The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  CHAPTER 82

  Siena

  SEPTEMBER 1587

  Signora De’ Luca held her beloved Riccardo in her arms next to her bosom, crying the burning tears of a mother who has lost her son.

  His trial had been simple. He had broken the laws of Siena by challenging Signor di Torreforte to a duel. The Florentine witnesses testified on di Torreforte’s behalf. The Senese would say nothing.

  Granduca Ferdinando intervened to spare his life, but Riccardo was banished forever from the city and province of Siena.

  And now soldiers had come to enforce that order.

  Riccardo De’ Luca chose Ferrara as his home of exile. His father had contacts in the d’Este Court through trade and marriage, as well as friendships forged before and during the siege of Siena.

  “I would give you Caramella as a gift,” his father said, barely able to look into his son’s eyes. “But I fear she could not make the journey. I have picked out three good mares for you. I will send more when you are established.”

  “Thank you, Babbo.”

  “Our alliance with Duca Alfonso will serve you well. He has always supported Siena. They love their horses, their Palio.”

  At the last word, Riccardo wiped a tear from his eye. Then another.

  Three soldiers escorted Riccardo De’ Luca to the border of Emilia-Romagna.

  The lieutenant took out the decree signed by Granduca Ferdinando. He read aloud, the wind snatching his words.

  “Thou, Signor Riccardo De’ Luca, shall not enter the Duchy of Tuscany for the rest of your living days. Your crime: challenging Giacomo di Torreforte to a duel and disrupting the peace of Siena. The death sentence has been converted to banishment by the mercy of Serenissimo Granduca Ferdinando de’ Medici. Your banishment is inconvertible—you will enter Tuscany only under penalty of death. Do you understand?”

  “Sì,” said Riccardo, looking over the hills in the direction of his beloved Siena.

  Then he turned his back on Tuscany and took a firm grip on the lead ropes of three shiny-coated chestnut mares, who bobbed and pranced behind the gelding as Riccardo headed down the dusty road toward Ferrara, never looking back.

  CHAPTER 83

  Ferrara, Castello d’Este

  SEPTEMBER 1587

  Ercole Cortile, Ferrara’s ambassador to the de’ Medici Court, rested at home for three days before he made an official visit to the Palazzo d’Este. Ferrara had not the same grandeur as Florence, but the green waters surrounding the crenellated palace walls, the wisps of morning fog, and the refined Court cultivated by Alfonso were a balm to his soul.

  He had spent too many years listening to—and paying for—the many ears pressed to the doors of de’ Medici intrigue. The murders and scandals sickened him as he grew older. It was no longer the celebrated Court of Granduca Cosimo, and Cortile was no longer the dashing ambassador who enjoyed the sordid bits of gossip he procured for the Duca di Ferrara.

  Both Ercole Cortile and Duca Alfonso had grown old.

  Cortile had missed his homeland. Under Alfonso, Ferrara was a haven for artists, musicians, and scientists, free from the rancor and reprisal that haunted the de’ Medici Court. Alfonso welcomed visitors from other lands whose diverse experiences and opinions would enrich the culture of Ferrara.

  Most of all, Duca Alfonso enjoyed thumbing his nose at Rome and at the de’ Medici, his mortal enemies.

  The De’ Luca family had appealed to Alfonso to grant Riccardo asylum in Ferrara, and he was inclined to grant their request.

  “They say Riccardo is a superb horseman,” Cortile said, reading the letter from the elder De’ Luca. “I do know that his father breeds magnificent Palio horses.”

  “A breeder of Palio horses, a foe of Florence—what better qualities to recommend him to the House of Este!” said Alfonso, taking a sip of wine. “But what is this about a duel?”

  “Apparently Signor De’ Luca believes a de’ Medici henchman kidnapped Siena’s shining star—Virginia Tacci.”

  “And she is?”

  “The girl who almost won the Palio some years ago.”

  “Ah, sì! The Senese shepherdess! Such a tale!”

  “Indeed. Her horse shied in the last stretch. Some bastardi threw boards out into the road. Still, she finished third. But after the Palio, she disappeared. There has been no record of her existence.”

