The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  Giorgio Brunelli must wait.

  CHAPTER 80

  Fiesole

  AUGUST 1587

  The trip to Fiesole was harder than ever. Giorgio had developed headaches that seized his whole body, nauseating him. Under the heat of the sun, his vision was blurred.

  But this was worse.

  He knelt on the hard stones of the floor. “Why will you not marry me?” he pleaded. “Have I not shown you my love, my devotion? Come with me to Siena!”

  Carlotta shook her head, making the veil of her hair wave. “I cannot. I must remain in this house all the days of my life. I love you, and I will always be your lover. But I cannot marry you, Giorgio.”

  “But why?”

  “I belong to this house. I cannot leave.”

  Giorgio’s face burned. “You could not be a Senese?”

  “Fiesole is my home. I do not wish to leave here any more than you could leave Siena.”

  “But . . . you—”

  “But I am a woman? You think I should follow a man and take his identity, like wearing a new cloak?”

  Giorgio looked into her eyes. She was right.

  He looked down at the foot-polished stones of the house as if he could find some consolation there. His hands were clasped as in prayer.

  Carlotta took his hands in hers.

  “Can you not survive on my love without marriage?”

  She grasped his hand. He still did not look up. He felt her inspecting his fingers.

  “Giorgio!” she said. “Look at your fingernails!”

  Cazzo! I speak of my eternal love, and she chides me about my cuticles.

  “You have the sign of the crescent moon in the nail beds. What should be pink is speckled with white stars. Oh, Giorgio!”

  Giorgio looked down at his hand.

  “How strange,” he said. He did not spend time studying his hands.

  “Giorgio! The paints! I warned you never to touch the pigments.”

  He thought of the day his left hand had shot out, the nail on his pointer finger etching Virginia’s face on the canvas. Was the poison that had killed the de’ Medici to take his life now?

  “State your business,” said the granduca, his eyes focused on the papers on his desk.

  Carlotta let the silence draw out for a moment and then, when Ferdinando still didn’t look up, said, “I request the favor that you look at my face when addressing me, Granduca.”

  Now he looked up. Astonished.

  “How dare you!”

  “Good, I have your attention. I come to you to discuss some unfinished business.”

  “Ah! Compensation for your—services—to my younger brother, Duca Pietro?”

  Carlotta narrowed her eyes in disgust.

  “I rendered no services to him. When I was finished with our relationship, we parted ways. And there is no compensation due from a lover who asked me for poi—”

  “Enough!” He cut her off midword. There was a moment of silence. Ferdinando looked at the door, making sure it was shut tight. “You tread on dangerous ground. What business do you have with me, Carlotta Spessa?”

  “You know very well the business we had together. Some special paints, do you recall? And an arrangement was made between you and a certain Senese artist.”

  Once more, the granduca’s eyes flicked to the door.

  “He delivered his services,” Carlotta continued. “Now he finds you impossible to reach.” She paused. Her look was opaque. “You may not have known—”

  “Yes, yes,” Ferdinando interrupted. “Do not play games with me.”

  “So. I come to collect the debt long overdue.”

  “You come on a very dangerous mission, Carlotta Spessa. I am sure you are aware of the long reach of a granduca. Fiesole is my back garden. I can pluck what I like—”

  “I do know the reach of the de’ Medici. But I also know you are a most honorable man, unlike your brothers.”

  He inclined his head, acknowledging the double-edged compliment.

  “You are not a bad man, Granduca Ferdinando,” said Carlotta, fingering a pearl seed in her hair. “Merely a forgetful one. It is time to pay your debt to Giorgio Brunelli.”

  The Granduca of Tuscany sent messengers to every convent within his land.

  Nothing.

  He made a trip to Siena, summoning Giorgio to the de’ Medici palazzo. Looking down from the balcony, he saw the artist dismount from a black stallion with a constellation of white blazing its forehead.

  Look at this wreck of a man, thought the granduca.

  Giorgio’s face had wrinkled like a pumpkin left in the snow. His cheeks and eyes had sunken, his freckled skin withered over his thin face.

