The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

Moonlight spilled over the tufts of spring grass, the olive trees throwing stout shadows on the pasture. Horses stood sleeping, frozen like toy figures. Lying on the trampled grass, the foals slept, safe from wolves. My eyes scanned the field, searching for the duchessa’s mare Stella and her colt—my colt—Orione.

  With the collo di cavallo over my shoulder, I tied my skirts in a knot above my thighs, the dew wetting my skin.

  I thought of the de’ Medici princess. I recalled her grace, the brief smile as she cleared the old olive tree, her horse leaping through the air.

  Did she ever have to worry about being married off against her will? The tanner’s son! Was that my future?

  A horse snorted. Another one stirred, moving away. A mare nickered to her foal, nudging him to his feet.

  “Tranquillo,” I said, approaching. I clambered over the stone fence. “Look, I brought an apple from our cellar. Look!”

  I walked slowly toward the silhouetted horses. They shied away, unsure of this phantom who approached them in the darkness.

  Suddenly, a black horse charged toward me. He exploded from the blackness like the devil himself. His neck curled in fury, exposing the thick band of muscle running under his long tangled mane.

  “No!” I screamed and fell to the ground, the apple rolling away.

  I covered my head as his hooves flashed out. My padrino had told me that a horse’s hooves could slice a man’s flesh, break his skull with one blow.

  I was only a small heap of bones and skin, cowering on the wet grass.

  The stallion chuffed a snort of rage. Not dead, I dared to peek and saw the white star blazing his forehead as it dipped and surfaced in the dim light.

  Tempesta! The black stallion.

  I rolled to my feet and balled up my fists. His nostrils flared. He whinnied in fury, a shriek that registered in my stomach.

  He reared above me, black as death.

  “Santa Caterina!” I implored. “Save me!”

  There was a shrieking call from another horse right beside us.

  The stallion snorted, rolling back on his haunches. He shook his head, throwing his mane left and right, distracted. Rage pulled his eyes wide, making white rings in the darkness.

  The snap of teeth, the thud of iron shoes hitting flesh.

  I scrambled away, tripping on a root and sprawling headfirst onto the ground. I heard the galloping thud of hoofbeats charging away into the night.

  Then I felt warm breath on my neck. I clapped my hand over my skin, terrified.

  A nudge and the soft flesh of a horse’s muzzle.

  The colt’s tiny teeth pulled the folds of my skirt. He chewed on the fabric, tearing at it as if were sweet grass.

  The mare, Stella, stood above me majestically. Her sides heaved, her breath scattering the dried leaves on the ground. She gazed down at me, watching her colt nibble at my skirt.

  I thought of the beating Zia Claudia would give me for the tear in my skirt. I could feel her whipping cane stinging the backs of my legs.

  “Stop it!” I shouted. I swatted at the colt’s nose.

  He shied away, blinking at me in the moonlight.

  “Grazie mille, Stella,” I said. “You saved my life.” My fingers searched the cool grass for the halter. “Now you will let me ride you, sì?”

  The colt’s whinny echoed, high-pitched and eerie, across the hills.

  I had watched Brunelli put halters on horses for years. Still, when I tried it myself for the first time, I was clumsy.

  “Steady now,” I said to the mare.

  She dipped her nose into the halter, her mouth still chomping my apple.

  “Grazie,” I told her, patting her neck. But the buckle was under her chin, the halter upside down.

  It took several more tries before I could buckle the halter. I was certain it was still wrong—but it was good enough, I said to myself. I had never seen a brass buckle in my life.

  I led the mare to the stone wall and clambered up the rock. My fingers worked, twisting the free end of the rope into a knot under the halter. Now I had a makeshift rein.

  I held my breath.

  I threw my right leg over her, my skirts hiked up to my underclothes, my bare legs dangling.

  She moved off at a trot, and I came tumbling off.

  “Oof!” I landed hard on my shoulder, then smacked my chin on the ground. I picked bits of cold mud and grass from between my teeth.