  “Kidnapped?” asked Alfonso, raising an eyebrow.

  “Riccardo De’ Luca is convinced of it. And so he challenged a Florentine—the man whom he thought responsible—to a duel.”

  “You think Granduca Francesco had a hand in this?”

  Ercole Cortile shrugged and laid the De’ Luca letter on the desk. His stomach roiled at the name Francesco de’ Medici.

  “All that is certain is that she is gone—and that Siena worshipped the girl. Virginia Tacci represented the independence and passion of their old republic,” he said. “The rest is speculation.”

  Alfonso nodded. He suddenly felt a cold shadow floating over him. He thought of the murder of the beautiful Leonora de’ Medici, cousin of his first wife.

  “Perhaps they feared this Virginia Tacci could have sparked a rebellion. Siena’s soul is restless. A de’ Medici who is capable of murdering his own sister and his sweet cousin—yes, I could see how such a girl might disappear mysteriously.”

  Ercole Cortile nodded. He knew well of what Francesco had been capable.

  “Did this scoundrel accept the challenge of”—Alfonso glanced at the letter lying on his desk—“Riccardo De’ Luca?”

  “No. He waited like a coward for the guards to arrest the man. And now Signor De’ Luca is within our borders. He brought three gorgeous chestnut brood mares, already in foal.”

  Alfonso savored his wine, his tongue swishing it around his palate. He swallowed, taking a deep, contented breath.

  “I must pay our guest a visit. And we will learn even more when those mares give foal. I am always looking for good prospects for our Palio.”

  CHAPTER 84

  Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano

  OCTOBER 1587

  In accord with Cesare’s last wishes, Orione became a standing stud in the Brunelli stables. Senese horsemen coveted the Maremma bloodline mixed with Stella’s thoroughbred breeding, especially after Orione’s performance in the first contrada Palio of the Assumption. Few outside Siena understood the nobility and spirit of the stallion, grumbling that the stud was too heavy-boned for Palio stock. They feared the offspring would not be fleet-footed as a thoroughbred. But the Senese knew the true value of heart and agility. They looked for the strength and courage bred in their own land.

  Caramella’s first Orione foal had her sire’s black coat and white star. The filly came straight from the mare’s womb into life, pulled to her hooves like a puppet on a string.

  Giorgio remembered the night of Orione’s birth, how Virginia had crawled across the blood-stained straw to breathe life into the stillborn colt. His freckled face streaked with tears at the sight of Caramella’s newborn filly.

  He alone attended the birth, the memories flooding back to him. Never had he felt so lonely. How he wished his father, Cesare, had lived to see this filly born. And . . . Virginia. She should be here to see Orione’s first foal.

  The filly belonged to the De’ Lucas. When the time came for her to be weaned, Giorgio would take her to Ferrara, where Riccardo had established his stables. Giorgio shook his head, thinking of Riccardo forever beyond Siena’s city walls.

  But at least Ferrara was horse country . . . and they hated the de’ Medici. The filly, christened Celeste, could thrive there.

  She will outlive me. Orione’s offspring will outlive all of us. If only I could paint her.

  Giorgio clenched his trembling hand, no longer capable of grasping a paintbrush.

  A man in d’Elci’s livery rode into Vignano, leading an aging chestnut mare. The children in the streets stopped playing in the puddles on the cobblestone road in front of the chur
ch.

  “She must be a Palio mare,” whispered one, whose older brother worked shoveling manure at the Brunelli stables. “Look at her beautiful head.”

  “She looks old and moth-eaten to me,” said another. “Her coat does not shine like the great stallion Orione. No horse is as great as Vignano’s!”

  He made sure his voice was loud enough for the rider to hear.

  “Get out of the way, you ragamuffins! This is the great Stella, the dam of your Orione. Show respect.”

  Giorgio Brunelli was already out in the cobblestone yard when the rider approached the stable. He winced seeing the once beautiful Stella, now swaybacked, her luminous reddish coat mottled with faded tufts.

  “Giorgio Brunelli,” said the rider, dismounting.

