The Daughter of Siena: A Novel

by Marina Fiorato

  As Riccardo bowed, then left, she knew. Faustino was a pander. She was to distract Signor Bruni, to keep him from his training. She was to be a bauble to dandle in from of him, dressed up and painted like a jade in cloth of gold. Faustino had seen the horseman fall for her, hard, at the feast of her wedding day. Faustino would occupy Signor Bruni with Pia, so he could not train for the Palio. This scheme would leave Nello free to train as much as he liked. Meantime, the lessons would foster Nello’s hatred for Signor Bruni until it reached such a pitch he would go to any lengths to beat him in the race.

  As soon as she could go, Pia swept from the room with as much dignity as she could muster, trying to contain her fury. She, a married woman, had been dangled in front of this man, this riding teacher. But even her fury could not douse the tiny warmth just under her heart that had nothing to do with the wine: it was the small hot coal of pleasure that someone could still find her attractive.

  Once in her room, Pia felt oddly deflated. She was just about to lie down upon her bed – alone once again, she thanked God – when she noticed one of the doors to the garderobe was hanging slightly ajar. There was a chance, just a chance … She opened the doors upon a miracle.

  Faustino had been as good as his word and despite his many transgressions she blessed him. She ran her hands over the dresses. There they all were – the crimson, yellow, green, and the garde-corps for riding, of supple tan leather, the skirts divided in two. She went inside and buried her face in them, rubbing the fabric on her skin, breathing them in. She would have slept in there if she could.

  Her mother was home.

  ‘Was she there?’

  Zebra’s question, delivered from the depths of a shadow, startled Riccardo as he left the house of Aquila.

  He lifted his finger to his lips and shook his head. He kneeled so that his eyes were on a level with the boy’s. ‘Zebra, do you know anyone in the Aquila kitchens?’

  ‘Of course! Caterina, the kitchen maid.’

  ‘Go in and beg for some food and find out when Nello goes to the Eagles’ castle in the Maremma.’

  Zebra disappeared through the gate. As he waited for him, Riccardo thought of his new horse, Leocorno. Unicorn, Faustino had said, by reason of the white coat and the scar like the bump of a horn.

  Zebra emerged from the kitchen with a pancake and a smile. ‘He goes to the Castel di Pietra tomorrow, early, to begin his training,’ his head jerked in the direction of the stables, ‘with his new horse.’ The boy’s words were heavy with significance.

  ‘His new horse?’ Riccardo decided quickly. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

  Zebra’s eyes widened a little, but without question he led Riccardo to an inner courtyard through a door in the loggia. They trod softly over the cobbles and opened the half-door to the Eagles’ stables. Riccardo noticed the fresh straw and sparkling tack, the new wooden beams, and thought of his father’s humble workplace. A hurricane lamp burned in a sconce with a soft glow. Riccardo unhooked it and moved inside, smelling the home smell of horse and hay. A dark flank gleamed from the shadows and Riccardo walked round Nello’s new horse: a big beast, pure black, heavy in the shoulder, fairly fidgeting with nervous vigour and quivering with power. Riccardo was not worried for himself – he had already begun the stream of soft talk that would gentle the beast – but he pulled Zebra round to the horse’s head. If this was a race winner, he would likely be skittish and temperamental, and he did not want Zebra to catch a hoof to the skull. The horse rolled his eyes at Riccardo, showing the whites, snuffling and shaking its head. Riccardo ran his hands down the horse’s legs.

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Zebra.

  ‘No, I don’t recognize him,’ Riccardo murmured, low voiced. ‘Strong fellow and ready to run. Not handsome, though.’

  Zebra scratched his chin in a gesture he had caught from older men. ‘Faces don’t win races,’ he said in Sienese, a local saying as old as it was true.

  Riccardo smiled. ‘Indeed. Indeed.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Zebra.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His coat is rough. He needs some condition on him. He’s sickening. And smell.’ Riccardo sniffed the air, and Zebra did likewise. Overlaying the hay and horse there was a faint, chemical tang in the air, like an apothecary’s shop.

