The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “Brava, Virginia, brava!”

  When the colt had settled enough that only a thin white ring shone in his eyes, I spoke again, through my seat and hands, communicating calm.

  “This is good for him,” I said. “He needs to see more, get away from the stable. He has no experience beyond his paddock.”

  “You will need that skill at the mossa,” said my uncle, nodding. “So many accidents happen there. Too many fantini have fallen before even crossing the rope.”

  “I will not let Caramella sweat,” I said. “I am riding her now in the streets of Siena. She sees the city’s hawkers, the ox carts, the splash of the chamber pots, the crush of people. I have ridden her among the stalls of the market, past the tanner’s vats, between the fishmonger’s stand and wine casks. Everywhere there is confusion, noise, and excitement.

  “She will not sweat at the mossa, Zio, I swear it. I will be one with her.”

  I slid off the colt’s back.

  “He needs to have a new experience. Let’s take him among the sheep.”

  We walked side by side toward the sheepfold. I caught my uncle looking from me to the horse.

  “Cosa?” I asked. “What?”

  “I cannot believe that our little shepherdess has grown up to be a fantino. Look at this magnificent creature.”

  “He is a beauty,” I said, admiring the colt.

  “And Orione?” asked Zio.

  I smiled.

  “My heart will always belong to Orione. But Carlo Ruffino thinks he is too tempestuous to be a Palio horse. He still will not take a bit—I always ride him in Stella’s collo di cavallo.”

  “To forever ride the stallion in a halter? No, you would never be able to control him in the turns of the Palio.”

  “It is the only way to ride him. He fights iron in his mouth. And I am the only rider he has had on his back. But you should see how he gallops up hills! That is the time I can truly control him. Coming down, he is wild. He takes me for quite a ride!”

  Zio raised his hand to my head. He let his hand slip down my hair in a caress.

  “You must know how proud I am of you, ciccia. And how proud your babbo and mamma would be,” he said, pulling me close. “Yes, you would make your parents proud.”

  “Carlo says Orione does not have the testa for the Palio,” I said, chattering on. “And it is the head that is most important. To stay calm, to focus, says Padrino.”

  One of the ewes that I had raised from a bottle caught my scent. She maaa-ed and bounded up to me.

  The colt reared, pulling the reins from my hand. He stood snorting, his nostrils so wide I could see the red flesh far inside his nose.

  “Easy, tranquillo, tranquillo,” I cooed, my fingers hooking the loose reins.

  I brought colt and ewe together slowly. Poco a poco.

  “There now, Nero,” I said. “This is Petra. She is a good friend. She used to keep me warm at night.”

  I remembered the years when the tangy odor of the grass in Petra’s cud was the smell that accompanied sleep. I would entwine my fingers deep in her wool, the way I would later do with Orione’s mane. Before Orione, Petra and Dog were my only companions, night after lonely night.

  “There, much better. Friends now, no?”

  “You are still a shepherdess, Virginia,” my zio said, laughing. Then he began to cough.

  “I am a horse trainer, Zio! I—” The coughing became choking.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He waved me away. “Nothing,” he said.

  But then he bent over, the way I had seen him do at Vignano. I watched him spit bloody sputum.

  “Zio, you are not well!”

  “Nothing, niente!” he repeated between spasms.

  “We must go speak with Padrino Brunelli. He can make you a tonic to cure your ailment. Come!”

  “I cannot—leave—the sheep.”

  “I will stay here with Nero. I will spend the night. You must go!”

  Zio nodded to make me stop nagging, but it meant nothing. Then he collapsed in the grass, his hand clutching his chest.

  “Zio!”

  He groaned, his cheek mashed down into the grassy loam.

  I galloped Nero as hard as he could run to Brunelli’s stable. Nero ran all the faster, knowing where we were headed.

  Giorgio set down the bucket in his hand, seeing something was wrong.

  “It’s Zio Giovanni!” I said, swinging down off the colt. He reared back, the hem of my skirt frightening him.

