The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “Away from horses?” I asked.

  Again he turned away from me, looking out into the black night. I saw his throat move as he swallowed.

  “Yes,” he said. “Away from horses.”

  We passed the night on blankets under the oak trees. I listened to the water play over the rocks, soothing me.

  I woke before dawn, thinking of a world without horses, without the Palio. Without Orione.

  That world was unimaginable.

  “Why Ferrara?” I asked him, as we jolted and rolled on over the rutted roads. I knew almost nothing of Ferrara. Why would I? I was Senese. Ferrara was nothing to me. They had sympathized with us as we fought the de’ Medici during the siege. Cosimo and Alfonso of Ferrara had been the bitterest of enemies, each pursuing the title of granduca until Cosimo had won it from the Pope.

  “The Senese will search all Tuscany, but Ferrara? Never! Not with de’ Medici relations so tenuous with Duca Alfonso.”

  He handed me a cup of water mixed with wine. I drank it in one gulp, then made a face.

  “Ah! You do not care for Ferrara’s vintages?” he said.

  “There was something else in the cup,” I said, staring at the dregs in the bottom. I looked up in terror. “Have—have you poisoned me?”

  “No, Virginia. Just something that will help you sleep. The de’ Medici chemist prepared this. Here, eat something now while you still can.”

  The next thing I remember, di Torreforte was shaking my shoulder. It was night when I opened my eyes. The world spun around me.

  I saw the driver hand a paper to a guard at a bridge across a slow-moving river. I gazed out at the deep red brickwork of a city wall.

  The coach clattered across the bridge and through the gates. I felt the bone-rattling jolt of cobblestones beneath our wheels. Frantic curiosity kept my eyes open.

  “Look at the sights of Ferrara,” said di Torreforte. “Ah, there! The Este castle—a vain attempt to emulate the elegance of Palazzo Vecchio and the de’ Medici. As if they could compete with Florence!”

  I pulled myself up on the seat, staring at the crenellated castle built all in brick. I had never been to any city beyond Siena.

  The castle was magnificent. Oil lamps around the piazza and torches on the walls flickered and leapt with each breath of wind, casting light and shadow across the stone and brick. People chatted and laughed as they walked arm in arm across the great square, filled with the sound of music floating down from the castle windows.

  I caught a glimpse of green water sparkling in the moat. A man embraced a woman beside the water. She looked over her shoulder in a wash of shadow and light, and our eyes met.

  The great marble cathedral gleamed in the moonlight, rose and white. But I could barely keep my eyes open.

  Again, di Torreforte shook my shoulder hard. My eyes opened wide when I felt the sting of a slap on my cheek.

  “Rouse yourself,” he said. A cool rush of air flooded over me as he opened the door of the coach. I moved my feet and hands—he had slit my bonds with his knife. The coach had stopped in front of a church.

  “You must walk through the doorway yourself,” he said. “But remember, I walk behind you with my dagger under my cloak. Behave, or you will feel its blade in your back.”

  “You are indeed the devil,” I spat.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I am your savior. Even if you will never believe that.”

  I stumbled ahead of him into the church, my legs so unsteady I was sure I would fall.

  A golden cross with our lord Jesus Christ crucified upon it shone in front of me. That is all I remember, except for the soft hands of two nuns, helping me to a straw pallet where I slept, dead to the world.

  “Her uncle is deaf and dumb,” said di Torreforte, taking a sip of wine. He looked down into the red liquid, reciting the story he was to tell on behalf of the granduca of Florence.

  “Signor . . . Amaro, is it? Florentine name?” said the abbess.

  “Sì, Madre.”

  “Signor Amaro. What of the aunt who signed permission for her admittance to our convent? Did she have a loving relationship with the girl?”

  “Silvia’s aunt cannot control her. Apparently she behaves provocatively with the village boys—”

  The abbess blanched. She looked at Giacomo di Torreforte with severity.