  Stella stood a few paces away, eating grass, totally unconcerned.

  Orione looked at me, perplexed. He nibbled at the hem of my skirt.

  Again, I tried. Then again. I fell half a dozen more times, but each time I stayed on her back a few strides more.

  “That’s a difficult way to learn,” said a voice in the darkness as I hauled myself up onto Stella’s back yet again. “You will be black and blue by dawn.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Siena, Pugna Hills

  APRIL 1573

  Giorgio stepped out of the shadows, his leather boots creaking, a wool hood pulled over his head. Stella shied away, snorting. I held on tight to the rope.

  “Madonna!” I gasped. Stella took two more quick steps sideways and I spilled off her, hitting the ground hard.

  I tasted salty blood from my lip and earth in my teeth. But it was my shoulder that hurt the most. I struggled to my feet, screaming at him. “What are you doing, spying on me? Bastardo! Divoratore di stronzi!”

  Bastard! Shit eater!

  “You curse like a Brindisi sailor, shepherdess,” he said, laughing. “I knew you would come here. I am certain the duchessa told you that Stella would be pastured here just to tempt you. Sending you that collo—”

  “It is none of your business,” I shot back. “You just wanted to see me make a fool of myself. To see me fall, to see—”

  “Basta! You have no idea—”

  “You hate me. Admit it! I see you stare at me in the stables. You think a girl cannot ride—”

  “Virginia Tacci. Never have you been so wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “Why should a girl not ride?”

  Giorgio caught me off guard. I struggled to compose my thoughts. “Then why are you here, spying on me?”

  He remained silent.

  “Why? Answer me!” I shouted.

  He shrugged and looked up at the stars.

  “And you just happened to come here to our lambing sheds and the horse pastures?”

  He looked at Orione, nuzzling against my arm. “Yes, I am often here. I paint.”

  I looked at him in the moonlight. He carried a leather satchel that I supposed could contain his paints.

  “I paint because I cannot sleep. I have not been able to sleep since I returned from art school in Florence.”

  He turned his gaze from Orione to me.

  “What is wrong with you?” I asked him. “What do you want?”

  “I can help you, Virginia. Let me.”

  I brushed the dirt from my skirts. “How can you help me?”

  “Riding a horse is a skill that must be mastered. It would take you years to learn by yourself. And at the rate you are going, you will probably break a few bones—or your neck.”

  I glared at him. The moonlight caught his eyes, reflecting back at me. He approached, coming within striking distance. I winced, tightening my fist.

  “I think I shall call you Rompicollo,” he said. Breakneck. “It suits you.”

  My shoulder hurt where I had landed on it hard.

  “The mare will not stand still,” I spat.

  “Why should she?” he said. “You have given her no command to do so.”

  “I have told her, ‘Fermati, fermati!’ Instead she trots off.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Horses don’t speak Italian, or they would be at the taverna drinking vino rosso and laughing with the village drunks.”

  “She trusts me, I know—”

  “Do not lose her trust. First you must learn to ride properly, how to talk to her in a language she understands. Then you
will not insult her by rolling off her back like a circus clown.”

  I wiped angry tears from my eyes. The moon shone bright enough that I noticed his stare. His eyes studied me, taking in every feature of my face.

  “I want to ride,” I said, sniffling.

  “And you shall,” he said, the trancelike stare broken. “But you are not ready to ride a Palio horse. Let us choose a different mount to begin with.”

  Giorgio whispered soothing words to Stella and caught her lead rope. He unbuckled the Palio halter, patting her on the neck. “What a mess you made of this halter, Rompicollo!”

  I glared at him. His eyes glittered, full of mirth.

  “It is an honor to touch such an impressive mare,” he murmured as he quickly sorted out the halter. He handed it to me, and we walked deeper into the pasture where we could see the horses all awakened now, grazing on the spring grass.

  “That one,” he said. “The bay gelding. I have seen him under saddle for many years. He is gentle to a fault.”