  “I have left him in the hillside with the sheep. He—he—”

  Giorgio called out, “Babbo! Giovanni Tacci is ill! I will fetch your bag.”

  He turned to a stable boy leading a mare into the barn for a rubdown.

  “Hitch up the wagon with the young roan at once!”

  Padrino drove the wagon while Giorgio and I raced ahead to the hillside.

  The sheep were scattered along the grassy banks, while Zio’s two dogs chased them toward the lower pasture. I saw Zio’s body in the exact same position.

  The wind lifted a tuft of his graying hair.

  My zio Giovanni lived, but God had taken his speech. He could walk with the help of a cane, but only stumbling steps. He moved his eyes slowly, like a baby trying to focus.

  One morning when he awoke, he could not even raise his hand. He lay in bed, paralyzed.

  I visited the house daily, though my zia did not acknowledge my existence. Still, she did not chase me from the cottage, as she knew that she and my zio needed me more than ever to help with the sheep.

  “I promise I will tend to the ewes and help the cousins as much as I can. Do not worry, zio,” I said, pressing my cheek to his. “Do not worry, I will take care of you.”

  I could see by the desperate light in his eye he understood.

  CHAPTER 60

  Siena to Vignano

  MAY 1581

  Governor di Montauto breathed in the fresh air of the countryside. It was still cold enough in Siena for wood fires to burn in the hearths, choking the city with the lingering smoke of winter.

  Only beyond the great walls, in the country, was one able to see and taste the first signs of a late spring. Birdsong filled his ears as he rode his mare along the muddy road, through pastures where the red poppies patched the green with brilliant swatches of crimson.

  Di Montauto pulled up his mare, leaning on the pommel of his saddle. His weight made the leather creak.

  “Beautiful,” he sighed as he surveyed the rolling hills. By his side, his stablemaster, Fausto, nodded silently.

  The governor of Siena insisted on riding, rather than taking the ornate governor’s coach. At heart, di Montauto was a horseman, and Siena’s passion for the Palio had fanned his own ardor over the years. There was nothing he loved more than the Palio—and he was excited that this year, the contradas would host their own horse race for the first time.

  Despite being a de’ Medici pick for governor, Federigo di Montauto had been seduced by Siena’s charms. It was not a popular sentiment at the de’ Medici Court, and the governor had to contain his enthusiasm for Siena and its people when talking to the granduca.

  But sometimes, despite di Montauto’s best efforts, his affection for the Senese spilled over into his conversations and letters. It was then he would notice the sour look on the granduca’s face, as if he had sipped bad wine.

  Gazing out at the beauty of the Senese hills, di Montauto knew he would have to do a better job of controlling his passion for his new home—lest he lose his position, his privilege, perhaps his life.

  “Over there,” said his stablemaster, breaking into the governor’s thoughts. “The girl—you can see her. See, just there, on the crest of the hill. Virginia Tacci.”

  Governor di Montauto lifted his hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the sun.

  “Dio mio!” he whispered. “She has grown. No longer such a little child perched on top of her mount. Look how she commands her horse now. She truly rides l
ike”—he was going to say angel, but there were no horses in heaven for angels to ride, were there?—“a goddess,” he finished, resolutely. “This girl rides like a goddess. And the horse! Look at the horse she rides.”

  Di Montauto studied the bulging lines of the horse’s neck, the muscled torso and haunches.

  “It is a stallion! Look how she is one with him as he gallops. What a horse!”

  “I believe it may be Oca contrada’s stallion, from the d’Elci dam Stella.”

  “Stella?” said di Montauto. “I watched her win the Palio twice! He does not resemble her. He looks more like—an Arabian horse, but much larger, sturdier of bone.”

  The stableman said, “Stella was bred to a wild Maremma horse, Tempesta. Tempesta has never been ridden. Too pazzo—crazy and dangerous! The Duchessa d’Elci insisted she wanted an Oca foal from him.”

  Di Montauto smiled slowly, watching the girl gallop the stallion across the poppy fields, cutting a swath through the pools of red.