  “Is she with child?” asked the abbess, her patrician nose tipping down at the visitor. “I need to know now, signore.”

  “No, no. Not that, Holy Mother. But Silvia’s benefactor—a distant cousin, really—is a very well-respected lady of good family in Lucca. She simply cannot allow this girl to besmirch the family’s reputation. It was all the talk of the village. Gossip travels great distances.”

  “I see. The patroness is from Lucca, you say?” said the abbess. She arched her brow, scrutinizing the man across from her. “The sisters have told me that she speaks with some Tuscan accent. Possibly Senese?”

  Giacomo di Torreforte blinked. He had not counted on the nuns pinpointing the accent. He nodded.

  “Your holy sisters are quite astute. Yes, abbess. An old noble family, I am not permitted to say more. Silvia is of a poor branch of the family, near . . . Asciano. They are shepherds, poor as the soil. But the good lady has taken pity upon her niece.”

  “I see. And the dowry you mentioned?”

  “The family is offering one hundred ducats a year.”

  The mother superior straightened her back. Di Torreforte could already see her calculating what one hundred ducats could do for the convent. She caught him watching her face.

  “And why has she not been sent to one of the many convents in Tuscany?” said the mother superior, narrowing her eyes.

  Di Torreforte set his crystal glass of wine on the heavy oak table, taking a moment to remember what Secretary Serguidi had instructed him to say.

  “The Tuscan gossips, Mother Superior. They are notorious. In return for the hundred ducats, we ask that no one here in Ferrara ever learn of her whereabouts. There are some—brokenhearted swains—who may try to track the girl down, dragging her into disgrace.”

  “That simply could not happen,” the abbess said. “No one can enter without my express permission. And the gates are locked with my key only, which I wear around my waist. One hundred ducats, you said? Annually?”

  “Sì, Madre.”

  “There are conditions, of course, for such a rich dowry, abbess,” said di Torreforte. “She must never see anyone but the nuns and priests.”

  “No one beyond these walls shall ever see her again if she stays within the San Antonio cloisters. Except for you, of course, and her family, when they wish to visit.”

  “There will be no visits,” said Giacomo di Torreforte.

  “No visits?”

  “None at all,” he said.

  The abbess bowed her head.

  “The family in Lucca selected this abbey, knowing your reputation for holiness and obedience in your order. We could, of course, take her to Convento Corpus Domini if you refuse.”

  “No, Signor Amaro,” said the abbess, straightening her wimple with her restless fingers. “I think the girl will be better housed with us.”

  Di Torreforte watched her closely.

  This abbess is of noble blood. Or very least a wealthy family. The elegance of her hands, her throat. The mannerisms of a duchessa. But a duchessa greedy to stroke coins of gold.

  The abbess noticed his gaze.

  “And I will share with you, Signor Amaro, in strictest confidence . . . there are other noble—extremely high-ranking noble—families whose members are housed within these walls, and not all from Ferrara. Now these sisters are brides of Christ. And they reside here in the most dignified matter, I assure you.”

  Di Torreforte looked startled. He set down his glass of wine, composing himself.

  “These families . . . do they visit these sisters often? We must ensure that Silvia does not communicate with anyone. Her whereabouts must rema
in a secret.”

  The abbess cocked her head.

  “Of course Silvia will see no visitors. I repeat, only her family. Our nuns are a strictly cloistered order.”

  Di Torreforte rubbed his fingernail against his chin, thinking. One more point Secretary Serguidi had stressed.

  “One other word of caution. Silvia has . . . a fantastic capacity to lie.”

  “A liar!” said the abbess, crossing herself. “Not a recommended quality for our vocation—”

  “More of a fantasy, really.” He bit his lip, rehearsing the story that would protect Virginia within the convent walls. “This poor shepherdess! She fancies herself to be an accomplished horsewoman. In fact, she believes she actually competed in the Palio of Siena, riding against men.”

