The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (47 page)

C
HAPTER
102

Siena, Crete Hills

A
UGUST
1591

The sight of Siena rising above the hilly country of the Crete was magical. Somehow the distance enhanced the walled city and its towers, a magical vision rising over the sun-bleached hills.

I hung out the window of the carriage, staring. The wind made my eyes sting, so I finally had to withdraw into the cabin.

“Even our view from Vignano—so close and perfect!—does not compare with this,” I said.

“There is something special about the perspective,” said di Torreforte, smiling for the first time since I had met him. “The perfect distance from the city, the surrounding hills for contrast. Wait until you see Siena in the winter mists. It is magical.”

His words echoed my own thoughts. How strange that we should think alike about anything.

“You should paint it,” I said, turning away from him to look again.

It was the first time we had shared a moment of peace together, where I had addressed him as a friend
.
I wondered if my heart was softening toward him.

“I could never do it justice,” he said with a curt wave of his hand. “I do not have the technique for landscapes.” He gazed down at the muddy floor of our coach. “I have too many failures. My betters have proved that.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps portraits would suit your talent better?”

He opened his hands, a gesture of surrender.

“The maestro once told me I had a talent for drawing anatomy and facial features. But he also told me I had not learned to love my subjects enough to find their spirit. He said my portraits were cold and stiff as the canvas on which they were painted.”

He stole a look at me, like a young boy. “The maestro accused me of being misanthropic. At the time, I considered it a compliment.”

I nodded. I knew too well the man he had been. But part of me was alert to the man he was becoming. “What else did your maestro tell you?”

Giacomo looked out the window toward Siena. He laughed sadly, shaking his head.

“He told me to find a muse. That was his answer to any artist’s dilemma. Find a muse and a passion. Like Giorgio had for painting horses.”

The stone buildings of the di Torreforte family’s Villa Corsano were imposing, standing solid and grand on the brow of a hill overlooking the vast vineyards and pastureland.

We passed a chapel across the road from the di Torreforte villa. In the slanting sunlight of late afternoon, the stone took on the tawny color of the grass field beside it.

“That is Pieve di San Giovanni Battista a Corsano,” said di Torreforte, nodding. The Parish of St. John the Baptist. “The young priest dreams of running a little school to teach the poor and orphans how to read. Perhaps, Virginia—”

“Do not say more. I need time to adjust to these changes.”

“Of course. Forgive me,” he said, bowing his head. “Changes take time.”

“It looks quite old,” I said, looking at the weather-worn stone.

“They say the baptistry was built more than five hundred years ago,” he said.

“San Giovanni Battista. Aren’t you Giacomo Giovanni? Were you named for the saint?” I asked.

Di Torreforte looked at me, then turned away.

“Yes,” he said, his voice muffled. “My father was very fond of San Giovanni. I think I disappointed him. It is a fine church. But
. . .
I haven’t set foot in the parish since my boyhood days.”

He looked away again. “We visited here often. I spent long stretches of my boyhood here. Many of our Palio horses were bred right here.”

“Not in Florence?”

“No. Florence was my father’s family home.”

“You are a Florentine by birth—”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I was sent to school in Florence, living in our family house on the Arno. But my mother was from Oca, and I was born and baptized there in the contrada.”

An Oca? A Senese?

I did not have time to consider further as we entered the gates of the estate.

A great crowd of servants had gathered in the cobbled courtyard to welcome us. Di Torreforte helped me from the carriage. I studied the maids, grooms, cooks, scullery maids. I saw no one I recognized amongst their eager faces.

“This is my cousin, Silvia Notari di Giovanni,” said di Torreforte. He looked at me intently. “Signorina Notari di Giovanni will be here at Villa Corsano for an extended stay. Please welcome her and give her any service she may require. The signorina should be considered the mistress of Corsano for the duration of her stay, which I hope will be a very long time.”

It took me a moment to realize he was referring to me as a signorina, now of the nobility.

The women stared hard at me, then spread their skirts wide in their outstretched hands, curtsying. The men ducked their heads, eyes lowered to the paving stones.

I felt Giacomo di Torreforte take my arm, escorting me through the foyer into the searing heat of the kitchen. Over a crackling fire in a wide hearth was an array of pots simmering with rich dishes seasoned with wild Tuscan herbs: rosemary, sage, and oregano. Haunches of meat hung from the ceiling on a long bar running from wall to wall. A calico cat looked up expectantly at the red hams, waiting for any drop of fat to fall on the stone floor.

