The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “Of course, Duchessa,” said Zio.

  “Come, little pastorella. Stand near me.”

  I knew better than to sit in front of a noble. I managed a curtsy.

  “How quaint,” she observed with the hint of a smile. “I suppose you do not have the habit of curtsying here alone with your sheep?”

  “The Duchessa d’Elci taught me. The night her mare foaled.”

  “Duchessa d’Elci? Davvero?”

  “Yes, it is true. Her mare nearly died, but my padrino saved her. And I saved the foal. Orione. The most beautiful colt ever born.”

  “If it is a d’Elci horse, it may well be. Of course, you have never seen one of our fine de’ Medici horses,” sniffed the princess.

  “But I have seen your horse. You jumped the olive tree! You rode like the strongest man!”

  “Ah, yes,” said Isabella closing her eyes for a second. “I remember my father the granduca speaking of the remarkable Duchessa d’Elci. I think he was half in love with her.”

  I frowned, thinking it impossible that a Florentine—especially the granduca—could love a Senese.

  But what did I know of love between a man and woman? My passion was horses. Only horses. My imagination could not paint an image that did not include a mane, withers, and tail.

  “But, madonna! To see you jump—it was the most magnificent sight, more beautiful than anything. More beautiful than—the Duomo!”

  I quickly made the sign of the cross, feeling quite certain I had blasphemed.

  She studied me with a puzzled look.

  “You love the horses, as your zio says. Have you ever ridden?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. I met her eyes, swearing with my immortal soul. “But I will. One day I will ride the Palio.”

  The de’ Medici princess laughed again, her gloved hand flying to cover her mouth.

  I sucked in my breath, indignant. Not even Zia Claudia’s rebukes had been as sharp an insult as Isabella’s merry dismissal. I squinted at her in the way I do when I’m enraged.

  “Oh! I have offended you, little shepherdess. Diavol! What a hot temper you have.”

  Isabella reached out her hand and stroked my arm. I stood still like a nervous lamb, trying hard not to bolt.

  “You do not have a horse, but you will ride the Palio. I see. And what contrada will you ride for?”

  “I am Drago by birth.”

  “I see, a true Senese. But you know, dear Virginia, only men ride the Palio.”

  “But I saw you! You galloped on the horse like a man.”

  “Yes, cara,” she said, squeezing my hand. “But I must do all my riding, all my jumping, far from prying eyes and wagging tongues. Men will not let a girl ride the race, her legs astride a horse’s naked back! They will never, ever let you compete, believe me—”

  I snatched my hand away from hers.

  “No, you are wrong. I shall ride the Palio one day!”

  Isabella de’ Medici dropped open her mouth. I doubt she had ever been told she was wrong in her life. I had not addressed her as duchessa or even donna, but as an equal. I had used the informal tu, not the formal Lei. A grave insult to one of her high position.

  She narrowed her eyes, no longer amused by my quaint manners.

  “You are very stubborn, Virginia Tacci. A poor shepherdess, a little girl who has never even ridden. Do you understand how ridiculous that is?”

  “I don’t care. I will ride the Palio. And I shall think of you, jumping the old olive tree without the permission of men.”

  Isabella stared at my face. She cocked her head as if she recognized something.

  “You—”

  She stopped suddenly, her hand flying to her belly.

  “No,” she cried, her face crumpling. She bent over in pain.

  “What is wrong, Duchessa? Is it your stomach?”

  “No,” she said. “No!”

  “I will run for help. My padrino Brunelli can—”

  We heard the hard beat of galloping hooves approaching, the snorting of a horse.

  “Isabella! Are you within?” said a gruff voice.

  “Help me,” she whispered. “I want to stand. I shall not let him see me in distress.”

  She leaned her weight on me. As soon as we reached the threshold, she walked on her own, facing three nobili on horseback.

  “Yes, I am here.”

  As we emerged from the flapping canvas door of the lambing shed, I saw a dozen or more men on brilliantly liveried horses. One led Isabella’s horse by the reins.