  There is a despair about this one, a weakness from much more than the sun and the years.

  When Giorgio was shown into his presence, the granduca could see the frost obscuring the once fierce red hair. He could almost smell the dull husk of age that clung to his visitor, a premature decay that bespoke grave failure.

  “How is your father?” he asked.

  “He died last winter,” answered Giorgio, unblinking.

  “I am very sorry. He was a great horseman. Governor di Montauto was forever praising him.”

  “Dead, too, of course,” said Giorgio, dismissing the memory with a wave of his hand. “A year after Virginia’s ride in the Palio. He was more Senese than Florentine—Siena mourned his death.”

  As if agreed to, the two men bowed their heads in silence. They could hear the ticking of the gilded clock, a present from the Habsburg Court in Vienna.

  “I want you to know that I have sent emissaries to every convent in Tuscany,” the granduca said finally. “There is no record of Virginia Tacci.”

  Giorgio drew in a breath, letting the air rest in his lungs. He expelled it in a gush.

  “I thank you for that—although that is ground we have already tilled. Perhaps you should have questioned Giacomo di Torreforte.”

  The granduca wrinkled his forehead. “Di Torreforte?”

  “He was a visitor to your brother’s court. A frequent visitor, he would have everyone believe. He always bragged of his presence there.”

  “I know the di Torreforte family. The old conte is a distant cousin. This is the son, I presume?”

  “The eldest son. His coach was seen near the Tacci pastures the day Virginia disappeared.”

  The granduca’s eyes narrowed. “But you have no proof he kidnapped her?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Giorgio. “Just the word of a shepherd, a cousin of Virginia, who saw the di Torreforte coach in the vicinity.”

  The granduca folded his hands together, reminiscent of his long days of prayer.

  A long moment of silence passed. Giorgio leaned forward, his voice hot with torment.

  “I have killed two souls, and the one I seek is lost forever.”

  “I am sorry,” said the granduca, fingering a ruby ring that had replaced his cardinale’s signet. “But if it is any consequence to you, I can tell you it is doubtful your paintings were the cause of my brother’s and his wife’s deaths.”

  Giorgio stared at him.

  “The paints were potent. I am certain. I am proof of that.”

  “Perhaps,” whispered the granduca, bringing his face close to the artist’s. “But the cause of my brother’s death was arsenic, baked in a pear tart Bianca prepared. Meant to poison me.”

  “I have heard that report,” said Giorgio. “There is no end to the wild fantasies and Florentine gossip! But we know better, you and I. You and I, Granduca Ferdinando. You and I.”

  The granduca’s eyes lit up in anger. Giorgio held his gaze.

  “We both know it was my work—our work, ours!—that killed them both,” said the artist. “Vengeance has been just. And now it kills me.”

  “God will forgive us both more easily if we were not murderers,” said the former cardinale, clasping his hands in prayer. “As will history, in my case.”

  “God,”
said Giorgio, “knows the truth. No matter what we say. And for my part, I do not care how history colors me or whether I am included or not. I only care about Virginia. I regret that I did not poison di Torreforte. Would that I had pulled the ends of his black scarf tight around his neck until he strangled.”

  Ferdinando unfolded his clasped hands and stared at Giorgio.

  “Black scarf?”

  “He always wore a black scarf tied loosely around his neck. Summer or winter. An affectation. Pretending to be an artist—”

  “Wait!” said the granduca holding up his palm. “The dwarf Morgante spoke of a man in just such a scarf.”

  Giorgio leaned forward. “Serenissimo! What did he say?”

  Morgante arrived from Florence two days later in a de’ Medici coach.

  Standing before the granduca, the aging dwarf craned his neck like a turtle.

  “Forgive me, my hearing is gone,” said the dwarf. “Would your grace please be so kind as to repeat the question?”

  The granduca spoke directly in the little man’s ear.

  “The man from Siena, the one with the black scarf who met with my brother Granduca Francesco? Did he speak with a Senese accent?”

