The Daughter of Siena: A Novel

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The Daughter of Siena: A Novel Page 21

by Marina Fiorato

‘For a moment – no, never mind …’ The duke resumed eating again, turning to Dami and dropping Riccardo mid-sentence.

  Relieved to be dismissed, Riccardo rose from the table and ran down the stone stairs, gulping the fresh air of the courtyard as he went, almost weeping with relief to be out of there, to be away from this life of decadence, of nobility. The palace was no haven to him now, as it had been only that afternoon in the library. In that moment he thought he would never go back. He suddenly wanted his father.

  He left, as he always did, through the kitchens, out into the air, and the friendly familiar streets of the Torre contrada swallowed him. As ever, he was careful not to be followed. But he was not careful enough.

  Giuliano Dami, on silent feet, followed Riccardo on business of his own. He trod from shadow to shadow to the Torre contrada, and watched Riccardo disappear through the half-door of a stable, and heard the soft whicker that greeted him. Giuliano peered in the neighbouring house; here an old man sat at a table, nursing a cup and a pipe of tobacco. He stared at the old man for a long moment and, suddenly making up his mind, lifted the latch. The old man looked up, expecting his son. His lined lids lifted, the whites showed about his eyes when they lighted on Dami, and he uttered one word.

  ‘You!’

  13

  The Snail

  After a troubling interview with Riccardo’s father, Giuliano Dami wandered back through the Tower contrada. He knew he should hurry back to his master before he was missed, but he had a lot on his mind and he had always enjoyed cities at night. The looming palace against the star-studded night was alluring, the night warm and there was a scent of hyacinth on the breeze. All of his senses conspired against him and he dawdled. If someone had asked him why he dawdled, he might have said that thinking slowed him up.

  Someone did ask him.

  Footsteps followed. And a voice came out of the dark. ‘Why do you walk so slowly?’

  Dami turned. He must be out of practice, for he had one of the sharpest pairs of ears in Tuscany, attuned to everything from below-stairs gossip and returning wives to angry creditors. He walked, without changing his leisurely pace, back to his questioner. The moonlight showed a youth of piercing beauty: ash-blond hair, pearly skin with barely the fuzz of an emerging beard, velvet-dark eyes and full lips. Dami let his eyes wander over the young man, his night-purple eyes heavy with meaning.

  ‘Why do I walk so slowly?’ He smiled lazily. ‘Perhaps I am a snail. What do you think?’ He let one long finger stroke the young man’s cheek. Slowly, slowly. ‘And you? Perhaps you are a snail also? For it must be said that you, too, were walking very slowly.’

  The young man smiled, his full lips parting to show excellent teeth. Slowly, slowly, he took Dami’s finger between his lips and sucked. Dami had his answer. On the way back to the palace, the two of them walked a great deal more quickly than before.

  Violante woke from her usual dream of the twins with a feeling of trepidation. Gradually the events of yesterday resolved themselves. The arrival of Gian Gastone; the return of Dami into her life, a man she hated and feared with equal measure without quite knowing why. The disastrous feast, which brought back so many ill memories. And today, Riccardo would begin the long ride to San Galgano, for she could still not decide whether to lay the whole business before her brother-in-law.

  She lay for a long, long while, staring up at the folds and festoons of the drapes of her bed. A swallow flew into the room through the open window. The bird perched on her bedpost, cocking its little head at her, staring at her

  with twin black beads. Before she could reach for it, the bird flew away again, directly out of the window, with unwavering direction and resolve. Mocking her.

  Violante threw back the coverlet and rang for Gretchen. She dressed, breakfasted and met with her council – presided over with smooth, insolent dispatch by Francesco Maria Conti – before she climbed the stairs to Gian Gastone’s chamber. She had seen the state he was in by the end of the night and knew that he had carried on carousing after the feast, for she had heard laughter and music, as well as other sounds she had not cared to analyse, issuing from his chamber until the early hours. So she waited as long as she could before approaching him this morning. Violante had never drunk more than a goblet of wine at a sitting, even in the depths of her miserable marriage. She had no idea how such excesses would affect the constitution the following day.