  “We shall speak later, Isabella,” said a bearded man dressed in velvet. His horse pranced under him. His face was dark with anger, his shoulders as rigid as Brunelli’s anvil.

  Ah! I thought. Granduca Francesco de’ Medici!

  “Groom!” Isabella said, ignoring her brother. “Was my horse injured in the fall?”

  “No, Your Highness,” answered one of the entourage. “The horse is unharmed. You may ride him back to Quattro Torra.”

  As they brought the gelding to her, she ran her open hand down his legs, checking for swelling and wounds. The gilded brocade of her sleeves shone as she moved around to feel all four legs, her fingers gently squeezing the tendons and fetlocks.

  “Mount, Isabella!” snapped the bearded man. “Leave that to the stablemaster.”

  Four attendants dismounted to help the de’ Medici princess remount her horse.

  As they boosted her up into the saddle, I saw blood seeping into the satin of her beautiful skirt.

  Granduca Francesco broke the silence.

  “What led you to commit such a foolish act? You could have broken your neck.”

  Isabella turned in the saddle, as if to respond to her brother’s harsh words. Then she groaned, clutching her belly.

  “Are you all right, sister?” asked Ferdinando. “Are you hurt?”

  Isabella lifted her head only enough to regard him.

  “I am afraid the fall may have injured the child, brother.”

  “What child?” demanded Francesco. “Do you mean to tell me you are hunting while carrying Paolo Orsini’s child?”

  “My child,” said Isabella through clenched teeth. “Get me back to the castle. I will hunt no more today.”

  All three brothers stared in horror at the white pallor of her face.

  CHAPTER 10

  Florence, Pitti Palace

  JANUARY 1573

  Whether carried by Isabella’s ladies in waiting, her laundress, the stable attendants, or the huntsman, the news spread to every corner of Florence. The butchers spoke tragically of a “lost prince” as they hacked a chop from a pig’s carcass. The herbmonger swore she could have prevented the loss had only the de’ Medici consulted her for a tonic. The silk traders whispered that a fortune of embroidered cloth was ruined with bloodstains.

  Inevitably the news reached her father, the Granduca of Tuscany. Cosimo de’ Medici admonished her gently, for he loved his daughter more than anyone in the world.

  “Cara, you have wrested a grandchild from my loving breast! You should not hunt, but be in confinement during these days—”

  “Confinement!” said Isabella. “You sound like Francesco, fettered with caution. Not the man I know, Papa.”

  Cosimo took his daughter’s hand, caressing it. “And what man is that?”

  “The man whose father, astride a prancing horse, ordered a nurse to throw his baby son from the second-story window into his arms. The one who—as that tiny baby—smiled and cooed, without the slightest fear, when his father caught him.”

  Old Cosimo smiled. The story was legendary, reflecting the courage he would show throughout his life.

  “My father was proud of me that day.” His smile widened.

  “‘This baby is indeed my son,’” Isabella reminded him, mimicking the words of her grandfather, the great Giovanni dalle Bande Nere. “‘And he shall be like me: afraid of nothing from birth! The grandson of the Tigress of Forli, Caterina Sforza—’”
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  Cosimo pressed his daughter’s hand to his cheek. “Ah, my Isabella.” His brown eyes softened. “What shall become of you when I die?”

  Isabella blinked in confusion. She recognized the soft gaze of tragedy in his eyes. “What a strange thing to say, Papa!”

  A shiver coursed through her spine. He squeezed her hand, sensing her fear.

  “I fear I should not have turned the dukedom over to Francesco before my death. After ten years of apprenticeship, I hoped he would learn the feel of the reins in his hand. A good rider learns when to give the horse its head, to ride with the lightest touch.”

  Isabella stared at a Bronzino portrait on the wall—Francesco as a child. She focused on the firm line of his lips.

  “Francesco was not born with light hands, Papa.”

  The granduca studied his favorite child, her eyes steady on his own.

  “Ah, my daughter. You are most like me.”

  “It is true, my father. I am like you in every way.”

  “More the pity you are a girl, my Isabella.”