  Morgante’s tongue poked around in his mouth, trying to remember.

  “No. A bit queer, but no. He spoke like a Florentine, perhaps from the provinces. A nobile, all the same.”

  “And you mentioned . . . something about a donkey, was it?”

  Morgante swung his head back and forth.

  “I beg your forgiveness. I have grown old and forgetful. I cannot remember.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did. There was a donkey. I am certain.” Granduca Ferdinando’s eyes slid upward, unfocused in thought. “Yes. And a mention of visitors. No visitors. That’s what you said. No visitors.”

  “A convent!” blurted Giorgio. “So it is true. She was sent to a convent!”

  “Not any convent in Tuscany. And my contacts have found nothing in Rome. Morgante, you are dismissed.”

  The dwarf suddenly raised a finger in the air. “I remember now. The granduca said she was ‘in the heart of the enemy.’”

  “Bravo, Morgante,” said Granduca Ferdinando. “Rest here tonight—tomorrow the coach will deliver you back to Florence.”

  The old dwarf bobbed his head in gratitude. He shuffled toward the door.

  “Take care, good servant,” said the granduca.

  “You are a kind master,” said Morgante. His gnarled hand reached up to the handle of the door.

  Giorgio watched the little man list left, then right, like a rocking boat, as he tottered out into the hall.

  When the door clicked shut, the granduca’s eyes lit up. “‘Heart of the enemy.’ Yes, that is what I remember now, too.”

  “It is hard to think of what states are not enemies of the de’ Medici,” said Giorgio.

  The granduca flashed an acid look at his visitor. “You would do well not to forget your place, Senese.”

  “My place is finding Virginia Tacci. Nothing else.”

  The granduca rubbed a finger back and forth over his mustache, thinking.

  “So,” said Giorgio. “What quarrels and enemies come first to mind?”

  “Siena, of course,” said the granduca, fingering his cropped beard. He gave a curt chuckle. “But no Senese convent would keep such a secret.”

  Giorgio glared at him, saying nothing. His dark look sent the granduca back to thinking. He chewed his lip.

  “Again, Milan. The Sforzas are envious of the status of granducato that the Pope gave our Tuscany. France is our sworn enemy. Napoli detests the de’ Medici for the murder of Leonora. The Habsburgs bear a grudge for my brother’s treatment of Giovanna—”

  “In short, most of Europe,” said Giorgio, throwing up his hands. “I cannot search every convent!”

  “Let me think upon it. I will use every contact I have in Rome. I will search for Virginia Tacci.”

  “Unless the bastardo di Torreforte gave her a false name,” said Giorgio.

  The granduca looked at his visitor and sighed. He said nothing, but looked around the room at the portraits of his family in the Senese palazzo.

  I will restore the Bronzino of Isabella to the Pitti Palace. I need her comfort. And the one of her in the green velvet dress. The little dog in my sister’s lap, a garland in her hair. How that portrait gave my father joy.

  “My brother was very good at erasing women when they did not suit his purposes,” the granduca said, closing his hand. “Give me time to think. In the meantime, I must concentrate on my wedding celebrations.”

  Giorgio cocked his head.

  “Ah,” said the granduca. “I suppose the news does not travel as quickly as I thought from Florence to Siena. I am marrying the princess Christina of Lorraine.”

  “A Frenchwoman?”

  “She is the granddaughter of Catherine de’ Medici—so she has our blood in her veins. Her grandmother was our sworn enemy, but no matter. I am weary of unrest. It is time to make peace.”

  Giorgio said nothing more. He could not understand why anyone—especially a de’ Medici—would settle for peace over revenge.

  CHAPTER 81

  Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano

  AUGUST 1587

  Giorgio rarely saw Riccardo anymore. Shared memories of Virginia made it too painful for the two men to meet. But upon Giorgio’s return from Florence, he wrote for his old friend to meet him in the country stables.

  “Have you found her?” Riccardo said even as he dismounted, swinging off the horse so quickly, his mount shied away.

