The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “‘You are indeed a fool!’ I said. ‘Florence will never rule the Senesi.’

  “The duca studied me, subduing his laughter.

  “‘See how brightly your blue eyes glitter when you have enjoyed good Tuscan fare. You Senesi are a marvelous people.”

  “‘You will never, ever control us.’

  “‘Never?’

  “‘Never! We will never accept a de’ Medici.’

  “The duke bit his lip.

  “‘I see,’ he said. ‘Did you know we are cousins? Ah, but of course you do. We are all related in one way or another, we nobili.’

  “I shook with anger, digging my dirty fingernails into the palms of my hand.

  “‘I was born a Senese and will remain faithful until I die. My family has lived in Siena for hundreds of years. If I have a drop of de’ Medici blood, may it be squeezed from my veins!’

  “Cosimo chuckled ruefully, studying my face.

  “‘Well, my cousin. I can tell you a few things that might be useful to know for your proud Senese. For example, your General Strozzi lies to you.’

  “‘You lie! General Strozzi is our hero!’

  “‘No, Lucrezia. Think what he has promised you. He lies.’”

  The duchessa stopped again and looked at me, almost as if she were surprised to see me there, surprised to find she wasn’t talking to the Granduca de’ Medici. She sighed.

  “The truth is, Virginia, doubts had lurked in my mind. Our people died one by one of starvation, as time after time General Strozzi promised our victory was near.

  “‘What do you mean?’ I asked the granduca.

  “‘Ah! You do me the honor of listening and lending credence. Let me ask you: How many times have you heard that the French armies are on the way to protect Siena?’

  “I looked down at my greasy hands. I had forgotten my table manners and seized a leg of goose in my fist just minutes before. I wiped my hands on my napkin, distracted. We had been told over and over again that the French were coming. We had only to hold out a little longer. We mixed sawdust into our panforte. We stripped the bark from our fruit trees. And yes, we ate dogs.

  “And no one came to our salvation.

  “‘What do you know, Duca?’ I forced myself to ask.

  “‘I know that Strozzi will continue to lie to you. He hates me, and he will do anything to stop me. But he will fail. And he treats Siena as a pawn in the European wars.’

  “‘No,’ I said. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the thought.

  “‘He cares only about his own ambition. He will escape Siena and leave the Senese to deal with the Spanish . . . and with me, good lady.’

  “I tried to ponder all he had said. Too much truth had made me light-headed. It seemed as if all we had suffered for was lost. The only personal favor I received from Duca de’ Medici was that he agreed to take my starving horse.

  “When we were drawing close to the gates of Siena, I begged him, ‘I know it is only a matter of days before we are forced to eat my horse, Bruschi. Please, take him. He will make a good saddle horse for your children. He is brave of heart on the hunt field, if he can recover his strength.’

  “He may have been a villain, but his smile was soft. ‘I have a twelve-year-old daughter who adores the hunt. I shall bring your Bruschi as a gift. And I promise I will take excellent care of him and fatten him the way I would like to indulge you, my lady.’

  “I could not smile at him, but my hatred for him dimmed its bright fire.

  “‘And,’ he added, ‘I will see that he never is ridden into battle against the Senesi. Or enters the gates in the triumphant colors of Firenze.’

  “His face grew serious. ‘I shall discuss matters of mercy for the children with the King of Spain. Do not let any more of them beyond the gates until you hear from me expressly. Else they return with their noses and ears cut off.’

  “I winced.

  “‘Now, Duchessa, I have done your favor for you. Expect no more. We are at war.’

  “I dismounted my faithful horse, giving him the reins.

  “‘Grazie,’ I said. ‘For the children’s sake.’

  “‘Piacere. But just once will this happen, my good duchessa.’

  “He took my hand and kissed it. I snatched it away, hurrying down the hill. I could feel his eyes on my back, watching. But I did not turn around until I was safe within the city walls.”

