The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (7 page)

C
HAPTER
13

Siena, Pugna Hills

M
ARCH
1573

A few weeks after the birth of Orione, there was a knock on the door of our
casetta
.

“In the name of Duchessa d’Elci, I come bearing a gift,” said a voice.

I licked my fingers clean of grease, threw the bolt, and opened the door.

Outside stood a rider dressed in green and white, Oca colors. Since it was not a Feast Day, I marveled at his dress, and that a contradiolo would visit our little cottage in the hills.

In one hand, he held his horse’s reins. In the other, he carried a package wrapped in paper painted deep green with white stars.

“Are you Virginia Tacci?” he inquired. He was a tall, dark-haired youth. His accent was thoroughly Senese—but cultured.

Zia Claudia pushed past me, staring bug-eyed at the package. She stretched out her hands to grab it.

“Per la piccola,”
said the young man, his green eyes fastened on mine. This is for the little one.

Avoiding Zia’s grasping hands, he handed the package to me.

“This is from the Duchessa d’Elci. I am to put this token of her appreciation into your hands. There is a letter attached.”

I touched the beautiful paper wrapping the package. A folded parchment sealed with crimson wax lay on top.

My fingers eagerly unwrapped the paper. My zia grabbed it.

“Such a green!” she exclaimed. “This must be worth—”

“Silenzio, moglie!”
admonished Giovanni.

I held up a leather halter, oiled to a deep walnut color and bearing medallioned rosettes painted with the emblem of the Goose in green and white with red trim.

“It is the
collo di cavallo—
the processional Palio halter
—
of
Stella, our blessed horse of two Palio victories,” said the Oca contradiolo. “Stella wore this to the cathedral for the blessing of the horse and jockey.” His voice was low in reverence.

The image of the beautiful mare standing before the altar dazzled me. I could imagine the priest raising his hand, making the sign of the cross, sprinkling the
fantino
and his racehorse with holy water.

“We of the Contrada dell’Oca thank you for saving her colt. When the House of d’Elci wins, we
ocaioli
share in the honor. Now you do, too.”

He nodded to me, then winked.

I stared down at the parchment, folded in four and sealed with wax. A two-headed eagle was embossed in the red seal, its faces pointing in opposite directions. I did not open it, for I could not read.

I raced toward Vignano, my package hidden under my coat.

Breathless, I pushed open the stable door.

“Padrino!” I shouted. “Look what I have!”

Brunelli was straightening nails on his anvil. He turned his head slowly to me, blinking sweat from his eyes.

“Duchessa d’Elci sent a collo di cavallo to me—the one Stella wore to the cathedral for the benediction of the horses!”

Brunelli’s face transformed, the creases relaxing, erasing the years.

“Dio mio,” he said. I pulled the star-studded package from my coat.

With the reverence of a priest handling the host at the altar, Brunelli pulled the leather halter from the paper. “A two-time Palio winner,” he whispered. “There is magic in this, ciccia,” he said.

“And she sent a letter!” I said, waving the parchment at his face. “Please, could you read it to me?”

Brunelli gazed at the letter. “Giorgio,
veni
!” he called.

I winced at the name. I remembered the rough toweling before my meeting with the Duchessa d’Elci.

The red-haired young man approached us, a pitchfork in his paint-stained hand. His hair and clothes were littered with bits of hay. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

He stared at me, hollow-eyed. I looked away.

“Come, figlio,” my godfather said. “I have something for you to read.”

Giorgio looked at the letter in Brunelli’s hand and the adorned halter on his shoulder. Then his mouth dropped open at the green wrapping paper cast aside on a hay bale.

“My God!” he said. “Where did you get that paper?” I looked at the crumpled wrapping.

“The Duchessa d’Elci wrapped the halter in it—a halter worn by the Palio mare—”

“Do you know how precious that color is?”

He dropped the pitchfork and picked up the wrapping paper gingerly. It rustled in his hand.

“And this yellow,” he said. “Look how the colors permeate—”

“Son
,
would you read this letter for little Virginia?” said Brunelli, calling Giorgio out of his reverie.

The artist had almost forgotten about both of us. To see the glitter in his eyes, focused on the colored paper, gave me a strange sense of forgiveness. He revered paints with the same ardor I felt for horses.

I handed him the folded parchment.

“Go on!” I said, shifting from foot to foot. “Read it, per favore.”

He turned the missive over in his hand and read aloud: “To Virginia Tacci.”

I felt my cheeks burn, and my lips pulled back in a wide smile. “Let me see it,” I said, grabbing at the letter. “Show me that part that is my name!”

Giorgio’s fingers hovered over the writing, tracing the two clusters of letters. “That is your name. Virginia Tacci.”

I stared at the two words.

“I would give almost anything to read,” I murmured.