  He took the halter from me, walking toward the horse. I snatched it back. “No,” I said. “I want to halter the horse. Let me!”

  Giorgio threw up his hands. “Fine,” he said. “Do as you like.”

  I clucked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, calling to the gelding. I stretched out my hand with a remaining chunk of apple from my apron pocket. The other horses trotted away, but he stood, curious.

  His soft muzzle brushed against my outstretched hand.

  “Ouch!” I screamed as the gelding caught my thumb in his teeth. I stuck my smarting thumb in my mouth. The old gelding contemplated me, still chewing the apple.

  Giorgio laughed. I was glad for the darkness—he could not see my color rise, burning my cheeks.

  “Don’t you know enough to tuck your thumb under your fingers when feeding a horse?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I love horses, but I tend sheep. How would I know such things?”

  Giorgio sighed, rolling his eyes.

  “There is so much you do not know,” I heard him whisper.

  I struggled to slide the halter over the horse’s ears. The old gelding withstood my fumbling hands as I stood on tiptoe.

  “Do you want me to show you?” he asked. “You can learn a hundred times more quickly, you know. Otherwise you will be an old woman, wizened and gray, before you can even trot a horse.”

  I chewed the inside of my mouth. My thumb stung, my shoulder ached, and I wasn’t one step closer to learning to ride.

  “I put it on the mare myself,” I said. “Did you see that?”

  “Yes. I thought it would take you all night. And you got it all wrong, twisted.”

  “I only know the rope halters used in the stables that slip over the nose. I have watched your father—”

  “Let me show you the right way. Just once.”

  “All right,” I said finally. “But then take it off again, so I can do it myself.”

  “Watch me. Slide it up like this. Everything buckles or ties on the left side, remember that. That is the side you mount and dismount on. It has been a tradition for centuries, warriors carrying their lances in their right hand—”

  “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to use both sides?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do not argue. Just listen.”

  “It just seems easier—”

  “You are very stubborn, Virginia Tacci. Look at how you thrust out your chin—it is quite muddy, by the way.”

  “Sì, sì! I understand now,” I said, seizing the halter. “Let me do it.”

  The gelding, patient and gentle as he was, dipped his head into the halter. After I had put it on and taken it off half a dozen times, I said, “I want to get on now. I have to start riding, or I will never be able to win the Palio.”

  “Ah, is it win the Palio now?”

  I threw my hands in the air, exasperated. “What is the point of riding the Palio if you do not win?”

  “The point, my little Virginia, is that it is a great honor even to ride. Not everyone rides the Palio, only a chosen few. Anyone who rides the Palio has accomplished much.”

  “Never mind that. I mean to win. Now help me up,” I said, bending my leg as I had seen other riders do at my padrino’s stables.

  Giorgio approached me, bending down to grab my leg.

  “Do not dare look at my underclothes, Brunelli.”

  He laughed, dropping my leg. He doubled over laughing.

  “Ha!”

  “What is so funny?”

  “Virginia Tacci, I do not have any desire to see the underclothes of a skinny little girl.”

  “Do not insult me, etrusco!”

  “So now it’s Etruscan?” he said. “Grazie for the compliment, shepherdess.”

  He slipped his hand under my foot, boosting me atop the horse and holding the halter in his other hand.

  “Now sit up straight. Do not hold on to his mane, it will only pull you forward. Sit straight and tall, as if you are trying to reach the ground with your spine, your legs. Pull back slightly with the reins.”

  “Rope,” I said. “This is only a rope.”

  “In your hand, they become reins. Pull back, sit up straight.”

  He let go of the rope. The gelding stood motionless.

  “Va bene. Now squeeze ever so slightly, urging him to take a step. Then sit up straight again.”

  The gelding walked forward. I could feel him considering a trot. I pitched forward, clutching his mane.

  “No! No!” shouted Giorgio. “Sit up straight. With dignity. Sit up like a queen, a centaur.”

  “What is a centaur?”

  He shook his head. “Direct your backbone into him.”

  “My backbone?”