  But as she entered the chamber when bidden, she was pleasantly surprised by Gian Gastone’s appearance. He was up, dressed in sober clothes, with his whiskers shaven and his wig combed and arranged. His feet were plunged into a silver basin from which rose the scent of lavender and she thought that, for the first time, he looked faintly regal. His demeanour and the friendly smile he bestowed upon her made up her mind. As she looked past him along the swallow’s path, to her city, his city, she began her tale.

  She had, it seemed, to become used to expecting the unexpected. Gian Gastone seemed excited by the task, galvanized out of his usual torpor by opposition. He rejected all notions of appealing to his father for help, for arms and armies.

  ‘Florence is not defended,’ he said. ‘The payroll of the garrison shows most of the infantry are over seventy, with not a mouthful of teeth between them. It no longer has a standing army. The only infantry and cavalry billeted here are my sister’s army from the Palatinate.’

  Gian Gastone’s lip curled and Violante could not tell which her brother-in-law liked less: the notion of Florence’s geriatric army, or the presence of his detested sister’s troops.

  ‘I will deal with this problem, dear sister, myself,’ he announced, closing that particular discussion. ‘You will enjoy my protection and these treacherous captains will know what it is to be faced with a Medici.’

  Violante attempted to furnish her brother-in-law with the details of what was already known, what was suspected, but he would have none of it, waving away her assistance with a massive hand. He merely asked, ‘When are these nine fellows to meet next?’

  Violante hesitated. ‘Tonight, at the hour of nine. At the round church of Montesiepi above the abbey of San Galgano outside the city. My … man, from the Tower contrada, is to be there and hear their council.’

  Gian Gastone appeared not to recall the name, if, indeed, he had ever known it. ‘The pretty one?’

  Her contradiction died on her lips. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Gian Gastone, ‘leave it with me, dear sister-in-law.’

  There was nothing for it but to quit the room. As Violante closed the great doors behind her, she could feel herself shrinking. She stood outside, swallowing. She had not expected to be removed from the affair so completely. For the last ten years she had ruled the city. For the last twenty days she had fought for it to remain in Medici hands. She knew now what a pair of crutches these two aims had been. Now that both had been taken from her, how would she live?

  Pia knew that it was time.

  Both Nello and Faustino would be going to San Galgano that evening. When they had safely left in the carriage, she must saddle Guinevere and ride, far and fast, away from here, away from Siena. She had no plan; she just knew she had to choose a path and follow it, go somewhere, anywhere, and begin again.

  She had no gold save Cleopatra’s pendant. If she could get away, south, maybe, she could sell it for a little money. Maybe Palma, Messina, or Capri: places that she had never visited but had heard of, sybaritic, sun-soaked places whose exotic names she used to repeat in her girlhood chamber like poetry. Perhaps she could enter a great household as a servant. In her naivety Pia did not ask herself how easy it would be for someone raised in privilege to serve others. Anything would be better than what she could expect as Nello’s wife.

  She spent the day in a ferment of nervous expectation and curious reluctance. She was not quite self-aware enough to admit that, in some small part of her, she did not want to go. To ride from Tuscany would mean that she would never again see Riccardo Bruni, never lau
gh with him, or ride with him, or share a forbidden kiss with him. But she schooled herself harshly whenever her thoughts wandered to him and the time they had shared, for in Siena she was Nello’s wife. She could not be with Riccardo anyway; it would be an added torture to have him under her eye every day.

  In the afternoon she wandered, listlessly, about the castle, and from one draughty arrow slit saw the ostler leading his team of four greys into the courtyard, strapping them into their tracings, ready for the carriage. Pia calculated – it was about an hour’s drive from here to San Galgano. A servant, armed with a bucket and brush, was covering over the Eagle arms with pitch paint. The sun was lowering, and the Nine were due to meet at nine of the clock. They would be off soon and she would be free to go. She felt again that odd foreboding at the pit of her stomach, but still she headed down to the stables to give Guinevere oats for the journey.

