Zio Giovanni smiled, stroking my matted hair.
“It is an innocent love, Claudia. The love of a girl and a horse. I will have her cousin Lorenzo camp with the sheep on the hill above. She can eat a warm supper with the boys, then sleep in the lambing sheds. I will make it clear to Lorenzo that his duties include caring for her, as a matter of family honor.”
Although I am certain that Claudia hated losing this argument, I suspect she was relieved to have me out from underfoot. She had long begrudged me space in the tiny cottage, pushing my straw pallet under the window where the winter draughts chilled my bones.
I thought of what Zio Giovanni said. It is an innocent love, Claudia. The love of a girl and a horse.
Innocent, yes. But ardent—the love I had for Orione burned as bright and fierce as any emotion that had ever seized my heart.
I ate greasy mutton stew and shepherd’s bread for dinner with my two cousins. Their filthy hands pulled at the bread, stuffing it into their mouths with their muddy knuckles. They chewed with their mouths open, swilling down the food with sour red wine that stank like the vinegar Brunelli used to clean horse wounds.
Shepherds lived a rough life, rarely bathing or sleeping. The cold ground, the coarsest wool blankets, and meager rations were all my cousins knew.
“You helped Cesare Brunelli save the Oca colt,” said Lorenzo. I watched the white dough and cheese tumble about in his open mouth, his tongue pushing the food over his uneven teeth.
“I helped the foal to breathe,” I said.
“There’s they who say you are a witch,” said Franco, Lorenzo’s younger brother. He narrowed his eyes to slits, staring at me. “That you delivered the devil’s horse that night, that by all rights he should have died.”
I pulled my scratchy blanket around my shoulders, feeling a chill trace my spine. I had never liked Franco. He was sixteen and stank of sheep dung and meanness. His eyes were set so close together that they looked crossed.
“Shut up, Franco,” said Lorenzo. “Do not mind him, Cousin Virginia. He is always seeing the evil instead of the grace of God.”
Franco’s mouth twisted, the light in his eyes flat. “That colt is sired by Tempesta, the black devil. He has killed two men who tried to break him.”
“Orione is also the foal of the gentlest, fairest mare in all Tuscany,” I countered.
“That cannot wash clean the blood of Tempesta,” said Franco. “That horse is cursed. The colt never should have been born. You interfered with the will of God!”
I shrugged. “If God really wanted that colt, he would have taken him, despite all I could do.”
“You breathed life into a corpse. He will grow up to be just like his father. They say Tempesta eats human flesh, ripped right off the bodies of his victims—”
“Shut up, brother! You are a cross-eyed simpleton,” said Lorenzo, clearing away his words with a slash of his hand.
“If Tempesta ever jumps the wall to join his mares, he will tear our cousin here—or us!—to bloody shreds,” warned Franco, shaking his greasy finger at me.
“The Contrada dell’Oca has built a wall so tall he cannot even see over it. He would break a leg before he could ever clear it,” I said. “That is ridiculous.”
“I have seen his nostrils flared and red, raised above the wall,” said Franco. “Snorting his fury. You cannot confine the devil—or his curse.”
“A curse?” scoffed Lorenzo. “Brother, I do not think it is a curse to have the Duchessa d’Elci beholden to you. Is that not right, Cousin Virginia?”
“The duchessa is not beholden to anybody,” I said, irritated with both my cousins. I pulled up the muddied hem of my dress enough to stand.
“Are you leaving so soon?” said Lorenzo, the corner of his eyes drooping with disappointment.
“Thank you for the meal, cousins. I must return to the ewes. It will be dark soon.”
“We’ll be watching out for you down there,” called Lorenzo. “Call out if you need us. And keep the fire burning through the night to chase away the wolves.”
Franco said nothing. He turned to spit on the ground, and his dirt-caked hand made the sign of the cross.
Orione sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring as they took in my scent. I could make out his eyes, gleaming with curiosity. He nickered a high-pitched call, shaking his head.