  “What a horse,” he said, then he whispered it yet again. “What a horse!”

  When Carlo came to the stables, Giorgio stood in the stall with Virginia.

  “I am sorry, Virginia,” said Carlo, leaning over the boards. His voice was soft and gentle. “The Duchessa d’Elci sends her apologies as well. It is for the Palio we do this, you realize. We must keep the governor’s favor.”

  Virginia’s fingers entwined around Orione’s mane and neck. “Please let me have a few minutes to say good-bye to him.”

  Giorgio nodded to Carlo.

  “We will bring out the stallion in just a minute, Carlo.”

  “Sì, signore.”

  “How could they?” spat Virginia. “How could the duchessa do such a thing? I am the only one who can ride him. The only one!”

  “Listen, Virginia. Governor di Montauto is all that stands between Siena and the tyranny of the granduca. If the duchessa refuses to sell Orione to him, it could be disastrous. If di Montauto said one word to Florence against us, Francesco would forbid our Contradas’ Palio. With joy.”

  “But Giorgio, Orione is mine, I saved his life!” She choked back tears, tears that Giorgio had never seen before, despite the many falls and injuries of learning to ride, despite hunger and loss, the lonely childhood of an orphan, the cruelties of a hateful aunt.

  Never had he seen Virginia Tacci cry.

  Outside the stable door, they heard Florentine accents. Hooves clattered on the paving stones. Carlo, waiting respectfully at a distance from Orione’s stall, went out to greet Governor di Montauto’s horsemen.

  Giorgio pushed back her hair, wet with tears. He whispered in her ear.

  “In spirit, he will always be yours. But one girl’s love for a horse cannot stand in the way of Siena’s Palio. Think of the contradas! Think of Siena—”

  “But it is Orione!” Virginia sobbed. “Giorgio—it’s Orione!”

  “The Palio,” said Giorgio, shaking Virginia’s shoulders. He pulled her arms away from the horse to make her look at him. She struggled, twisting away, but he held her tightly by the shoulders.

  “This is bigger than your love for a horse, Virginia. Listen to me. It is the Palio, our Palio—the way it always should be. The contradas of Siena. This is our chance to see Siena united and proud again.”

  He shook her.

  “Look at me, Virginia. You will ride Caramella for Drago. A shepherd girl, a poor villanella—the impossible! If you do anything that interferes with Governor di Montauto’s pleasure, there will be no Palio to ride.”

  She stopped crying. He knew she was listening at last.

  “If you do not let Orione go, people will laugh forever at your dream—our dream, Virginia. You do this for Siena.”

  He let go of her shoulders and tied the leather lead to Orione’s halter. She shook, holding back sobs, but in her shaking, she nodded her head.

  Yes.

  CHAPTER 61

  Siena, Santuccio Church

  AUGUST 1581

  My padrino and I rode to Porta Romana one last time before the running of the Palio.

  Time and again, day after day, we had walked or ridden our horses the length of the course, from outside Porta Romana at the ancient church of Santuccio to the steps of the Duomo. Over and over again, my padrino pointed out the difficult sections, places where I might falter, places where I might fall. Dangers I had never considered. And he suggested strategies, tricks I could never have thought of.

  Today, as we neared the gate, children ran alongside us, pointing and cheering. One little girl, her face smeared with dirt, plunged her fingers in her mouth. She stared, transfixed, as I rode bareback.

  I lifted my reins and wiggled my fingers at her. The girl stood stunned. Her brother shoved her, waving back at me.

  “Wave to the villanella, you idiot. Wave to her!”

  The girl moved her hand, her black eyes riveted on Caramella, then on me.

  As we approached the redbrick church of Santuccio, Padrino Cesare halted his horse at a spot where the road widened for carriages to turn around.

  “The mossa will be right here.” As if I didn’t know. “Unless you are the rincorsa—the starting horse and rider—you will press your horse against the rope to feel the drop. But if you are not in control, and your horse jumps forward before the rope drops completely, the rope will trip your horse and you both could fall.” As if he hadn’t warned me a hundred times already.