  The duchessa closed her eyes, her blue-veined lids fluttering. I said nothing, letting her return to the present. The silence stretched so long, I thought perhaps I should leave.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “His daughter, Isabella, was very much like him. She had the bravery, the curiosity, the appreciation of the arts. She was indomitable.”

  “She inherited your horse?” I said.

  “Yes,” said the duchessa. “Though you hardly met her, just those few minutes in the field, you saw the essence. She rode as well as any man. You recognized the spirit of the woman and the horse.”

  “And now she is dead,” I said, my eyes smarting again with tears. “What justice is that?”

  The duchessa drew a deep breath.

  “Yes. Francesco de’ Medici leaves his mark. The fangs of a rabid dog. But you must remember Isabella as you saw her that once, the way you told me. Soaring, boundless, defying her brother.” Her voice sounded young for a brief moment. “Defying everyone’s expectations. Laughing as she did so.”

  She reached over and took my hand, pressing it.

  “She was a de’ Medici. But she was not the enemy. Our enemies are the power-drunk tyrants who bend our spirits into ugly forms. Politics and age-old hatred blind us to the goodness of others.”

  She held my hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.

  “There is forza in her memory. Remember her on the day when you ride the Palio.”

  Forza—strength. A good word to remember Isabella de’ Medici by. And, now I knew, a good word for the Duchessa d’Elci.

  CHAPTER 47

  Siena, Palazzo De’ Luca

  AUGUST 1576

  The De’ Luca family home had an ancient scent of cedar chests, beeswax, and centuries-old furnishings. The unmistakable aroma of wealth and nobility greeted Giorgio Brunelli as he entered the palazzo.

  Riccardo had chosen Giorgio over any other student in the Accademia dell’Arte as his constant companion. Though they were mismatched in social class, Riccardo admired both Giorgio’s brilliant artistic talent and the fierce ardor with which he challenged the Florentines, despite the danger. But this was the first time Giorgio had entered the Palazzo De’ Luca.

  The De’ Lucas were an equestrian family. Although their wealth had been destroyed during the Florentine War, they had rebuilt their fortune, returning once more to banking.

  The first florins they earned were spent bringing horses back to the De’ Luca stables so that they could race in the Palio again.

  “Per favore, Giorgio,” said Signora De’ Luca. “You must sit next to me so I can hear your stories of art.”

  “Papa, you must hear—” Riccardo started, but his father was intent on their guest.

  “And we must talk about horses,” said Signor De’ Luca, gesturing to Giorgio to take his seat. “Your father’s stables and horsemanship are legendary. I took one of my own colts there a few years ago to be trained.”

  “Davvero?” said Giorgio. “What was his name?”

  “Zucchero,” said Signor De’ Luca. “We sold him to the Gonzaga family in Mantua. He was a bay colt with a broken blaze running down his face.”

  Giorgio smiled, losing his nervousness at dining with the nobili.

  “I trained him myself,” he said. He took a sip of wine, savoring the fine vintage.

  “Davvero?” said Signora De’ Luca. “Well, you did a magnificent job. The Gonzaga family has him as a stud now.”

  “Mamma, Babbo, the most extraordinary—”

  “With the profit from selling Zucchero, we were able to aug
ment our stable once more.”

  “You have beautiful horses,” said Giorgio. “I have seen them run the Palio.”

  “Grazie, grazie. We are proud of our horses. I have another filly—a beautiful chestnut—who is two now,” mused Signor De’ Luca.

  “She is three already, Papa,” corrected Riccardo. “And has already developed some bad habits.”

  Signor De’ Luca waved away his son’s words.

  “Tell me, Giorgio. Would you work with her, train her as you did Zucchero?”

  Giorgio wiped his lips on his linen napkin, hesitating.

  “I am dedicating my time to art now,” he said. “I wish I could say yes, but—”

  When he saw Signor De’ Luca’s face fall in disappointment, he quickly added, “But I have an idea. There is a girl named Virginia Tacci who has the lightest hands and most secure seat of any—”

  “That is what I have been trying to say!” exploded Riccardo. “This girl, this magnificent girl—”

  “Did you say a girl?” said Signora De’ Luca.