As I approached the stone wall, he ran toward me at a full gallop. At first I thought the long legs churning under him would never stop, that he would crash into the stones and break a bone. But he pulled up just before the wall, darting off bucking and kicking at phantom challengers.
I tied my ragged skirts in a knot and climbed the white stones. By this time, Stella had approached at a trot, whinnying.
She seemed to be apologizing for her rude baby, dipping her head for me to stroke her neck.
“Beautiful mare,” I murmured. “Bellissima.”
She closed her eyes, delighting in the caress. I wondered if the duchessa petted her the way I did now. She tilted her head and let my fingers move up to scratch between her ears.
I felt a warm puff of air on my back, then a nip.
“Ow!” I said, whirling around. I slapped the colt’s nose and he reared back, snorting. Then he ran off, his tiny hooves churning up the loose earth.
The milk teeth of the foal did not tear my dress, but I could feel a welt blossoming beneath the cloth. It stung and ached deeply, like my finger once did when it got pinched in the chain as I drew water from the well.
Stella nuzzled against me, unconcerned that I had just smacked her foal.
“You will have to teach him some manners,” I confided to her. After sulking for a few minutes, the black colt came back around.
“What? Are you going to bite me again, just to show me how alive you are—thanks to me?”
Orione shook his head, snorting.
“Yes, you see how your mother likes to be petted,” I said, looking at the chestnut mare.
Orione pushed against me, plucking at my hand with his lips.
“If you bite me again, I will pummel you.” Tentatively I moved my hand from the mare’s neck to Orione’s. His skin prickled and fidgeted under my fingers. “Ticklish? You will get used to it.”
He stared up into my eyes, his brown eyes wet. I stroked the curly stock of mane between his ears—all spongy fuzz, not at all like an adult horse’s hair. He tried to nip me again, but I pulled my arm away just in time, giving him another smack on the nose.
“Maybe you aren’t the devil,” I said. “But you are my little demon.”
CHAPTER 13
Siena, Pugna Hills
MARCH 1573
A few weeks after the birth of Orione, there was a knock on the door of our casetta.
“In the name of Duchessa d’Elci, I come bearing a gift,” said a voice.
I licked my fingers clean of grease, threw the bolt, and opened the door.
Outside stood a rider dressed in green and white, Oca colors. Since it was not a Feast Day, I marveled at his dress, and that a contradiolo would visit our little cottage in the hills.
In one hand, he held his horse’s reins. In the other, he carried a package wrapped in paper painted deep green with white stars.
“Are you Virginia Tacci?” he inquired. He was a tall, dark-haired youth. His accent was thoroughly Senese—but cultured.
Zia Claudia pushed past me, staring bug-eyed at the package. She stretched out her hands to grab it.
“Per la piccola,” said the young man, his green eyes fastened on mine. This is for the little one.
Avoiding Zia’s grasping hands, he handed the package to me.
“This is from the Duchessa d’Elci. I am to put this token of her appreciation into your hands. There is a letter attached.”
I touched the beautiful paper wrapping the package. A folded parchment sealed with crimson wax lay on top.
My fingers eagerly unwrapped the paper. My zia grabbed it.
“Such a green!”
she exclaimed. “This must be worth—”
“Silenzio, moglie!” admonished Giovanni.
I held up a leather halter, oiled to a deep walnut color and bearing medallioned rosettes painted with the emblem of the Goose in green and white with red trim.
“It is the collo di cavallo—the processional Palio halter—of Stella, our blessed horse of two Palio victories,” said the Oca contradiolo. “Stella wore this to the cathedral for the blessing of the horse and jockey.” His voice was low in reverence.
The image of the beautiful mare standing before the altar dazzled me. I could imagine the priest raising his hand, making the sign of the cross, sprinkling the fantino and his racehorse with holy water.
“We of the Contrada dell’Oca thank you for saving her colt. When the House of d’Elci wins, we ocaioli share in the honor. Now you do, too.”