  In the warm, low buildings she found comfort in the smell of hay and horse. As she fed and petted her palfrey, she gave a handful of oats to Nello’s black stallion too, checking his bandaged leg, batting away his great head when he tried, as he always did, to nibble her ear. She fiddled with Guinevere’s tack, making sure that everything was ready and in place, thankful now that Signor Bruni had insisted that she learn the name of every bit and every strap, and that she learn to saddle and bridle her own mount over and over again. Riding, he’d say, was a whole experience, and you should know everything about your mount. When she’d suggested, surprised, that the servants should tack up her horse, he’d been short with her. Signor Bruni. How long would it take her to stop thinking of him?

  Footsteps sounded, voices spoke and got louder. Pia, bidden by some nameless instinct, ducked down in Guinevere’s stall. A moment later she recognised the voices as those of Nello and Faustino. They were dressed for their carriage ride in boots and hooded cloaks. Pia might have stood then, for she was entirely innocent, visiting her horse. And yet she did not, for as soon as she was able to hear her menfolk’s discourse she knew she’d be in danger.

  ‘ … troops,’ said Nello, ‘and a thousand men? ’Tis a little in excess, surely?’

  Faustino’s voice then. ‘We want to be sure. And Romulus will have the men of all the Nine’s contrade at his disposal too.’

  ‘And these troops, they will be armed?’

  ‘Of course. Pikes and muskets. We’re deposing a duchess. It’s a coup, Nello, not a carnival.’

  Pia could hear Nello scuffing his feet like a sulky child. ‘I still don’t really see why he’s helping us.’

  ‘The duchess is childless, and so is that great fat sot of a brother-in-law of hers, lately arrived from Florence. And so is his sister Anna Maria Luisa. When they all die – and they are all advancing in years – there will be an absence of power in Tuscany.’

  ‘So?’

  Faustino sighed. ‘Take a look at this water bucket.’

  Pia jumped at the clang of metal as the capitano kicked the pail with his foot.

  ‘If you fill it to the brim, and leave it out in the rain, what happens?’

  Nello’s voice, slow. ‘It stays full.’

  ‘It remains unchanged, exactly. But if you leave an empty bucket in the rain, what then?’

  ‘The rain fills it.’

  ‘Exactly. Tuscany is soon to be an empty bucket. And the rains are coming.’

  ‘But why is Romulus helping the Nine fill it?’

  ‘Because we are better than the alternative.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Don Carlos of Spain, a foreigner and, moreover, the son of Elizabeth Farnese. The Farnese family are Romulus’s hated rivals. If the Don becomes grand duke, the Farnese will regain the ascendancy. So Romulus will help us rebuild Siena as a republic and get rid of the duchess for us.’

  Then Nello’s voice again, grim. ‘I care not what happens to the duchess, so long as the race is run. Three score and ten beats of the heart, that’s all it takes – seventy heartbeats to victory. And nothing, nothing, should be allowed to interrupt it.’

  Pia’s skin chilled; she buried her face in her arm to stop herself breathing loudly and could see bumps raised on her skin like a plucked goose.

  Faustino spoke, conciliatory. ‘Of course. That shall all be made very clear. And do not forget that we need to win the race to win the betting, so it’s as important to the Nine as to you.’

  Nello again. ‘You say that the heir to the duchy has arrived from Florence. Will he not threaten our enterprise?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ assured Faustino. ‘He can barely walk unaided, let alone act against us. All his arrival signifies is that we have two Medici lobsters in the pot. Besides, if Signor Gian Gastone interferes, I have laid down assurances to deal with him.’

  Then, the scrape of a boot as the driver and footman approached, and the talk was ended. Pia heard the doors close and the rumble of wheels as the carriage rolled into the courtyard to be harnessed to the waiting team of greys. Her heart thudded as she sat, still in the prickling hay, until she heard the smart hooves of the greys move down the drive and out of earshot. Then she took her face out of the hot crook of her arm.

  She did not even have to consider. She did not think of the great house in Capri where she would never now be a servant, or the danger she was riding into. In her heart she now knew she had the excuse she needed to abandon her plan. It was her moral obligation, she reasoned, and she could save the city and perhaps the duchess’s life. But none of these motives was uppermost. She just wanted to see Signor Bruni again.

  She tacked Guinevere up with practised shaking fingers, led her to the courtyard and mounted easily. She pulled her riding hood over her head and was away, the winds in her face, turning Guinevere’s head to the hills and the abbey of San Galgano.