  “What?” said the abbess, clapping her hand over her mouth.

  “Yes, I know it is absurd, but . . . I am afraid while she is at heart a good girl, she suffers from these flights of fancy. Her mother married a scoundrel who gambled away her small inheritance. They were reduced to shepherding a small flock. But, yes, young Silvia imagines herself as a Palio rider!”

  The abbess looked doubtful.

  “Is she . . . mad? Signore, our convent is not an asylum.”

  “No, Madre! No. Not mad. Only—you know how feverish young girls are who desire boys. In Silvia’s case, if she cannot have satisfaction with a man, she dreams of riding astride a horse.”

  “Santo cielo!” said the abbess, looking away.

  Giacomo di Torreforte pulled at his tunic, suddenly uncomfortable in the heat of the fireplace.

  Have I gone too far?

  “That is why the family has asked me to be honest with you. We know that with strict instruction, you can purge her of these demons.”

  The abbess fluttered her eyelids.

  “One year,” she said finally. “She shall have no contact with anyone for one year’s time. We will cleanse her of these demons.”

  Di Torreforte inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. He reached for his pouch, tied at his waist. Sparkling gold winked at the abbess.

  “One hundred ducats,” he said, counting out the coins. “And no contact with anyone. Especially men who might present themselves as family.”

  “She will never see a man again,” pronounced the abbess. “She will never leave the confines of our convent walls as long as she lives.”

  He gave a curt nod. He could not manage anything more. He had achieved what he set out to procure. Virginia Tacci’s safety.

  But this abbess!

  He had bribed her, but she had given in too easily, too eagerly.

  Too cruelly.

  CHAPTER 66

  Tuscan Countryside

  AUGUST 1581

  Riccardo De’ Luca could neither eat nor sleep. He scoured the countryside for Virginia Tacci, devoting every hour to searching for the young shepherdess.

  He had heard that her aunt had sold her for a handful of ducats.

  “She will be a bride of Christ. We did not want a de’ Medici assassin slipping his blade between her ribs,” Claudia had told anyone who would listen, fending off the stones and insults from those who considered her the Judas of Siena.

  The Senesi held their breath, praying that the granduca had not, in fact, simply murdered her, as he had his sister and cousin.

  With the help of the churches of Siena, Riccardo and Giorgio Brunelli made a list of convents throughout Tuscany. There were hundreds of convents, though Riccardo narrowed the list down to those that had high walls as a means of confinement.

  Virginia Tacci would never consent. Only walls, bars, or fetters could keep her from Siena.

  Or from Orione.

  He wished he could include himself in that list, but he knew her heart belonged to Siena and a horse.

  But she is only a fourteen-year-old girl. With time, I shall prove my love. I will find her—

  Riccardo was shaken from his reverie as his horse nickered. They were approaching the town of Montalcino. Above the town, perched on a hill was yet another convent. He turned his horse away from the main road, following the route to the abbey.

  A small metal door slid open behind a grate. A woman’s voice addressed Riccardo.

  “Signore. May I help you?”

  “I search for a fourteen-year-old girl who might be confined within your convent walls.”

  The abbess studied him, pressing her chapped lips tight together.

  “Are you family?”

  “No. A good friend.”

  “An amante, perhaps? A lover searching for a girl who will take Jesus Christ as her husband?”

  “No. This girl is not my lover. All Siena seeks her—”

  “Ah!” said the abbess, opening the door. “Come in, signore. I know the girl in question.”

  A cool rush of air greeted the weary traveler. Riccardo drank in the refreshing darkness of the vestibule.

  “Virginia Tacci is not within our walls, signore,” said the abbess.

  “How did you know—”

  “All the convents in Tuscany know of Siena’s search for the villanella,” said the abbess, a smile flitting across her face.

  Riccardo dropped his head in his hands.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I am weary from travel.”