He nodded to me, then winked.
I stared down at the parchment, folded in four and sealed with wax. A two-headed eagle was embossed in the red seal, its faces pointing in opposite directions. I did not open it, for I could not read.
I raced toward Vignano, my package hidden under my coat.
Breathless, I pushed open the stable door.
“Padrino!” I shouted. “Look what I have!”
Brunelli was straightening nails on his anvil. He turned his head slowly to me, blinking sweat from his eyes.
“Duchessa d’Elci sent a collo di cavallo to me—the one Stella wore to the cathedral for the benediction of the horses!”
Brunelli’s face transformed, the creases relaxing, erasing the years.
“Dio mio,” he said. I pulled the star-studded package from my coat.
With the reverence of a priest handling the host at the altar, Brunelli pulled the leather halter from the paper. “A two-time Palio winner,” he whispered. “There is magic in this, ciccia,” he said.
“And she sent a letter!” I said, waving the parchment at his face. “Please, could you read it to me?”
Brunelli gazed at the letter. “Giorgio, veni!” he called.
I winced at the name. I remembered the rough toweling before my meeting with the Duchessa d’Elci.
The red-haired young man approached us, a pitchfork in his paint-stained hand. His hair and clothes were littered with bits of hay. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
He stared at me, hollow-eyed. I looked away.
“Come, figlio,” my godfather said. “I have something for you to read.”
Giorgio looked at the letter in Brunelli’s hand and the adorned halter on his shoulder. Then his mouth dropped open at the green wrapping paper cast aside on a hay bale.
“My God!” he said. “Where did you get that paper?” I looked at the crumpled wrapping.
“The Duchessa d’Elci wrapped the halter in it—a halter worn by the Palio mare—”
“Do you know how precious that color is?”
He dropped the pitchfork and picked up the wrapping paper gingerly. It rustled in his hand.
“And this yellow,” he said. “Look how the colors permeate—”
“Son, would you read this letter for little Virginia?” said Brunelli, calling Giorgio out of his reverie.
The artist had almost forgotten about both of us. To see the glitter in his eyes, focused on the colored paper, gave me a strange sense of forgiveness. He revered paints with the same ardor I felt for horses.
I handed him the folded parchment.
“Go on!” I said, shifting from foot to foot. “Read it, per favore.”
He turned the missive over in his hand and read aloud: “To Virginia Tacci.”
I felt my cheeks burn, and my lips pulled back in a wide smile. “Let me see it,” I said, grabbing at the letter. “Show me that part that is my name!”
Giorgio’s fingers hovered over the writing, tracing the two clusters of letters. “That is your name. Virginia Tacci.”
I stared at the two words.
“I would give almost anything to read,” I murmured.
“You should open it, not I,” he said. He handed me a knife from his pocket. “Slide the blade under the wax and break the seal.”
“What are these eagles?”
“They are the insignia of the Pannocchieschi. The duchessa’s ancient family is mentioned in Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy.”
Who was this Dante Alighieri? Was he Senese?
I worked open the seal without cracking the eagles. I unfolded the vellum. “Now read it, Giorgio. Read!”
He nodded and started to read with a fluency that belied his lowly birth.
“This halter was worn by the Contrada dell’Oca mare before and after her second Palio victory on August 16, 1571. May it bring you luck, dear Virginia. With tremendous gratitude, La Duchessa d’Elci.”
My padrino gave me back the halter. I rubbed the ribbons and felt the enameled medallions under my fingertips. And a brass buckle! My padrino’s halters were made of coarse rope that tied on one side. But this—
I glanced up at old Brunelli to share my joy. My smile faded as I recognized the same sad look in his eyes.
Too bad you are a girl.
CHAPTER 14
Florence, Pitti Palace
APRIL 1573
Isabella de’ Medici, Duchessa di Bracciano, stared up at the gray walls of the Pitti Palace as her coach rounded the curving drive. The massive stonework resembled an ancient Roman aqueduct, a severe line of repeating arches.