  Pia reached the abbey just before sunset. She had ridden out of the castle and had taken the road south-west to Grosetto. But then she picked her way over the hill tracks, as the crow might fly, to beat the carriage. By sundown she had reached Montesiepi. As the great abbey loomed above her, any fears that she would miss the place were dismissed in a breath of relief. As she rode through the lush close forest, the sun through the green leaves dappled Guinevere’s flank, passing across her coat like a shoal of fishes.

  The abbey itself was a vast place of stone, on a scale Pia had not expected. She began to feel disquiet. The church was as big as the duomo, and ruined too, with piles of stone and broken arches puncturing the blue sky. Pia vaulted from Guinevere’s back, lowered the reins to tie them, and the palfrey dipped her head and began to snatch gratefully at the grass. Her sides gleamed with sweat and her mouth was rimed with froth. Pia patted her gratefully; she’d been faithful, and fast, on this difficult journey.

  Knowing that time was short Pia trod carefully through the ruined door and looked about her. The ancient abbey was open to the sky, a perfect rectangle of blue framed and captured in stone. At the apex of the cruciform nave a single roundel regarded her like an unwinking blue eye. North. The round church of the hermitage should be through this gaping door and a little up the hill.

  Pia hurried though the cloisters, peopled now by ghosts, expecting the echo of a snatch of plainsong, or the tread of a long-dead monastic foot. But the huge and cavernous space was unnaturally silent. Faith had left this place long ago, and now it was the dominion of an older god. The forest was closing in on the abbey from all sides. Even this great monolith would soon be consumed. Through each gaping window – robbed of its treasure, those jewels of glass – now a mass of foliage was the only colour to be seen. Hardy shoots had begun to ease through the old stones, working them loose like aged teeth. Pia felt as if she was in the wrong century.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and her bones dissolved into water. She turned, expecting Nello or a hand stained from the scriptorium, a ghostly face shadowed by a cowl, fearing the latter less. A cloaked figure greeted her but the face within was that of Riccardo Bruni.

  He kissed her a hundred, a thousand time
s, as the old abbey and the forest creatures looked on. He was so overcome to see her that he made no comment on the utter folly that had brought her here, to him, to danger. But when they at last broke apart, he gripped her shoulder urgently.

  ‘How did you come here?’

  She smiled and said, ‘I rode. Far and fast, just as you taught me. Guinevere is tethered in the tree cover.’

  ‘And Nello?’

  ‘He follows with Faustino. They come by road, by carriage, so are slower – I left after and arrived before, by taking the fields and hills. But they will be following hard upon. And we are not yet in the right place.’ She took his hand. ‘Come. I have much to tell you on the way.’

  He took her hand and did not let it go as they walked through the vast abandoned place, the stones gilded with the dying light. Through the north transept they entered the world of the forest, and the cries of strange things huddled them together. Pia whispered what she had learned of Romulus and the grave danger the duchess was in. She told the tale almost with reluctance, because for just that moment she wanted Signor Bruni – Riccardo – to turn in his footsteps, bundle her on to Leocorno and take her away, now and for ever. But she was his bride only in this fantasy, in this forest. In her world, the laws of Siena bound her.

  Pia quickened her footsteps and soon they came upon a little church at the crest of the hill, as small and round as the abbey was vast and square. They hesitated at the lip of the forest, mindful that they were about to leave their cover.

  Raising one finger to his lips, Riccardo left Pia briefly to tread carefully all round the place, checking the terrain. When he returned, he took her shoulders.

  ‘You should go back,’ he said, ‘before you are discovered. ’

  Pia said nothing, but slowly shook her head, her dark eyes never leaving his face. So he drew her with him out of the forest and into the little church. It was as round inside as the temple of a Roman or the chapel of a Templar. In the gloom of the lapida they could just make out a jagged piece of rock protruding from the tiled floor with a black cross-shape above – the hilt of a sword thrust into the stone: the sword of San Galgano, or perhaps of Arthur himself. The sword of a disillusioned soldier or a man who would be king. Riccardo regarded it for a moment. On another day he would have laid a hand on the thing just to test the legend, but time was short.

 

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