  “Young man, let me counsel you. I am certain Virginia Tacci is not interned within a southern Tuscan convent. Despite our apparent isolation, news travels quickly amongst orders who serve Jesus Christ. A secret like this would be difficult to keep for very long in Tuscany. Virginia Tacci is already a legend.”

  “A lost legend, I fear.”

  The abbess joined her hands together in prayer. She pressed her fingertips against her lips.

  “She will never be lost, signore. Not to us.”

  The abbess saw the young man turn his face away.

  “I suppose you think it is possible that a northern Tuscan convent would keep such a secret as a favor to the de’ Medici family and the granduca,” said the abbess, touching the forlorn man’s sleeve. “Especially one that he supports monetarily. Some convents are completely beholden to the de’ Medici. But even the granduca’s money and power could not keep Virginia Tacci’s name from being whispered amongst the sisters.”

  “Where else should I search?”

  “Ah! She could be anywhere. Spain, quite possibly. Venice—with the granduchessa Bianca Cappello’s roots there, she could have been admitted as a mad relative of the granduchessa. The granduca’s new wife might lack the royal Habsburg blood of her predecessor, but she is not without her own network of connections. The Venetian sisters would prepare her to take the orders.”

  Riccardo’s face crumpled. He heard the bells toll for prayers.

  “Then she could be anywhere,” he said, his voice cracking in despair.

  “Anywhere at all,” said the abbess. She shook her head so that her veil trembled over her wimple. “I am sorry, signore.”

  Riccardo fingered his cap. He prepared to leave.

  “Grazie,” he said.

  “One point I must make before you leave,” said the abbess. “Montalcino, Montepulciano, Asciano, Grosseto—never! None of us would ever confine the villanella. No abbey in Siena’s regions would permit such a crime. You waste your time searching here. Go home to Siena.”

  Riccardo bowed his head in respect. The abbess unbolted the door for him to leave.

  “We are as proud of her here as you are in the city, my son,” she said. “Do not forget that Montalcino suffered and sacrificed in the struggle against Florence. Virginia’s image burns strong for the sisters here in Montalcino. As does the thought of our republic’s independence, despite the de’ Medici grip on our throats.”

  Then she added, her eyes gleaming, “Besides . . . Virginia Tacci would never make a good nun.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

  AUGUST 1581

  From my cell in the convent, I could see rows of grapevines,
their leaves bright green, their sweet fruit swelling under the late summer sun. A lazy drone of bees entered my one small window, attracted to the white flowered vine clinging to the stone walls.

  Below, I could see the outer cloisters and a patch of green land, a vegetable garden. The black-and-white magpies—that is what we called nuns in Siena—bent over the rows of plants, digging weeds with whittled sticks. I could not see the city of Ferrara from my cell, only the massive brick wall surrounding the convent.

  Why had the granduca imprisoned me here? I rubbed my mouth and jaw, still sore from the gag. I had been here scarcely more than a day.

  So far away. Had I been taken to a cloister in Siena, someone would gossip and word would get back to Giorgio and my padrino, or even Governor di Montauto. Who would ever search for me in Ferrara?

  I felt a chill on my neck. Despite the rising heat of August, the stones were still somehow cold. I shivered, thinking of a winter within these walls.

  The sackcloth robe I had been given smelled sharply of the last girl who had worn it. Her terror, tears, and sweat had soaked deep into the weave of the cloth through years of kneeling, nights lying on a cot, and those countless hours of chapel until she had finally been given the habit of a confirmed nun.

  Who was she? Or had she perished of a broken heart or disease?

  The sackcloth robe may have been washed and beaten on the rocks of the stream beyond the convent walls, but it still stank of a hard life . . . and of my future.

  A nun with buckteeth brought me stale bread and water. When she spoke, I could see the flash of teeth, which I first had mistaken for a smile.

  “Eat this, the mother superior commands it,” she said, jabbing a finger at the bread. “You will need your strength. Our abbess wants you to work the gardens and hitch up the donkey to the little wagon.”