  Giorgio stroked the big mare’s neck. She lowered her head.

  “Why is Stella brought here? She is—”

  The rider produced a letter from his pouch. “La Duchessa d’Elci sends this in explanation. She is on her deathbed, may God and Santa Caterina bless her noble soul.”

  Giorgio opened the folded parchment.

  Esteemed Giorgio Brunelli,

  After a good long time here on Earth, I am told by my doctors I am approaching my end. I have asked my secretary to take down my last words.

  I think I have lived this long only in hopes of seeing Virginia Tacci return to Siena. Now I see that I shall have that joy only by looking down from heaven, if our merciful Lord sees fit to accept my soul.

  I entrust you with my beloved mare Stella, who has served Siena well, not only in winning two Palios but in giving birth to our Virginia’s Orione.

  I fear that she has little life left to her. No one can tell me a remedy for her present sad condition. I know that your father has taught you much about the cure of strange illnesses, so I commend her to your care.

  See that she is treated with the good care she merits, and that, when the time comes, her end is noble. I trust you know what I mean, being a true horseman.

  I am in your debt.

  Lucretia, Duchessa d’Elci

  CHAPTER 85

  Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio

  OCTOBER 1589

  Conversa Margherita had watched the postulant Silvia grow from a child to a young woman, twenty-two years of age.

  Again and again, Silvia told Margherita she dedicated her prayers to Santa Caterina, for only that saint knew her true self and sorrow.

  “One day my saint will turn her countenance upon me,” she said fiercely. “And my name—Virginia! My name will be known once more.”

  Margherita said nothing, but she opened her arms and pressed the young woman to her bosom.

  The postulant squirmed free of the embrace.

  “You still do not believe I am Virginia Tacci.”

  Margherita thought of the bits of hair and salt she had found on the young postulate’s clothes and the one boot she had preserved in a small trunk in her hovel outside the convent walls.

  “I am forbidden to have an opinion beyond what the mother superior tells me,” said the conversa. “But I know that I love you, and so does Jesus. Santa Caterina would be proud of your devotion.”

  The young woman sighed, making the sign of the cross.

  “You are a good woman, Margherita, devoted to the church and to God. One day I will prove to you that I tell the truth. I am the girl who rode the Palio.”

  Margherita blinked back tears. She had long ago given away the right to think for herself. The church, this abbey, were all that existed for her. Anything that ran counter to what the mother superior told her was evil.

  Sometimes she woke up at night, wrestling with what she knew—the boot, the salt, the horsehair—and what could not possibly be real: a girl riding the Palio. The collision between the two caused her real pain as she blinked in the darkness, listening to the rustle of straw in her family’s cots. They needed the money the convent paid. It was little, but the coins were enough to put a bit of meat and bones in the soup pot.

  Margherita envied Silvia’s spirit but understood why she could not take the veil graciously. No . . . take it eagerly. Had Margherita been born to a family who could afford a dowry to the convent, she would have joyously dedicated her life to Jesus and to God.

  Instead she emptied the chamber pots of the privileged nuns, who were Jesus’s own brides.

  It was as close to heaven as she could hope for.

  Riccardo began a small breeding farm along the Po River. His three fine mares were already in foal, and he acquired four more from nearby farms. His father sent a stallion, the sire of Caramella. With the good breeding of the mares, Riccardo had a new beginning in Ferrara.

  He had heard that Caramella’s filly, Celeste, was a prize foal, strong-willed and strong-boned. She sounded just like her sire, Orione. He could not wait to see her when she was old enough to make the journey to Ferrara. In the meantime, one of his own mares was in foal by Orione.

  Now the Duca di Ferrara, Alfonso II d’Este, was to pay him a visit. If the duca looked upon his mares with favor, his future in this new land was blessed.

  Despite all the work that had to be done around the new farm, Riccardo set aside a few hours each day to paint. Only painting and long rides eased his mind. Ferrara’s haunting mists, shrouding the countryside and city buildings, caught his artist’s eye. He dressed warmly and rose early from his bed, starting to paint even before the horses nickered for their breakfast. His brushes and paints captured the moody tones of blue and gray, the mystical light as the muted sun burned away the clouds most mornings.