“You should open it, not I,” he said. He handed me a knife from his pocket. “Slide the blade under the wax and break the seal.”

“What are these eagles?”

“They are the insignia of the Pannocchieschi. The duchessa’s ancient family is mentioned in Dante Alighieri’s
Divine Comedy
.”

Who was this Dante Alighieri? Was he Senese?

I worked open the seal without cracking the eagles. I unfolded the vellum. “Now read it, Giorgio. Read!”

He nodded and started to read with a fluency that belied his lowly birth.

“This halter was worn by the Contrada dell’Oca mare before and after her second Palio victory on August 16, 1571. May it bring you luck, dear Virginia. With tremendous gratitude, La Duchessa d’Elci.”

My padrino gave me back the halter. I rubbed the ribbons and felt the enameled medallions under my fingertips. And a brass buckle! My padrino’s halters were made of coarse rope that tied on one side. But this—

I glanced up at old Brunelli to share my joy. My smile faded as I recognized the same sad look in his eyes.

Too bad you are a girl.

C
HAPTER
14

Florence, Pitti Palace

A
PRIL
1573

Isabella de’ Medici, Duchessa di Bracciano, stared up at the gray walls of the Pitti Palace as her coach rounded the curving drive. The massive stonework resembled an ancient Roman aqueduct, a severe line of repeating arches.

The de’ Medici princess never understood why her mother, Eleonora di Toledo, had insisted on buying this monstrosity. True, it was far more spacious than the Palazzo Vecchio, but the Pitti’s façade was charmless and brutal, flaunting cold power rather than embracing beauty and Florentine grace. Its series of arches reminded her of a gigantic serpent.

The de’ Medici slept in the belly of the serpent, and Isabella had nightmares of being consumed by a snake.

Leonora’s valet met Isabella as she descended from the coach. Bowing deeply, he led her to her cousin’s apartments in the palace.

The reek of sickness filled the bedchamber, forcing Isabella to cover her nose with a linen handkerchief.

“I am sorry to have missed the hunt, dear cousin,” whispered Leonora. Her ladies-in-waiting had propped up their mistress against down pillows so she could receive her visitor. “Did you and my uncle enjoy the riding?”

“Open a window at once!” said Isabella, ignoring the question. “My cousin should have fresh air. The stale air of sickness permeates this room.”

The attendants scattered like wild geese at Isabella’s command. The sashes flew up, and the sound of birdsong rushed in from the Boboli Gardens. Leonora’s delicate nostrils quivered at the soft breeze floating through the room.

Light streamed in the open windows, illuminating Leonora’s pale face. She blinked at the sunlight. Isabella took a seat across from the ailing twenty-two-year-old. There was a dark bruise across her cousin’s cheek.

Isabella rose from her chair, her fingertips tracing the bruise.

“Is this why you could not join us?”

“No, no,” said Leonora, her hand moving languidly to her face. “I have been terribly ill for days now.”

“Indeed, you look it. But more than ill, you look frightened—”

“Pietro’s physician brought in a bloodletter, but I fear I have not profited from his attention. I abhor the leeches sucking at my veins.”

Isabella’s eyes grew wide. She started to speak, then stopped and looked around the bedroom apartments, scanning the pallid, worried faces of Leonora’s attendants.

The servants followed protocol, lowering their eyes to the floor as the duchessa regarded them.

After a moment’s thought, her lips set in a firm line, she spoke in the commanding tones of the princess she was. “Leave us now,” she said to the servants. “All of you! I would speak to my cousin. Alone.”

When the room was clear, she leaned closer and spoke fervently but quietly.

“Get up, Leonora. Now. You shall ask your ladies to dress you and pack your belongings.”

“What? But I am ill, Cousin!”

Isabella lowered her mouth to Leonora’s ear.

“If you are ill, it is mostly likely with the pox of prostitutes my brother has brought to your bed. But I think it is poison that you suffer from, not pox. It may be the food and drink you are served that are slowly killing you. My mother and uncles will curse me from their graves if I do not take you away from here. You will stay at my villa until you are well.”

“Your villa!”

The faintest trace of a smile crossed Leonora’s face. Then it faded.

“Would Francesco allow my husband to murder me?” she whispered, her eyes searching her cousin’s face.

Isabella pressed her lips together firmly.

“Bring only your most trusted ladies with you,” Isabella said. “You shall recover your health under my watch.”

Leonora’s face crumpled.

“He found Bernadino’s love letters to me hidden in the footstool.”

“More discretion would have benefited you both,” said Isabella, her chin lifting above her ruffled collar.

“Bernadino has been imprisoned in Elba. Pietro means for him to die.”

Isabella swallowed briefly, regaining her de’ Medici composure.

