The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “Are you deaf as well as incompetent?” he demanded. “The maestro said, ‘Start over!’”

  Giorgio tasted bitterness in his mouth. He carefully removed the canvas, laying it on the marble floor to dry.

  He drew a new canvas from his supply bag and began to tack it down. His mouth soured as he thought of the many hours ahead of him sketching the stuffed, stiff horses of Beccafumi.

  The maestro looked down wistfully at the unfinished painting. He turned and walked silently to the windows overlooking Il Campo. His old eyes gazed down blindly at the busy marketplace, where the Senese carried on with their lives as they had for centuries.

  CHAPTER 18

  Siena, Pugna Hills

  MARCH 1574

  There were riding lessons a few nights every week. I quickly learned to communicate with my horses, working my way up from the fat old gelding to gentle ladies-in-waiting mounts, and finally to the retired hunting horses of the nobili.

  All the while, Orione trotted beside us, occasionally wheeling around and kicking the air inches from my face. He would not leave my side.

  “Va via!” I would shout, waving the tree branch I used as a crop. “Get out of here, you pest!”

  I stole sleep while watching the sheep, dozing in the grass or high in the branches of olive trees. When the sheep were pastured among the horses, I took my naps near the lambing shed.

  Often Stella would walk to stand near me. One day, I heard the clip-clop of tiny hooves.

  I opened my eyes in time to see Orione’s knobby knees buckle as he lay down next to me in the straw. He, too, was exhausted. For children and colts alike, it was unnatural to run and play in the hours after midnight. We napped side by side, nestled in the straw. Flies buzzed around us, lazy in the heat. I watched his skin twitch when they lighted on him, even though he was deeply asleep.

  My hand reached out to him, entwining my fingers in his nubby mane. For once, he did not nip me. I drew in his warm horse smell, the heady scent of manure and fermented hay, young and pure.

  Giorgio worked hard with me. My thirst to learn conquered my need to question.

  “Talk to them,” Giorgio urged. “It doesn’t matter what words you use. Speak from the heart. Speak from your strong will.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Horses feel your strength, your fears, your love. Words are gibberish to them. The strength of your will—volontà—that is what they feel. They are herd animals. They long for a clear leader, a confident leader, one they can trust.”

  Each lesson took me deeper into Giorgio’s world of intuition. If I was afraid, my horse would sense it and take advantage. If I was sure and clear, the authority of my movements was respected immediately.

  “Move steadily, firmly,” he instructed. “If you don’t doubt yourself, the horse will not doubt your judgment. She’s ten times your size, but she welcomes a steady hand. This was sanctioned by God—otherwise why would a beast so mighty succumb to being ridden by a creature so inferior in weight and strength?”

  I loved to hear Giorgio talk of horses. Sometimes when I was riding, he would take out parchment from his satchel and draw.

  “Why do you not aspire to ride the Palio, Giorgio?” I called down to him one night from a new mare, Adela. She was a gray dapple. Her trot was easy, with a long stride.

  I used my leg—my bare calf—to turn her around, facing Giorgio. She pranced under me, feeling my leg. I released the pressure, calming her. I sighed, wanting to canter, but Giorgio would not permit it yet.

  “That is all for tonight. We will not ride tomorrow or for the next week. The moon has waned.”

  “I can ride in the pitch-black,” I argued. “I do not have to see. I feel the horse under me, so—”

  “No! Riding blind, you will betray its trust. He will stumble against a tree root or fall into a hole. And a horse will never forget.”

  I bent over my mare’s neck, stroking her long mane.

  “I will not betray you, Adela,” I said to my new favorite. Orione, sensing I had abandoned him for the moment, nipped hard at my bare legs.

  “Ouch!”

  I swatted him away. He snorted, rearing beside me.

  “If I had ridden you in the Palio, you would have won,” I whispered to Adela. “We would have won together.”

  I saw Giorgio’s white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. He chuckled to himself.

  “Come along, Rompicollo. It is time you return to your bed. You are dreaming aloud to the stars and the night sky.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Siena, Contrada della Giraffa, Palazzo Dei

  MARCH 1574

  For the fourth time, Giacomo di Torreforte straightened the linen cloth veiling his painting.