  She snatched her hand away.

  “Is it such a tragedy that I am not born with the de’ Medici palle, Papa?”

  De’ Medici balls. Her father laughed.

  “And let us be grateful to God for the two children I already have, Nora and Virgino,” Isabella said. “Have I not proved myself an adequate brood mare for the de’ Medici stable?”

  “My treasures, those grandchildren. And of course you have courage, figlia mia.”

  “Then why do you appear so sad?”

  Cosimo sighed. “I do not want your husband to take you back to Rome.”

  Isabella scoffed. “Rome? Rome could never be my home. And Paolo will never insist. Did you not pay a dowry of 50,000 scudi expressly to keep me here in Florence? I shall remain in Tuscany with you always.”

  “What will your husband say when he learns of your hunting accident?”

  “I will tell him the blood came from a wound, and the scandalous gossip of a miscarriage is fantasy. He will know he could not have possibly fathered a child in the past few months. Besides, he is too busy with his mistresses in Rome.”

  Cosimo studied his daughter’s face.

  “You truly hate him.”

  “Paolo Orsini is a brute,” she said, looking away. Her eyes rested on the portrait of her brother.

  “Will you ever forgive me for forcing you to marry him?” asked Cosimo.

  “Never, Papa,” she said, still turned away from him. “Mai!”

  She felt her face quiver. She took a deep breath, composing herself, then turned back to her father, offering him a smile.

  “Perhaps forgiveness might be found if we go hunting again. Quite soon. Just the two of us. And perhaps Leonora. She needs to escape Pietro’s ill humor. He really is quite unbearable.”

  Cosimo’s face creased in pleasure. Youth flashed in his eyes.

  “Ah! My two favorite companions. I will have the huntsman make arrangements for the coming week. I shall ride with the most beautiful women in all Tuscany. No, in all the world!”

  Isabella smiled. “And the three of us will inspire the most delicious gossip!”

  Cosimo loved to spend time in the company of his daughter and daughter-in-law. The fact that half of Florence thought Leonora’s child was fathered by the granduca made no difference to Cosimo.

  Isabella turned her back on Bronzino’s portrait of her brother.

  The artist depicted his cold eyes too skillfully.

  “Papa,” said Isabella, as her father escorted her into the dining hall, “I forgot to tell you about the shepherdess I met in the Siena Hills. A mere child, but quite remarkable. Stubborn as I was as a little girl—”

  “As you? Ha! Quite impossible.”

  “Davvero, Papa. Really. She had the most determined little chin.”

  “A Senese shepherdess! Of all people to make an impression on a de’ Medici princess,” marveled Cosimo. “I look forward to hearing more.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Florence, Pitti Palace

  FEBRUARY 1573

  The de’ Medici family waited, their hands on either side of their plates, observing an ancient custom: the showing of hands in peace and respect as they waited for the granduca to proceed.

  Cosimo speared the tender venison with his fork and popped the meat into his puckered mouth, chewing carefully with the remaining teeth. Despite his advanced age, the abscesses in his jawbone, and painful gout, the granduca had a good appetite for both food and sex.

  After Cosimo had swallowed and taken a sip of Montalcino, the rest of the family began their repast. It was a rare occasion these days to have all the de’ Medici siblings at the table. Pietro’s wife, Leonora, was not there, nor was Camilla, the granduca’s second wife. Isabella was relieved that Camilla, a commoner, had not joined them. Isabella found her flighty and unable to follow any conversation that did not involve fashion and costly fabrics. And of course, Duchessa Giovanna, Francesco’s wife, would never accept a commoner in Court. Cosimo respected his daughter-in-law’s wishes, as she was the sister of Emperor Maximilian of the Holy Roman Empire.

  Isabella glared at Pietro, who still insisted on eating only with his knife, like a soldier on the battlefield.

  “It is not as if we are hunting, little brother,” said Isabella. “Why do you insist on eating in such a primitive way?”

  Pietro sucked at a piece of meat lodged in his teeth.