“Your news is stale,” she said, squeezing her Leonora’s hand. “Your affair reached the ears of my elder brother, not just Pietro.”

Leonora gasped.

“When Francesco puts his mind to evil, the workings are well-oiled and swift,” said Isabella. “Your Bernadino was strangled.”

C
HAPTER
15

Siena, Pugna Hills

A
PRIL
1573

Zia Claudia’s snores filled the room as I crept from my straw pallet and slipped out of the house. I had hidden my cloak, slippers, and the collo di cavallo
in a bundle outside. I grabbed it and ran into the night.

Moonlight spilled over the tufts of spring grass, the olive trees throwing stout shadows on the pasture. Horses stood sleeping, frozen like toy figures. Lying on the trampled grass, the foals slept, safe from wolves. My eyes scanned the field, searching for the duchessa’s mare Stella and her colt—my colt—Orione.

With the collo di cavallo over my shoulder, I tied my skirts in a knot above my thighs, the dew wetting my skin.

I thought of the de’ Medici princess. I recalled her grace, the brief smile as she cleared the old olive tree, her horse leaping through the air.

Did she ever have to worry about being married off against her will? The tanner’s son! Was that my future?

A horse snorted. Another one stirred, moving away. A mare nickered to her foal, nudging him to his feet.

“Tranquillo,” I said, approaching. I clambered over the stone fence. “Look, I brought an apple from our cellar. Look!”

I walked slowly toward the silhouetted horses. They shied away, unsure of this phantom who approached them in the darkness.

Suddenly, a black horse charged toward me. He exploded from the blackness like the devil himself. His neck curled in fury, exposing the thick band of muscle running under his long tangled mane.

“No!” I screamed and fell to the ground, the apple rolling away.

I covered my head as his hooves flashed out. My padrino had told me that a horse’s hooves could slice a man’s flesh, break his skull with one blow.

I was only a small heap of bones and skin, cowering on the wet grass.

The stallion chuffed a snort of rage. Not dead, I dared to peek and saw the white star blazing his forehead as it dipped and surfaced in the dim light.

Tempesta! The black stallion.

I rolled to my feet and balled up my fists. His nostrils flared. He whinnied in fury, a shriek that registered in my stomach.

He reared above me, black as death.

“Santa Caterina!” I implored. “Save me!”

There was a shrieking call from another horse right beside us.

The stallion snorted, rolling back on his haunches. He shook his head, throwing his mane left and right, distracted. Rage pulled his eyes wide, making white rings in the darkness.

The snap of teeth, the thud of iron shoes hitting flesh.

I scrambled away, tripping on a root and sprawling headfirst onto the ground. I heard the galloping thud of hoofbeats charging away into the night.

Then I felt warm breath on my neck. I clapped my hand over my skin, terrified.

A nudge and the soft flesh of a horse’s muzzle.

The colt’s tiny teeth pulled the folds of my skirt. He chewed on the fabric, tearing at it as if were sweet grass.

The mare, Stella, stood above me majestically. Her sides heaved, her breath scattering the dried leaves on the ground. She gazed down at me, watching her colt nibble at my skirt.

I thought of the beating Zia Claudia would give me for the tear in my skirt. I could feel her whipping cane stinging the backs of my legs.

“Stop it!” I shouted. I swatted at the colt’s nose.

He shied away, blinking at me in the moonlight.

“
Grazie mille
, Stella,” I said. “You saved my life.” My fingers searched the cool grass for the halter. “Now you will let me ride you, sì?”

The colt’s whinny echoed, high-pitched and eerie, across the hills.

I had watched Brunelli put halters on horses for years. Still, when I tried it myself for the first time, I was clumsy.

“Steady now,” I said to the mare.

She dipped her nose into the halter, her mouth still chomping my apple.

“Grazie,” I told her, patting her neck. But the buckle was under her chin, the halter upside down.

It took several more tries before I could buckle the halter. I was certain it was still wrong—but it was good enough, I said to myself. I had never seen a brass buckle in my life.

I led the mare to the stone wall and clambered up the rock. My fingers worked, twisting the free end of the rope into a knot under the halter. Now I had a makeshift rein.

I held my breath.

I threw my right leg over her, my skirts hiked up to my underclothes, my bare legs dangling.

She moved off at a trot, and I came tumbling off.

“Oof!” I landed hard on my shoulder, then smacked my chin on the ground. I picked bits of cold mud and grass from between my teeth.

Stella stood a few paces away, eating grass, totally unconcerned.

Orione looked at me, perplexed. He nibbled at the hem of my skirt.

Again, I tried. Then again. I fell half a dozen more times, but each time I stayed on her back a few strides more.

“That’s a difficult way to learn,” said a voice in the darkness as I hauled myself up onto Stella’s back yet again. “You will be black and blue by dawn.”