The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “My fingernails have been stained with paint all my life! It is part of my technique to use my fingernail to etch fine detail. No artist—”

  She set down her stone pestle with the greatest care.

  “If you do not promise me to handle the paint as I instruct you, I will never permit you to use it. Never!” Giorgio saw the hard glint in her eyes. She would not tolerate treason. “There is magic here, and I will not allow you to insult it. Or endanger your life.”

  Giorgio opened his mouth to say something, but the words were stillborn. He watched her left hand grasp the pestle carefully, crushing the pigment into the white marble mortar.

  She shifted the yolk to a piece of parchment, her fingers working with the delicacy of a spider spinning a web. The last of the clear membrane skated across the paper, soaking through.

  When there was not a speck of white left, she pricked the skin of the yolk with a needle, releasing the pure yellow within.

  “Now. Watch,” she commanded.

  Carlotta worked the finely ground pigment into the yolk with the urgency and care of a midwife delivering a child. First the green, then the blue.

  When she was finished, Giorgio had never seen a more glorious color in all his life.

  I would promise my firstborn son to paint with that color!

  “I swear to you, I will follow your instructions,” he said. “Just let me have that pigment!”

  “Do not assume that every habitant of Firenze wishes Siena harm,” said Carlotta as they lay in bed.

  “I am thinking of love,” Giorgio objected. “Don’t bring politics into our bed!”

  He kissed her neck, drinking in the warm scent of cloves and rosemary.

  Carlotta traced his shoulder with her fingertip.

  “We have also suffered from Francesco’s rule. His taxes ruin our farms, our livelihood. Ask the merchants on the street. They would say the same—if they could tell the truth, which is impossible. Our money goes to embellish the Pitti Palace, to finance the homes of Bianca Cappello, her wardrobe, her horses, carriages, jewels, while we Florentines stew bare bones for broth. Parents go to bed without even a crust of bread in their bellies, trying to feed their children.”

  The memory of the siege of Siena flashed in Giorgio’s mind.

  “We are not all the enemy, Giorgio,” she said.

  Giorgio shook his head.

  Of course the Fiorentinos are the enemy. And always will be.

  “Ah, you are wrong, Giorgio Brunelli,” said Carlotta, combing her hair between her fingers. “What a stubborn man, suckled on vengeance!”

  He stared at her, startled. Had she really read his thoughts? His penis withered between his legs, lovemaking a distant memory.

  “Especially the Florentine women,” she continued. “Women everywhere want to see their children prosper, see their grandchildren grow fat on the cream of good fortune. They scorn the politics of the de’ Medici. They believe in the prayers of Santa Caterina.”

  “Santa Caterina was our saint, born in Siena,” scoffed Giorgio.

  “She belongs to the world, not just Siena,” she said, sitting up to face him. “Santa Caterina dedicated her life to the poor and sick, to peace and healing—and not only for Siena. Her letters begged for peace throughout our land. She implored all Europe to find peace through unity, a unity that would comfort its people. A faith that would render God more important than kingdoms here on earth.”

  “Carlotta Spessa. I had not taken you for a devout woman of the church,” said Giorgio, wrapping a strand of her dark hair around his finger.

  She caught his wrist, carefully unwinding her hair from his grasp. “I am not a religious woman, far from it. But I do believe ultimately in peace.”

  Giorgio stared at his mistress, who had climbed his body like a ladder only moments before, her kisses moistening his skin. What passion had suddenly stirred her blood to make her forget their lovemaking?

  Never had he known a woman to speak of politics and religion in bed. And to speak of Santa Caterina while they were both wet from love—blasphemous.

  “Many women want only to procure peace for the sake of their children,” she continued. “We do not worship the de’ Medici. Their wealth and power are not ours. As we of Firenze kneel at the altar for communion and taste the host, sip the cup of salvation, it is not Francesco de’ Medici to whom we devote our souls. We pray only to make it through another day.”

  She paused for a moment, lost in thought.