  “Like a roman column, erect and solid. That is where your energy is. Speak to him through your body. Make him feel your command, your will.”

  The horse forgot about trotting. He was content to walk.

  “See? If you give false signals to a horse as sensitive as Stella, she will gallop the Palio course around this pasture. You will never stay on.”

  I smiled so broadly, I knew my teeth were reflecting the moonlight.

  I did not care.

  “Teach me more,” I said. “Per favore, Giorgio. Teach me more. Teach me everything.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Siena, Palazzo d’Elci

  JUNE 1573

  “Have you given up sleep?” admonished the maestro, watching Giorgio’s mouth stretch wide in a yawn.

  Giorgio clamped his jaw shut, blushing. He looked around at the other students, who were grinning at him.

  “Forgive me, maestro,” he said.

  “You are sucking all the air from the room, villano,” said di Torreforte, his brush poised in midair.

  “Open a window,” added the young noble peevishly. He frowned at the last few brushstrokes on his canvas. “The villano’s stink of garlic and peasant wine suffocates me.” A smirk twisted his face as he tossed a casual glance in Giorgio’s direction.

  A servant opened the windows. A burst of fresh air blew in, carrying with it the vendors’ calls, the commotion and bickering in the open market below.

  Di Torreforte wrinkled his nose. The sounds of Il Campo displeased him, but he was struggling even more to finish his rendering of the Beccafumi. The maestro had told the students to repeat the lesson to see how much they had improved over the past months.

  Insults being easier than painting, di Torreforte turned to Giorgio again.

  “Your body reeks of the barnyard. Perhaps you have encountered an ignorant milkmaid to throw down in the hayloft for a quick roll. Peasants rut like goats in the spring, do they not?”

  “Florentines prefer mud to girls, I hear,” Riccardo De’ Luca said before Giorgio could respond to di Torreforte. “Or a handful of sculpting clay in a pinch.”

  Giorgio covered his mouth, stifling his laugh. A hot beam of admiration filled his chest for his good friend.

&n
bsp; “Basta!” shouted the Maestro. “This is a school of art. Art is divine grace, not a dirty brothel. You will speak as gentlemen, or you will be dismissed!”

  Enraged, the maestro moved around the room. He leaned close to the canvases, inspecting his pupils’ work.

  “Federico! What graceless shoulders you have given Clelia—did you mean to cripple her in your depiction?”

  “No, maestro—”

  “Then cure the poor girl.”

  He moved to the next canvas.

  “Bartolomeo . . . the Tiber River does not have the cross-stream current you have painted—”

  “I was enhancing the light with spots of white—”

  “—and if it did, Clelia and the virgins would have been carried downstream from Rome all the way to Ostia’s shipyards. Calm the waters!”

  The artists bowed their heads, too ashamed to lift their eyes.

  The maestro moved toward Giorgio and stood still behind the young artist’s canvas.

  He said nothing. His jaw relaxed. He drew deep breaths, audible in the still room.

  Di Torreforte grew restless in the silence. He recognized that the maestro’s lack of comment was the highest compliment.

  The Florentine strode over to Giorgio’s easel, scowling.

  “Maestro!” he said, his hand gesturing dismissively. “Look how he has painted the horses! Not the slightest likeness to Beccafumi’s!”

  The old maestro was shaken from his reverie.

  Giorgio watched a resigned bitterness cross his teacher’s face where deep satisfaction had shined only an eyeblink before.

  “See there!” di Torreforte insisted. “An insult to your Senese master. See what he has done to the horses. Look! There is nothing of Beccafumi’s style whatsoever.”

  The color drained from the maestro’s face, but he did not look at di Torreforte or Giorgio.

  “It cannot be fixed. Start—start over,” said the maestro, turning away from his pupil.

  “But maestro,” pleaded Giorgio. He had worked for months painting studies in secret, knowing they would repeat the lesson. Today he had hoped the maestro would praise his work, for it was his best yet.

  Di Torreforte’s face lit up with boyish pleasure.