  ‘Perhaps they’re giving him physick.’

  ‘Yes, But there’s something … something …’

  He looked at the horse again. Something troubled him. He would like to see this jittery horse run, as that was the only true test, but Nello was set to train in the Maremma – out of the city’s eye.

  ‘Zebra,’ Riccardo said, ‘how about a night in the Eagles’ nest? Are you up to it?’

  Zebra shrugged. ‘One bed of straw is as good as another. And they know me well here.’

  Riccardo looked at the boy, all ruffled brown hair and clear green eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across the snub nose. He felt a rush of affection, a sudden misgiving about leaving him here.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  The boy nodded, his eyes drooping.

  It must be past midnight. Let him rest.

  ‘Very well, then. Stay, and sleep, and, in the morning, offer to help with the horse. I want to know how he goes, with Nello on his back.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll be back in the morning.’ Happiness swelled in his throat. ‘To teach Pia to ride.’

  Zebra’s tiredness did not blunt his beady intelligence. He shot Riccardo a look from under his brows. Riccardo was chastened, and as he crept from the courtyard he reflected that if a child of nine could read his feelings that easily, he had better learn to guard them more carefully.

  Pia could see Signor Bruni from her windows, leading a white horse into the courtyard of the palace of the Eagles just before the bells struck nine.

  Had she been less nervous she might have asked herself why he was not riding his prize. But while Nicoletta arranged her hair with her usual tweaks and snatches, Pia was busy smoothing down her garb. Her mother’s riding garde-corps fitted her like a glove, the smooth, supple, embroidered leather close at the bodice and flaring into an enormous divided skirt designed to part around the horse’s neck. It felt strange that she was now the same size as her mother had been when she died. But it heartened her that she too had been a rider, that she would be learning a pastime that her mother had enjoyed, as the scuffs and stains on the strange garment clearly showed.

  As she arranged her clothes Pia watched Signor Bruni down in the courtyard do likewise. He twitched at his garments, pulled up his riding boots and straightened the silken kerchief, dyed in the burgundy and blue of the Tower, at his neck. As he smoothed his dark curls into the velvet ribbon at his nape, Pia found herself noting his beauty, while at the same time consciously rejecting it. The fellow was here to teach her to ride. She wanted his skill and that was all.

  Signor Bruni’s looks had not passed Nicoletta by, either. The maid kept up a constant stream of chatter. ‘By San Bernardino, he’s a handsome-looking fellow, that ostler. No wonder the master …’ The maid broke off, catching her lip between snaggle teeth. ‘At any rate, ye’re done. Away with ye.’

  Pia turned to go and then stopped at the door. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  Nicoletta shook her head, jowls wobbling. Her smiles today were small. ‘Master said ye’ve to shift for ye’self.’ She lifted her chins. ‘I’m needed in the house.’ She comforted herself by cramming down the small smart tricorne, with a feather in the side, too firmly on Pia’s tender head.

  Pia’s spirits rose as she descended the stairs, but she was thoughtful.

  Did Faustino imagine that, left unchaperoned, she would dishonour his son? She had already decided, as much for her own sense of dignity as for the benefit of Faustino’s spies, that she would act towards Signor Bruni with the utmost correctness and decorum.

  In the shady courtyard, she greeted Signor Bruni.

  ‘Signora Caprimulgo.’ He bowed.

  Pia could no
t get used to the name. ‘Signor Bruni.’

  ‘Please, signora, call me Riccardo.’

  It was very properly said, but she had her own reasons for preferring his family name – the river Bruni of the legends, the river that Pia’s bridge crossed.

  She could see his eyes travelling over her garde-corps with approval – a trifle old-fashioned, but it would serve. A beautiful white horse stood obediently in the shadows next to the little dappled palfrey that had been brought for her. This must be the horse that had been led to the house by that pirate – Boli? – with his black counterpart, the horse Faustino and the horseman had discussed last night, a gift from the Eagles to Signor Bruni. The horse that Nello had said she must not ride.