  “I am a military man, sister.” He shrugged, spearing another piece of venison with his knife and shoving it whole into his mouth.

  Isabella glared, and he returned her look in kind. Finally, their father broke the angry silence.

  “Isabella. Please tell us about the Senese shepherdess you encountered.”

  “Isabella fell from her horse,” sneered Francesco, “and the flea-bitten, knobby-kneed villana came to her rescue!”

  “How dreadful,” said Giovanna, who had a terror of commoners, especially Italians. She surrounded herself with German-speaking ladies-in-waiting from the Imperial Court of Vienna.

  “It was not dreadful at all, Giovanna,” said Isabella. “Quite fortunate, actually.”

  “A perfect stranger—a peasant—came to your aid?” continued Giovanna. “How truly astounding! Where were your attendants? Your ladies-in-waiting?”

  “My ladies could not possibly keep up with me on a horse. And the perfect stranger was a charming little girl. Full of fire and spirit, a true Senese.”

  “Even more intriguing,” said Cosimo, running his tongue over his front teeth.

  Isabella turned to her father.

  “This little scrap of a child has never been on the back of the horse. But she insists she will ride the Palio one day!”

  Her brothers laughed. Giovanna joined in. Only Cosimo remained silent.

  “She shall have to compete against our horses,” said Cosimo, making a temple with his hands. He rested his lips against his fingertips. “And the Borgias’.”

  “I do not think the Borgias race anymore in Siena, Papa,” said Isabella, patting her father’s hand. As of late, he remembered occurrences from yesteryear while forgetting the recent past. It had been many years since the Borgias had contested the Palio.

  “Not since they annulled Cesare Borgia’s win,” she said softly.

  Isabella squeezed her father’s hand. She darted a look at her brother, Cardinal Ferdinando. He met her eyes, saddened at his father’s decline.

  “Ah, yes,” said Cosimo, nodding his head. “I remember. A false start. Borgia’s jockey was disqualified.”

  “I have heard rumor that Siena wants to stage more Palios.”

  “It would be good for their spirit,” said her father, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I find the very suggestion ominous, Papa,” said Francesco, setting down his glass. “The Senese have too much spirit as it is. It cost us many soldiers’ lives in the siege, did it not?”

  “They are a defeated people,
” said Cosimo, dismissing his son’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “Let them recover their heart with sport. They are Tuscans, just as we are. Let them race their horses.”

  He turned away from his son, his attention riveted on his daughter.

  “Tell me more about your shepherdess, my dear.”

  Isabella smiled, content that her father paid her such rapt attention. She saw Francesco glowering at her.

  “Her name is Virginia—Rucci? No, Tacci,” said Isabella. “She saw me jump a fallen tree and was mad with admiration.”

  “Jumping!” said Francesco. “With child!”

  “She said that she had recently met the Contessa d’Elci,” continued Isabella, her voice rising to cut off her brother and any mention of her pregnancy.

  “Duchessa Lucrezia? Davvero?” said the old granduca, his eyes sparkling.

  Isabella and Francesco glared at one another, while the granduca—perhaps noticing the tension and anger, perhaps not—went on with an eager smile.

  “Now, Isabella. Tell me more about the charming Duchessa d’Elci.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Siena, Pugna Hills

  FEBRUARY 1573

  From the day Orione was born, I wanted to be at his side.

  The first night he returned to the pastures, I packed my sheepskin coat and coarse wool blanket to sleep in the lambing shed, where I was so often sent to care for the aging ewes.

  “You seem eager to sleep away from our roof,” said Zia Claudia. “Perhaps there is a boy you meet in secret.”

  I stared at her, incredulous.

  A boy? What boy could have the charm of Orione?

  “The field ewes’ pens border the horse pasture, Claudia,” said Zio. “Leave the girl alone. She is crazy for the new colt, nothing more.”

  “A colt?” said Zia Claudia, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Huh! She may be turning sly in her womanly ways at an early age. I do not want her ruined. She and the tanner’s son—”

  “I want to be with Orione,” I said, glaring at her. “He is more important than any stupid boy.”