  “Not yet. But I am certain di Torreforte kidnapped her. Now beyond a doubt—”

  “I will kill the bastard!” said Riccardo, his entire body stiffening in rage.

  “No, no!” said Giorgio, putting a hand on his friend’s arm. “Let us find Virginia first!”

  A tremor shook Riccardo’s body.

  “How can you stand there so coolly, Giorgio? We must have revenge!”

  Oh, my friend, I have had revenge. If you only knew.

  “I am trying to find her, Riccardo. We can settle di Torreforte’s fate later.”

  “Where is she?”

  Giorgio shook his head.

  “No one knows for sure. A convent. Outside of Tuscany.”

  “So only di Torreforte knows for sure—” said Riccardo.

  “Perhaps. Only—”

  Riccardo gritted his teeth together, baring them like a wolf. “I shall find out!”

  Shaking Giorgio’s hand from his arm, he gathered the reins in his left hand and swung back into the saddle.

  “Where are you going?” said Giorgio

  “To confront the bastardo!”

  He wheeled his horse around and took off at a gallop for Siena.

  Riccardo found di Torreforte on the perimeter of Il Campo, drinking outside a tavern. He was sampling a Montepulciano wine from a keg the proprietor had just tapped.

  The sun was bright, making the Florentine squint as he brought the cup to his lips. A group of Florentine bankers and nobili sat on plank benches around an overturned cask, serving as a table.

  “Delizioso!” di Torreforte pronounced. His entourage murmured similar sentiments, draining their cups.

  A rider trotted across the bricks of the piazza. His eyes searched the crowd. When he spied di Torreforte, his face contorted.

  “You, signore!” said Riccardo, pointing his gloved hand. “You!”

  “Are you addressing me, Signor De’ Luca?” said di Torreforte.

  Riccardo gave the reins to the tavern boy.

  “You scoundrel! You kidnapped Virginia Tacci.”

  “What?” said di Torreforte, looking about the crowd that gathered instantly.

  The name Virginia Tacci spread across the piazza. The pigeons shot up from the brick pavement, their wings beating madly.

  “You are quite mad, sir!” said di Torreforte.

  “You know where she is!”

 
Di Torreforte set down his glass. He wiped his lips against the back of his hand.

  “Everyone knows that you were madly in love with the villanella. You made a fool of yourself spouting poetry, besotted by a poor shepherdess. Now you have some insane notion that I am to blame for—”

  Riccardo seized di Torreforte by his shirt. “You know where she is! You liar!”

  Di Torreforte leaned into his attacker, his breath sour with wine. “If I did, I would never tell you, you piece of shit!”

  He tore away from De’ Luca, giving him a shove. He straightened his cloak and scarf.

  “You would do best to forget about that little whore of a shepherdess. She is probably in a field somewhere rutting with someone from her own despicable class.”

  Riccardo’s face paled with rage. He took a step forward and slapped di Torreforte hard.

  “I challenge you to a duel, Signor di Torreforte,” he said. “To defend the honor of Virginia Tacci!”

  The crowd gasped. Duels were outlawed in the province of Siena on penalty of death. As one the crowd turned, looking for the de’ Medici guards. Surely they would have heard the commotion, seen the crowd gather.

  One of di Torreforte’s Florentine companions shouted, “Your challenge is illegal, Signor De’ Luca. Retract it at once!”

  “My proposition is between two gentlemen,” said Riccardo. “Let Signor di Torreforte decline to meet my challenge, not one of his henchmen.”

  Giacomo di Torreforte licked his lips. The skin of his face looked puckered like an old man’s.

  “What do you say, di Torreforte?” Riccardo insisted.

  “Make way! Disperse!” shouted a voice of authority.

  A guard broke through the crowd.

  “What is this disturbance? Who are the perpetrators?”

  Riccardo looked past the guard, pointing his finger. “Do you accept my challenge, you coward?”

  Di Torreforte slid his eyes toward the guard. Two more appeared.

  “He challenged me to a duel. Arrest him!” said di Torreforte. “What are you waiting for?”