  “Your Virginia Tacci,” she said, “is one of our kind. If she had learned the art of healing and potions, I am sure she would have made a potent cunning woman.”

  Giorgio pulled Carlotta close, shaking his head. His rough, unshaven face scraped the skin of her cheek, but she did not flinch. He was falling in love with this fiercely independent woman.

  But she was wrong about Virginia.

  “Virginia? Her heart was stamped with only one passion,” he said. “To race the Palio—and to win.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano

  JULY 1586

  Giorgio’s left hand possessed its own special memory. His brushstroke remembered the curve of her neck, the determination of her chin as she focused herself and her horse, preparing to break past the rope of the mossa the instant it dropped. The colors of Drago shone with preternatural pigments—green, yellow, and red—on her cap, her riding silks, on the mirrored spennacchiera of the horse.

  He watched as his brush painted the brown eyes of the Tuscan girl, her dark brown hair windblown, peeking out from her cap. The way she sat astride the horse, the inclination of her body, anticipating the leap forward, was hers alone. The quarter-turn of her hands on the reins—he had taught her that. She had the gentlest but most commanding hands of any rider he knew.

  If I had not taught her to ride, would she have disappeared? She would not have caught the granduca’s eye . . . or di Torreforte’s.

  He swallowed hard as the image emerged on his canvas, more real than if she were standing before him. Truer than his own memory could conjure.

  The artist stepped back to gaze at her.

  Where are you now, Virginia?

  He stared down at his hand.

  How does my hand remember more than my mind? When I close my eyes, I cannot see her as clearly as I do now, looking at my canvas. But if I leave my hand free to work, to see what memory lives there . . .

  Giorgio did not sketch out a preliminary drawing. He applied the paint directly onto a blank canvas. He felt an urgency—and a clarity of vision that directed his hand.

  He dipped his brush in ultramarino to paint the Tuscan blue sky. He remembered how he had acquired his first true ultramarine when his father had bartered with the Duchessa d’Elci—the day Virginia had saved Orione from death. No, the day Virginia had brought Orione to life!

  A brilliant red and an emerald green were set aside from the other paints. He dipped a separate brush into these colors, painting with greater care. He built up the paint layers, red vermillion and emerald green, for the Drago colors of Virginia’s jacket.

  Working in egg tempera, he painted quickly.

  Perhaps the quickness is the magic. No time to reflect.

  He shook his head. Already he could see the telltale opaque sheen on his pallet. The paint would set soon and be ruined.

  I cannot afford to waste these pigments. There may be no more.

  Without thinking, he reached out with his finger, tracing his nail across the brilliant green, etching minute striations.

  In his rapt attention to finish his work, he did not hear the heavy steps approaching as Cesare Brunelli thumped his way down to the stream, leaning heavily on his cane. He knew he would find his son there. Every hour he was not working with the horses, Giorgio would take the linen panels and his paints to the shade of the linden trees.

  He stopped to watch his son stooped over his work. Giorgio’s tunic was plastered to his back with sweat. Flies buzz
ed around the cast-off eggshells.

  Cesare’s sight had faded, but the startling green pierced his clouded eyes. Bright crimson and yellow contrasted vividly, the Drago colors. He stared at Virginia, blinking.

  He has brought her home again!

  “Who commissioned these?” gasped Cesare.

  Giorgio whirled around, holding the paintbrush in the air.

  “Babbo!” he said.

  A blood-red drop flew from the bristles of the brush, landing in the brown dust. Giorgio stared at it as if it were a living creature. He retreated a step.

  “Wait! I will help you down, Babbo.”

  He put down his brush carefully on the tree stump that served as his worktable and hurried to help his father down the little bank.

  “These are the most magnificent paintings I have ever seen,” rasped Brunelli, out of breath. “The colors, her face! My son, your work is fit for a king.”

  He tightened his grip on his son’s arm. Giorgio winced, amazed at his father’s strength despite his age.