  The windows all around the wide courtyard seemed to be watching them like glassy eyes. Her tutor did not smile and nor did she. She could see that he, too, had his eyes on the windows all around. He too had clearly decided that their time together was dangerous and had imposed a little distance between them. In the church of the Owlet, protected by the grille of the confessional between them, they had talked intimately. Now they were to be in each other’s presence daily, their acquaintance must begin again on a new footing. Pia had decided that she should affect the demeanour befitting to her rank. Signor Bruni was her riding teacher and the son of a farrier. But in subsuming all her instincts in the rigidity of class, she knew she would also have to conceal her burning curiosity about the mysterious white horse, about the duchess, about the coup of the Nine. But then she was extremely practised at hiding her feelings.

  ‘You said you’d never ridden before, signora.’ Signor Bruni seemed to forget himself in his curiosity. ‘Why did you never learn?’

  ‘Riding in Siena is a very male province,’ she replied stiffly. It was not his place to question her. ‘Have you not noticed?’

  Signor Bruni shrugged, making even this offhand gesture seem elegant. ‘I have no women in my family,’ he said. ‘I never knew my mother. It’s just my father and me.’

  Pia’s froideur melted. He too had grown up without a mother. ‘My mother was accomplished.’

  ‘She rides?’

  ‘Before she died, yes, I never knew her.’ She paused, just long enough for him to realize that they shared the kinship of the motherless. She rushed into the silence. ‘This is her gown that I wear.’

  ‘Then it is in the blood. I am sure she will guide you.’ His smile came again. He could scarcely have said anything kinder or more comforting to Pia, than if he had researched his utterance for a fortnight.

  Pia glanced up at the windows once more. Although it seemed that they were not observed, she kept to this safe thread of discourse. Talk of the Nine and the duchess must wait – but she had to talk. Her seclusion, her unhappiness, her fear, overcame her intentions and her breeding. She had, for perhaps the first time in her life, a sympathetic ear.

  ‘I was never allowed to ride. Unless I walked, I have spent my life in a carriage, a litter, a sedan chair.’ She glanced at him under her lashes. ‘You see, I am the only heir of the Tolomei. My mother died in childbed. My father treated me like glass.’ Her voice was brittle with bitterness. ‘I was his marriage prize, and he did not want to damage his investment.’

  His green eyes were kind. ‘And now?’ he asked gently, with the air of one who already knows the answer.

  ‘Now it does not matter,’ she said. ‘I am wed. The deal is done, the contracts drawn up. I can now damage myself as much as I like.’

  They had reached their mounts. Pia, remembering Nello’s warning, did not reach out to the white stallion, but patted the palfrey on her dappled neck.

  ‘You are not afraid of horses?’ He seemed delighted.

  Pia, recalling the Palio, when she had taken Berio’s leading rein and let him nibble her ear, shook her head.

  ‘And you wish to learn? This is not against your will?’

  Pia opened her eyes very wide. ‘I want to. Very much.’ She bent as close to him as she dared. ‘Signor Bruni, I need to learn to ride far and fast.’

  She looked into the very depths of his eyes, eyes as green as capers, and met his unwavering gaze. She thought he understood her. ‘Very well. Then let’s begin.’

  He led the little palfrey into the sun, bits jingling, mane tossing. The little mare had spirit, and Pia looked on with curiosity as Signor Bruni spoke calmly in its velvet ear awhile. He pushed and stilled the horse with his body and hands and then turned to Pia and looked her up and down.

  ‘Ready?’

  Swiftly he bent and laced his hands together for her.

  ‘Put your left foot in the stirrup – just the toe, that’s right.’ Pia did as she was bid. ‘Then your other foot in my hands. Then hop twice and jump. That’s it, hop, hop, jump, and fling your leg over. That’s it!’

  Pia sat on the palfrey, feeling the unfamiliar saddle under her. She fitted her boot into the other stirrup – no mean feat, as the metal arch just would not stay still – and nearly fell. The insecurity of the seat, her height above the ground on horseback, surprised her. If the beast took a single step she was sure she would fall. The palfrey shifted her weight and Pia lurched, clutching at the pale mane with both hands.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said a smile in his voice. ‘Let go of the mane.’