  “She is ten,” said Giorgio, then squinted, thinking. “Well. Maybe she has turned eleven now—”

  Riccardo smiled.

  “I told you. She is a young donna, not a little girl.”

  “Of course she is a little girl,” said Giorgio, his face coloring. “Certo!”

  “How extraordinary,” said Signor De’ Luca. “A girl rider?”

  “She rides like a goddess!” exploded Riccardo. “This is what I have been trying to tell you.”

  “Yes,” said Giorgio, looking at his best friend. There was something in Riccardo’s voice that startled him.

  No, it annoyed him.

  “My father has her working all his two-year-olds. She is as light as a feather, especially as she insists on riding bareback.”

  “Incredible,” murmured Signor De’ Luca. “Truly incredibile.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  “I must see her. Can you arrange that, Giorgio? I may call you Giorgio, yes?”

  “Per favore,” said Giorgio. “Of course. We will arrange it right away.”

  “Papa, when you see this girl ride, you will not believe your eyes.”

  Giorgio stared down at his plate. He clutched his fork hard, trying to sort out his feelings.

  Signora De’ Luca motioned to her family to be quiet. She nodded to her guest, still staring at his pasta.

  “Mangia, Giorgio. Mangia!” she said, waving her forkful of pici in midair. The thick red sauce glistened, and her motion carried the delicious aroma of a lamb ragù.

  “Enough with the horses,” she said. “There is good food in front of you. Do not let it get cold. Remember the siege, and you will not soon forget your appetite.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Siena, Pugna Hills

  SEPTEMBER 1576

  I lowered the bucket into the village well. My cousin Franco stood next to me, having come into Vignano for weekly supplies.

  “The Oca’s capitano attempts to train Tempesta’s colt,” he said. “The devil attacks him, rearing and biting.”

  I let the bucket splash into the well’s depths.

  “What do you mean, he is training him?”

  Franco straightened his neck, sensing my interest.

  “Carlo Ruffino comes every morning when you leave the ewes for the stables. We see him from atop the hills. He ropes up the colt, tries to handle him. The devil—”

  “Damn you, his name is Orione!”

  “The devil slashes out with his hooves, rears. The capitano cannot even place a light blanket on his back,” said Franco.

  I bit my knuckle, thinking.

  “It is only a matter of time until the colt is pronounced useless and put to death,” said Franco, jutting out his jaw. “He would make a good dinner for the village of Vignano, tasty—ummph!”

  My riding boot sank into his gut.

  “Zitto! Shut up, you ignorant fool! No one is going to touch Orione.”

  Franco clutched his abdomen, groaning in pain.

  I stood panting, then spat at him through the gap in my teeth. “Next time, I will kick you lower. In the coglioni, cousin.”

  I turned away from the stupid fool and went back to the well. My arm worked furiously, cranking the bucket up from far below. I felt the warmth and fatigue in my muscles as I drew the water to the surface.

  Franco cursed at me, stumbling away.

  “Horsemeat!” he called, out of striking distance. “Only a matter of time, cugina mia!”

  “Do not call me ‘cousin,’ you lout. You must be a bastard child, son of a shit gatherer! No Tacci would be so mean and ignorant!”

  A small cluster of villagers gathered, watching us.

  “Brava, Virginia, brava!” shouted the tavern owner.

  “Cat got your coglioni, sheepherder?”

  I poured the contents of the bucket into my water pail, lugging it back to the stable to clean Brunelli’s tack.

  What would become of Orione? He was too spirited for his own good.

  The image of horsemeat hanging in a butcher’s window haunted me.

  CHAPTER 49

  Siena, Palazzo d’Elci

  SEPTEMBER 1576

  Carlo Ruffino was summoned to Palazzo d’Elci.

  “How goes the training of Orione?” asked the duchessa.

  Carlo bowed deeply.