  “Who has paid the commission?” asked Cesare. “Where did you get such pigments?”

  “It is a private commission.”

  “For whom, my son?”

  With a flick of his eyes toward the palette, Giorgio hesitated.

  “I am sworn to secrecy, Babbo.”

  Cesare tightened his hand on his cane.

  “Take me closer,” he said, reaching for Giorgio’s arm. “I want to see these paints—”

  “No, Babbo.” Giorgio had never told his father “no” before in his life. “The colors are best appreciated from a distance,” he said, holding his father back from the paintings.

  “What do you mean, no? I want to see her again—let go of me!”

  Giorgio saw tears well in his father’s eyes.

  “Babbo. These colors are—magical. They possess great powers.”

  Cesare flung his son’s hand from his arm. “Magical? Are you dabbling in the black arts?”

  “Not I. But I have procured the pigments from someone who does.”

  The old smithy took his son by his shoulders, holding his face close to his own. “A witch?”

  “I cannot say. She may be. In truth, I do not know.”

  Cesare blew out a breath noisily through his dry lips. “It has come to this. Perhaps because I never took you to church as your mother wanted.”

  “No, Babbo! You are the best father there is on Earth. It is because . . .”

  Cesare looked off over the hills. “I wonder where she is. Our villanella. Is that what has driven you to . . . this?”

  Giorgio nodded. He could hide little from his father. He, too, looked southeast toward the Crete, its golden hills bleaching under the fierce sun.

  “Only a Pope could afford such luxuries as these,” said Cesare, staring at Virginia’s face on canvas. “Or worse. A de’ Medici.”

  The old man eyed his son and turned away, looking up toward the stable.

  “Help me up the bank. I want to see Orione.”

  Giorgio buried the paintbrushes and his pallet deep in the soil. He filled the narrow trench, watching the remaining paints color the soil bright red, green, and yellow.

  He thought of the many generations who had lived and died in these hills, how their lives and their secrets were consumed by earth, pulled up into the roots of the ancient cypresses. The paintings were done, and he never wanted to think or look again upon the colors that had created the images of Virginia Tacci. Her exact likeness made his heart ache.

  Giorgio packed the canvases carefully, swathing them in silken cloth that the cardinale had provided for their transport. He knew they were the best work he had ever produced, but he would never look upon them again. He wondered if Michelangelo’s heart broke when he created Leda and sent her away forever.

  As he was loading the wagon with his two paintings, another short wagon stirred the dust with its approach.

  “Is this the Brunelli stables?” called the driver.

  “It is.”

  The driver rubbed the grit from his eyes. He was dressed in a serge tunic, grimy and worn.

  “I come from Fiesole with two packages for a gentleman. Giorgio Brunelli, do you know him?”

  “That is me. I am Giorgio Brunelli.”

  The driver set the brake on the wagon and stepped down.

  “I bring presents from Carlotta Spessa. She says only you know how to handle them. Two rolls of wallpaper that I am not to touch. As if I could not unload some colored paper! She packed them herself. And this letter,” he added, handing Giorgio a sealed parchment.

  “Wallpaper?” said Giorgio. The driver shrugged.

  “Come into the stables, unhitch your horse,” Giorgio said. “Water him and tie him in the shade. I will fetch some cheese and salami. You can refresh yourself with wine.”

  “Not until you unload these bedeviled packages I bring. She made me swear to unload the cargo into your care immediately. Then I rest.”

  Giorgio nodded. The gelding harnessed to the wagon snorted, pawing the earth at the smell of water, hay, and the other horses in the stable yard.

  Giorgio climbed into the back of the wagon. With a knife blade, he lifted the corner of cloth to inspect. The packages were covered in sackcloth. He could not see color or design. He moved them carefully to the paint shed at the far corner of the stables.

  He cast an eye at his own wagon, loaded with the cardinale’s paintings. He squinted.

  Better move my horse into shade, too. There may be more to bring the cardinale.