  And when the sun was vanquished by an approaching storm, the land and its people enveloped in the gray mantle—Riccardo De’ Luca liked this best.

  It spoke to his soul, gray and despondent.

  The day Duca Alfonso and his ambassador Ercole Cortile came to visit was one such gray, misty day. Riccardo could barely pull himself away from his painting—the urge to capture Ferrara’s moodiness was almost an affliction. He cleaned the paint from his brushes hastily.

  Still carrying the faint odor of linseed oil, he received his visitors and thanked Duca Alfonso profusely for giving him refuge.

  “I should have nowhere to go if it were not for the kindness of Siena’s ally.”

  “Bah! The de’ Medici are a pack of murderous imbeciles,” said Duca Alfonso. “Renegade bankers, not true nobili. I invite you, Signor De’ Luca, to attend my Court.”

  Riccardo bowed deeply. “It shall be my honor, my duca.”

  “You will see how favorably our Court compares to Florence’s,” said Ercole Cortile.

  “I have never been to the de’ Medici Court.”

  Ercole Cortile inclined his head slightly in apology.

  “Forgive me.” He motioned to the palette and paints sitting on a wooden table in the garden. “May I assume you are a painter, Signor De’ Luca?”

  “I am a horseman first. But yes, art is a serious occupation for me.”

  “Perhaps one day, you will show me your work,” said Duca Alfonso.

  “I am honored, but I think you will find my horses more appealing.”

  “Ah, yes, the purpose of our visit,” said Duca Alfonso. “I want to see the brood mares. Will they foal soon?”

  “The beginning of the year,” said Riccardo. “Come, I will show you.”

  In the stables, the chestnut mares nosed at their hay, fat and contented. The immaculate stalls smelled of fresh hay without a trace of rancid urine.

  Duca Alfonso drew a deep breath, smiling. The good smells of healthy horses washed away Court concerns.

  “May I see them more closely?” asked Duca Alfonso.

  “Please. Would you like me to bring them out?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Duca Alfonso. He slipped under the rope into the stall with the flexibility of a young man.

  The mare jerked her head and snorted. Duca Alfonso reached out his hand and stroked her neck slowly, comforting her.

 
“Tranquilla, bella. Tranquilla,” he soothed.

  His hands traveled down her legs, feeling their conformation and soundness. His fingertips sketched the length of her spine, from withers to rump.

  “Look at the brightness in her eyes,” he said at last, patting her neck. “She is a beauty.”

  She bobbed her head at his touch. He slid his hand down her blaze, cupping her velvety nose in the palm of his hand.

  “Brava, ciccia! You say she has run a Palio?” asked Duca Alfonso.

  “Two. She won once and was second another time,” said Riccardo. “She would have won but had a stone bruise. We retired her.”

  Duca Alfonso nodded his head. “The sire of her foal to come? What is his lineage?”

  “A Maremma stallion. A great black horse, stout and mighty. He was a gift from Governor di Montauto to Virginia Tacci.”

  “Ah! The girl who rode the Palio,” said Duca Alfonso, watching Riccardo’s reaction.

  “Ferrara has heard of her?” Riccardo’s eyes blazed bright in the misty air.

  “La villanella! Well, sì, all horsemen throughout Italy have heard of her, I would imagine,” said Duca Alfonso. “What brave girls you breed in Siena.”

  Riccardo’s eyes dropped for a moment to stare at the straw on the ground.

  “Yes, she was indeed brave,” he said, raising his chin and meeting the duca’s eyes. “With an uncanny sense with horses. She feared nothing.”

  “What has become of her?” asked Duca Alfonso

  “My duca, she has disappeared. If I may speak frankly, sir, I believe that it involved Granduca Francesco and a Florentine who resides in Siena—but I have no proof, no recourse. This is why I was banished from Tuscany. For challenging the Florentine coward to a duel.”

  “I am sorry for your predicament,” said Duca Alfonso, “but you have brought good horses to Ferrara. We shall rejoice! The de’ Medici loss is Ferrara’s gain.”