  “I must report, with regret, that I have not made much progress,” said Carlo. “The colt will not take the bit, no matter how I sweeten it. Honey, crushed apple. He rears and lashes out.”

  The duchessa’s eyes hooded in dismay.

  “Not all horses can be tamed,” he said quietly. “Tempesta was his sire.”

  The duchessa looked up at the horsemaster. “I have an idea, Capitano Ruffino. I ask that you follow it faithfully.”

  Carlo took a deep breath. “Of course, my duchessa.”

  “The girl, the pastorella. The one at Orione’s birth who trains horses in Vignano for Cesare Brunelli.”

  “Virginia? Virginia Tacci?” said Carlo.

  “I want her to train Orione.”

  “The girl? But she would break her neck!”

  The duchessa tried to hide her smile.

  “I remember Orione’s birth, watching her that night,” said the duchessa. “She has a connection with this colt that no one else possesses. Let us see what she can do.”

  Carlo bowed his head.

  “I have watched her break colts,” he said. “She was pitched to the ground more than once, but she is young. Her bones bend like spring willow branches. She just climbs back on the horse, like a monkey swinging up a tree limb.”

  “Ah,” sighed the duchessa. “To be young again.”

  She looked out the window, studying the Torre del Mangia. Then, slowly, she nodded. “If anyone can ride Orione, it will be Virginia Tacci.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Siena, Pugna Hills

  SEPTEMBER 1576

  Carlo, horsemaster of Oca; his son, Marcello; and Giorgio rode with me to the hilly pasture near the lambing sheds. I rode Caramella, the De’ Luca filly, though I dismounted downwind over a crested hill.

  “You all ride geldings. A mare will make Orione crazy with distraction,” I said, tying the mare to a scrub oak, near a ravine. I grabbed Stella’s halter out of my saddlebag and put out a hand for Giorgio to pull me up on his gelding, behind the saddle. I wrapped my arms around his skinny frame, and I could feel his muscles relax.

  My added weight was nothing on the gelding’s back, and we cantered the rest of the distance over the rolling hills toward the lambing shed.

  Orione roared a nicker, his nostrils flaring. He reared at the sight of new horses approaching him, then charged down the hill toward us.

  Carlo chewed his lip.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Virginia?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But I will ask you to keep your horses at a distance.”

  They did not know that I had been r
iding Orione alone in the dark several nights a week.

  I slid off the gelding at the rock wall and walked the rest of the distance to the pasture. Stella’s halter rested on my shoulder as I dug in my apron for the apples I had brought.

  Orione trotted toward me, eager for his apples.

  I took off my apron, spilling the apples on the muddy spring grass. I twisted the hems of my chemise, skirt, and overskirt into a single strand, then used the apron as a sash to tie all the hems to my waist. I stood in my leggings, ignoring the men around me.

  “Come on, ragazzo,” I said. “Let’s go, boy. It is time to show them what you can do. You must prove to them you are not Tempesta, a horse to be imprisoned or killed.”

  Orione raised his head from the last apple. His ears worked back and forth as he crunched the fruit, slobbered bits of apple spilling from his mouth. I slipped the halter over his nose, fastening the buckle. The Oca rosette gleamed in the sun.

  “Brava!” I heard Giorgio call. “Brava, Virginia!”

  I did not wait for further comments, as I knew they would only distract me. Clutching a fist full of Orione’s mane, I swung up on his back.

  He stood still until I gave him pressure with my leg. Then Orione broke into a canter, circling the pasture.

  I urged him into a gallop. The wind filled my ears, so I could not hear their cheering.

  “Just you and me,” I said to him. “That is the way it will be forever.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Florence, Palazzo Vecchio

  SEPTEMBER 1576

  The Granduca Francesco de’ Medici was not finished. The murder of his sister was not enough to slake his rage. He was determined to obliterate any trace of her, removing her portraits from the walls of the residences, arresting her friends and even merchants who had served the de’ Medici princess.