  ‘Then how do I hold on?’

  ‘With your knees.’

  Pia squeezed the beast with her legs and sat a little straighter. Better. Signor Bruni picked up the slack reins and showed her how to hold them – correcting her fingers with his over and over again. She marvelled at his patience.

  ‘Three fingers over each, let the reins lie over your thumbs, and the little fingers to control. The reins guide the horse and these littlest fingers,’ he touched each white digit in turn, ‘will tell your horse what you want it to do. You’re talking, with these fingers, to the horse’s mouth. That’s how you tell it what you want, and it will tell you too. You’ll begin to feel each other, all the way down the reins. If you’re doing it right, these fingers will pain you tomorrow as though they’ve been crushed in a vice.’

  He clipped a longer strap on to the complicated apparatus at the horse’s mouth.

  ‘A leading rein,’ he said. ‘Today we will be at ease. Just sit on the beast, learn to feel her rhythms and hold on with your knees. Head up, heels down. Find your seat. That is all we will be doing at first.’

  Nervously, she watched him, so tall and confident, pay out the rein till he stood in the centre of the courtyard. He clicked his tongue sharply twice and the horse began to amble slowly round in a wide circle. At first, even this leisurely walk had Pia feeling that she would surely tumble. But at length, she found her seat, just as he had said: sitting straighter, holding the reins correctly, heels down in the stirrups as Signor Bruni shouted, ‘Good, good.’

  Pia began to enjoy herself, living in the present moment, here in this wonderful courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of years of history and the towers of the city beyond, and the hot blue square of sky above. Seated on a horse made her feel as if she belonged in Siena as never before: as if she had kinship to all the thousands of riders before and after.

  When the sun was high – too soon – Signor Bruni slowed the horse to a standstill and offered his hand to help her down. It was a perfectly proper chivalric gesture, and as she felt the warmth of the firm fingers she felt absurdly like crying. It was the first time that someone had touched her with kindness since she had left her father’s house. Frogmarched, jostled, bullied by her maid, shorn by her husband. This hand was different, strong, gentle, kind. This hand said: let me help you, let me guide you down, lest you hurt yourself. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. This touch felt so good that she left her hand in his a fraction longer than propriety allowed, even when her two feet were safely on the ground. But the touch was different now. He had turned over the palm, looking at the black stain. ‘What …?’

  She snatched her hand away, glancing up at the windows that were like
eyes.

  He dropped his hands to his sides. ‘Nello’s hair,’ he said, not a question, but a statement.

  She did not need to nod. He was looking at her again, searchingly, kindly. She had a feeling that he had divined the tenor of their marriage, the terror: what he’d done to her hair, what she’d done to his. This strange grooming of coupled birds. She dropped her eyes and would not meet his. She thought if she endured his level green gaze for a moment longer she would not have the strength to go back in the house. She turned and walked back across the courtyard, faster than she’d meant.

  ‘Wait,’ he called after her. ‘There’s something you should know.’

  She ran.

  As she climbed her stair she heard a whisper. ‘Mistress.’

  A little black-and-white figure materialized in her sun-blinded vision. Zebra.

  ‘Signor Bruni instructs me to tell you that your husband has gone into the Maremma to train. The servants tell me he will be there for a fortnight at least.’

  He smiled at her, the second, lovely, uncomplicated smile she had received today.

  ‘He thought you would like to know.’

  Pia nodded, dazed, and clumped up the stair. She was heavy with the riding robe and with tiredness. But her chamber seemed light and airy, and as she fell back on the bed, measuring her full length, she registered what the boy had said and felt herself lighten with relief.

  Nello had gone, and Signor Bruni had wanted her to know it.

  She no longer had to hide; she no longer had to bloody the bed. Nello wanted to win the Palio more than he wanted her. He wanted to claim her when he was a victor, just as Vicenzo had planned. He had only three weeks to prepare for the race but they were to be married for the rest of their lives. She could not even worry about this life sentence today. For fourteen blessed days she could sleep soundly at night, not fear the lift of the latch.