  I stroked Caramella’s neck. The children pressed closer. My padrino’s horse flared his nostrils, prancing.

  “Move away, ragazzi!” said Cesare, his voice gruff. He flung his arm in the air to shoo them away. His horse jumped. Despite his age, my padrino stayed centered in his saddle.

  Then he winked at me. “Look how Caramella accepts the crowd and confusion. You have done well with her, ciccia.”

  “Rompicollo! Rompicollo!” chanted the children. “Viva la villanella!”

  My padrino frowned. “Do not call her Rompicollo!”

  “What’s wrong, Padrino?”

  He shook his head. “Villanella is all right. Not Rompicollo.”

  I looked down at the chastened children.

  He does not want to think of me lying on the cobblestones with a broken neck.

  “It is all right, Padrino. They mean no harm,” I said.

  “Basta! Vai via!” Go! He chewed his lip. “They are brats. Fine. Let them shout. Come the Palio, the crowds will wave flags in her face, shout, and scream. You and the horse must focus only on the race. You must focus on the course, on the streets, on the turns—on the most treacherous turn, from Via di Città onto Via del Capitano. Many hopes have died at that turn.”

  I know the turn, Padrino. I see it in my sleep!

  “And then—only then!—you must focus on the banner, the drappellone at the finish.”

  We were standing at the starting line, and he was already imagining the finish. And standing there with him, I could see my hand reaching out and grabbing the drappellone, the sign of victory.

  Caramella took a little side step under me, imagining victory right along with us.

  As we rode the course, my padrino’s every word was an echo of words he had spoken so many times already.

  “Here at San Giorgio, Caramella will be heaving, for you will have galloped a long way uphill. And here the discesa begins. You must control your horse, or she could stumble when she hits the downhill pitch. Prepare her. Tickle her bit with some pressure to let her know you expect her to listen. Collect her just enough to shorten her stride.

  “Her legs will still be expecting to climb. I have seen other horses falter here. They run down the hill splay-footed, dangerously. Your horse must be nimble, ready for the descent.”

  I nodded.

  If I were riding Orione, that would be a problem. But with Caramella, I can control her gait with a light hand.

  “In the late afternoon, the downhill section is shadowed like a canyon,” said Padrino, his brow creasing.
“But then, as it rises again on Via di Pantaneto, there will be patches of bright sun and shadow.”

  I nodded, because I had to—as he warned me for the hundredth time, because he had to.

  “These shadows are the devil! If it is a bright, hot day like today, your eyes, your horse’s eyes, will not adjust to the darkness quickly enough. You could miss a turn or a narrowing of the street. I have seen both horses and fantini die smashing into a wall.”

  My linen blouse stuck to my back. The divided skirt that the Drago seamstress had designed for me was soaked in horse sweat.

  Better to feel the horse’s back.

  Via di Pantaneto became Banchi di Sotto, and we walked the long, gradual curve of the streets past the palazzos that circled the outside of the Piazza del Campo, past the point where Sotto joined Sopra and the two streets together became Via di Città, the lower end being the old Via di Galgaria, where cobblers sold their wares.

  Every step of the way, my padrino pointed out corners, arches, doorways, balconies, windows where contradaioli might cheer or jeer—or throw something—places for speed, places for caution.

  We moved aside for a procession of creaking wagons loaded with dirt. The contadini were bringing more tufo, Senese earth, the color of yellow dust. They stopped up ahead, where half a dozen other wagons were shoveling their loads onto the pietra serena. Women and children stomped the sandy dirt, packing it down onto the stone. They were followed by two wagons with barrels of water. Men doused the tufa to harden it more.

  My padrino’s horse snorted at the commotion.

  “Buon lavoro, signori!” called my godfather.

  The men looked up from their labor. They doffed their caps. “Long live la villanella,” they cried. “Virginia Tacci, la villanella!”

  “The footing should be good—unless we have rain,” said a man dressed better than the others. He nodded to me and winked. “But we’ll see to it the tufo is set well. For you, villanella. For you.”