going to ride in a carriage, Uncle!” I cried.

“Grazie,”
said Uncle Giovanni, grasping Brunelli’s hand. “You know what this means to my niece. And the honor—”

“Nothing, my friend. This is for my goddaughter. But I will ask for shelter for the mare if we can make her stand and walk. You will help me.”

The smith retrieved the horseshoe from the trough. He slapped the horse’s rump, raising a cloud of dust.

“No shoes for you today
,”
said my padrino. “I will finish the job tomorrow.”

A hand clutched my arm, and I jumped. The red-haired Giorgio held me in his grasp. I stared at his color-splotched fingers.

“Make an excuse for a minute, and come with me.”

“What?”

“Tell them you need to make water before you ride in the carriage. I will wait for you in the back stalls. It is important,
ragazza
!
Molto importante!
”

I bit my lip. When I turned around again, he was gone.