  He led his horse under the shade of a linden tree, accompanied the driver to the stables, and settled him with food and drink. Then he broke the seal on the parchment.

  Darling Giorgio,

  I send these rolls of wallpaper to accompany the paintings you are creating. One is an ethereal green, the color of the grottos. It will appeal to her and remind her of the Adriatic Sea.

  The other is a crimson, the color of blood. You will know what to do with them. And how to handle them with the greatest care. Do not remove the dark mold adhered to the back of the paper. That is where the most magic lies.

  The final recipient will receive instructions on how the wallpaper is to be installed.

  The wagoner is trustworthy.

  I send these treasures with my love,

  Carlotta

  Giorgio sent a rider to the cardinale’s palace with a brief letter that his audience with Ferdinando must be postponed until the following morning. That night, while the wagoner from Fiesole snored raucously in the hayloft, Giorgio set about forging iron hooks. The ring of metal against metal did not disturb the wagoner, who had heartily enjoyed the good red wine of the region.

  Giorgio had to shake the man awake the next morning. He groaned, sitting up in the rustling hay.

  “Good wagoner. You must set out on the road early. I have errands to carry out this morning but will bid you farewell first.”

  When Giorgio arrived at the cardinale’s palace, he had to wait three hours for an audience with Ferdinando. In the meantime, he supervised the servants in unloading the cargo.

  “I will unload the canvases myself,” he told them. “Use the hooks attached to the sackcloth to carry the other packages. Use the utmost care, for they are easily damaged.”

  Cardinale Ferdinando de’ Medici glowered when Giorgio was finally ushered into his study.

  “How dare you cancel an appointment with me, Brunelli!” snapped the cardinale, once the door had been closed behind the attendants. “I am a busy man. I must inspect the paintings before they are delivered to Poggio a Cajano. Already the granduca is preparing his departure, and they have not been hung!”

  Giorgio managed a shallow bow.

  “And you!” continued the cardinale. “You must swear never to contact me through letter again. I have destroyed the missive.”

  “I swear I will never send written communication to you again, Cardinale.”

  “I will remind you of
your oath, Brunelli.”

  “Your eminence,” said Giorgio. “I was just about to depart from Vignano yesterday when a unexpected package was delivered from Fiesole.”

  The cardinale raised his brow. “Fiesole? From . . .?”

  Giorgio raised an eyebrow. “From the same source where I secured the pigments for my work. I did not want to arouse suspicion with the wagoner, so I awaited his departure before setting off for the palace.”

  The cardinale nodded. “Let me see what was delivered from the witch of Fiesole.”

  Anger caught Giorgio’s breath. How dare this de’ Medici call my love a witch!

  “Pray, Signor Cardinale,” he said at last. “Give me a blade so I may unsheathe the wrappings. Your guard has seized my own dagger.”

  The de’ Medici cardinale looked at the Senese, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

  “You either trust me, good cardinale,” said Giorgio, meeting his eyes, “or we are both dead men.”

  Ferdinando de’ Medici walked behind his desk and opened a drawer. A shining blade caught the morning sunshine from the open window. He handed it to the artist.

  Giorgio’s hand met the cardinale’s on the hilt as he passed the weapon.

  Giorgio slit the outer sackcloth with the sharp blade, then picked the point of the blade at the string that held together the gauzy serge.

  He wrapped the discarded sackcloth over his hand, making a mitten to protect his skin. Carefully, he unfurled the wallpaper.

  A shimmering green, the color of reflected water in a cavern, shone from the floor.

  “My God,” muttered the cardinale. “Never have I seen this color outside nature. It is a treasure of a pigment.”

  “It is meant by its maker to accompany my painting. The one of the start of the Palio at Santuccio.”

  The cardinale could not take his eyes off the washed emerald green.

  “So brilliant, but so delicate. Regal yet ethereal,” he mused, stroking his beard. “Let me see the other.”

  As Giorgio unrolled the bundle, Ferdinando noticed the crumbling mold adhered to the back of the paper.