“Let me show you to your room,” said the housekeeper, dressed in gray with a white kerchief tied over her hair. I nodded, following her to the stairs.

At the first step, her waist jingled with scores of keys. The sound made me start. I jumped away from her, stumbling. I clutched the bannister, gasping.

“Signorina! What is wrong?” she asked.

The keys. Mother Superior and her power to keep me locked forever behind the convent walls.

I collected myself. “Nothing. The coach ride has left me reeling still.”

“It is a long trip from Ferrara,” said the housekeeper. “You may not have your legs steady for some time.”

I said nothing. My legs would be steady once I was back on a horse.

We argued, though only briefly, the first day I was ready to ride.

I refused to dress as a boy.

“The servants know full well who I am. I am Signorina Silvia Notari di Giovanni.” My new name still felt strange in my mouth. Hard enough to get used to the name of the woman I had suddenly become without the extra confusion of dressing as the boy I never could have been. “Why should I try to disguise myself?”

Before Giacomo could object, I stamped my foot. “I am proud I am a woman, a ragazza-fantino
.
” Then I shook my head. “Ah, but look at me. I am not the villanella who rode the Palio. After so many years without riding, I have lost my hands, my seat, my legs. Give me a gentle horse until I recover my riding skills.”

Giacomo found a mare that the housekeeper’s grandchildren rode. He had a groom bring the saddled horse to the courtyard.

“Here, she will do,” he said. I saw the sadness in his eyes. The villanella riding a children’s mount.

“Good,” I said. I put my hands on my hips. “Now take off the saddle, Signor di Torreforte.”

His face brightened like a child’s. The groom unfastened the girth and withdrew the saddle.

“Give me a boost up,” I said, bending my leg. “I can no longer swing up the way I did as a girl.”

Giacomo cupped my foot in his hand.
“Uno, due, tre!”

I settled on the horse’s back. To feel the warmth and the symmetry of the horse under me gave me a rush of memories.

“Open the gates!”

I fell off many times. With age, I learned, each fall is harder to endure. I limped for months.

The mare, who was gentle enough and well used to such foolishness as a rider who could not stay on her back, looked at me almost in remorse every time I tumbled off. Slowly—too slowly for my impatience—I recovered my muscles and balance.

One day, I rode to the ancient church, its walls covered in moss. A young priest was sweeping the paving stones.

“Buongiorno!” I greeted him. “I am
. . .
”

“Excuse me, signorina, but I know who you are!” said the priest, smiling. He set his broom against a column. “I am Prete Mariano. Welcome to Corsano, Signorina Notari di Giovanni.”

The name still didn’t fit me, as if I were wearing someone else’s clothes. Still, it served its purpose to conceal my identity, as I had sworn to do. I owed that much to those who had risked so much to save me.

“I come with a proposal, Prete. I wish to teach the village children how to read and write.”

“Signorina, how generous!” said the priest. But the smile slid from his face. “I regret we have not the money for such instruction,”

“Signor di Torreforte will pay for the books, parchment, quills, and ink,” I told the priest.

“Have you consulted him, Signorina Silvia?” the priest asked. “Such a generous gift—”

“No, not yet,” I answered. “But he will provide all we need for the school. I am quite certain of it.”

I knew Giacomo would deny me nothing.

I taught the boys and girls—for I insisted girls be included—the rudimentary skills of reading and writing. The poor children of Corsano could spare only a few hours away from their chores each week, but slowly I taught them their letters and the magic of the written word.

I called our little school L
’
Accademia di Santa Caterina.

Then, one morning, I awoke to a shrill neigh in the courtyard and the strike of iron horseshoes on the cobblestones.

I opened my shutters to see a chestnut mare, her neck as defined as a Roman sculpture. Those strong curves and bulges, the fine solid head and body, made my heart skip a beat.

“Buongiorno, signorina!” called Giacomo, smiling up at me, though he could barely tear his eyes away from the mare.

“Come down and meet your new mare, Celeste.”

“She is—she’s bred from—” I could not finish my sentence.

“Sì! Caramella and Orione. It took a pretty penny to pry her away from the d’Este stables in Ferrara. She is in foal, and he was not the least inclined to sell her. But it seems someone whispered in the granduca’s ear who would be her new owner.”

I raced down the stairs so fast, I did not realize I was still in my bedclothes. My linen shift fluttered as I raced across the cobblestones, making the mare shy. Then she swung her big head around toward me.

Caramella’s eyes. Orione’s neck. His body.

I pressed my nose into her warm neck and sobbed.