The de’ Medici princess never understood why her mother, Eleonora di Toledo, had insisted on buying this monstrosity. True, it was far more spacious than the Palazzo Vecchio, but the Pitti’s façade was charmless and brutal, flaunting cold power rather than embracing beauty and Florentine grace. Its series of arches reminded her of a gigantic serpent.
The de’ Medici slept in the belly of the serpent, and Isabella had nightmares of being consumed by a snake.
Leonora’s valet met Isabella as she descended from the coach. Bowing deeply, he led her to her cousin’s apartments in the palace.
The reek of sickness filled the bedchamber, forcing Isabella to cover her nose with a linen handkerchief.
“I am sorry to have missed the hunt, dear cousin,” whispered Leonora. Her ladies-in-waiting had propped up their mistress against down pillows so she could receive her visitor. “Did you and my uncle enjoy the riding?”
“Open a window at once!” said Isabella, ignoring the question. “My cousin should have fresh air. The stale air of sickness permeates this room.”
The attendants scattered like wild geese at Isabella’s command. The sashes flew up, and the sound of birdsong rushed in from the Boboli Gardens. Leonora’s delicate nostrils quivered at the soft breeze floating through the room.
Light streamed in the open windows, illuminating Leonora’s pale face. She blinked at the sunlight. Isabella took a seat across from the ailing twenty-two-year-old. There was a dark bruise across her cousin’s cheek.
Isabella rose from her chair, her fingertips tracing the bruise.
“Is this why you could not join us?”
“No, no,” said Leonora, her hand moving languidly to her face. “I have been terribly ill for days now.”
“Indeed, you look it. But more than ill, you look frightened—”
“Pietro’s physician brought in a bloodletter, but I fear I have not profited from his attention. I abhor the leeches sucking at my veins.”
Isabella’s eyes grew wide. She started to speak, then stopped and looked around the bedroom apartments, scanning the pallid, worried faces of Leonora’s attendants.
The servants followed protocol, lowering their eyes to the floor as the duchessa regarded them.
After a moment’s thought, her lips set in a firm line, she spoke in the commanding tones of the princess she was. “Leave us now,” she said to the servants. “All of you! I would speak to my cousin. Alone.”
When the room was clear, she leaned closer and spoke fervently but quietly.
“What? But I am ill, Cousin!”
Isabella lowered her mouth to Leonora’s ear.
“If you are ill, it is mostly likely with the pox of prostitutes my brother has brought to your bed. But I think it is poison that you suffer from, not pox. It may be the food and drink you are served that are slowly killing you. My mother and uncles will curse me from their graves if I do not take you away from here. You will stay at my villa until you are well.”
“Your villa!”
The faintest trace of a smile crossed Leonora’s face. Then it faded.
“Would Francesco allow my husband to murder me?” she whispered, her eyes searching her cousin’s face.
Isabella pressed her lips together firmly.
“Bring only your most trusted ladies with you,” Isabella said. “You shall recover your health under my watch.”
Leonora’s face crumpled.
“He found Bernadino’s love letters to me hidden in the footstool.”
“More discretion would have benefited you both,” said Isabella, her chin lifting above her ruffled collar.
“Bernadino has been imprisoned in Elba. Pietro means for him to die.”
Isabella swallowed briefly, regaining her de’ Medici composure.
“Your news is stale,” she said, squeezing her Leonora’s hand. “Your affair reached the ears of my elder brother, not just Pietro.”
Leonora gasped.
“When Francesco puts his mind to evil, the workings are well-oiled and swift,” said Isabella. “Your Bernadino was strangled.”
CHAPTER 15
Siena, Pugna Hills
APRIL 1573
Zia Claudia’s snores filled the room as I crept from my straw pallet and slipped out of the house. I had hidden my cloak, slippers, and the collo di cavallo in a bundle outside. I grabbed it and ran into the night.
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