  Father promised he would be here before pranzo. When Mother was alive, he would never dare to be late for our family meal.

  He caught a rank odor of sweat from his stiff brocade.

  I smell like a criminal awaiting sentence, awaiting the verdict of my father. Why do I suffer like this?

  He reached for the cloth one more time, then stopped himself. He heard the scuff of leather boots on the staircase.

  “Mi dispiace,” said his father. “I was making a visit to the orphans of Maria della Scala.”

  Di Torreforte noticed his father’s proud smile.

  He is not sorry at all!

  “Well, figlio mio,” said Signor di Torreforte. “Show me what pretty picture you have painted.”

  Di Torreforte swallowed.

  Pretty picture!

  “Ecco!” he said, plucking the cloth from the canvas. He watched his father’s face, hungry for his reaction.

  The scene was in Florence, the Arno River at sunset. The Ponte Vecchio was rendered in buttery tones, the river dark and moody, the stonework of the arched bridge a perfect replica of the ancient Roman foundation. Di Torreforte had a well-schooled technique.

  “Pretty colors,” his father said. “Although they could be brighter, my son. More cheerful.”

  Di Torreforte felt his chest collapse. He could barely draw a breath.

  “Pity you chose a Florentine image,” said his father. “There is such beauty to be found here in Siena.”

  “Father, we are Florentine! Look, I painted the corner of our palazzo here, at the edge. I crossed to the far side of the river to get the perspective to include both the Ponte Vecchio and our palazzo—”

  “Yes, I see,” said Signor di Torreforte. “Of course I was born and raised there, in Palazzo Tornabuoni. Your painting evokes those memories.”

  Giacomo di Torreforte held his breath. Was his father complimenting him?

  “My nursemaid would take my hand, walking the riverbanks each morning,” said Signor di Torreforte wistfully. “We would watch the boats. I remember . . .” His voice trailed off into an almost tender silence.

  Di Torreforte began to breathe again. His father—did he find joy in his painting?

  “It seems so—distant now,” concluded Signor di Torreforte abruptly. “Like a dream or an old garment folded away in a cedar chest. I have no time or spirit for those Florentine memories.” He clapped his hands together. The subject was finished.

  “Come, son,” he said. “Let us descend to lunch. I hear the cuoca has prepared pici con la lepre. She marinated the hare an extra day in red wine. Ah, che appetito ho!”

  Di Torreforte thought of the thick strands of pici pasta, glistening with olive oil and chunks of potted hare. He suddenly felt ill.

  “Sì, signore,” he answered.

  The young man picked up the linen cloth and shrouded his painting. He turned and descended the stairs, following his father in silence.

  In Florence, the servants of Palazzo Buontalenti bit their lips, weathering one of their mistress’s worst tirades. They bowed their heads in respect as the granduca entered the grand sala to address his mistress.

  “Me? Not allowed at Court!” snapped Bianca. “I have been the granduchessa’s lady-in-waiting for years. Her
favorite!”

  “Mia cara,” said the granduca. “She has only just learned of our relationship. It is a shock, you must realize. You may have been her confidante, her most favored, but not anymore. You cannot return to Court now that she knows we are lovers.”

  Francesco shook his head, marveling that his mistress could not understand his wife’s outrage.

  “Giovanna is a silly cow—an overbred Habsburg idiot!”

  “Bianca, mia amore—the servants!” whispered Francesco.

  “I am to be banished from Court because she has been blind for all these years? All Florence, all Venezia, knows I am your lover.”

  “Protocol demands—”

  “I come from a respectable, noble family myself. In Venezia! Never forget that!”

  Francesco bit his tongue. He looked at Bianca’s servants, blank-faced as statues.

  Bianca pulled at a strand of blond hair that had tumbled down on her neck. Her ample white bosom heaved above the confines of her corset.

  “Privacy, please,” said Francesco, sending a searing glance at the servants.

  “Servants—leave at once!” commanded Bianca. “You, Anna, stay and loosen my corset. I feel dizzy. I think I shall faint.”

  The other servants bowed, scurrying out of the room.

  Once Anna had loosened the stays on her mistress’s garment, she, too, left, latching the door behind her.

  “Was it not enough to murder my husband?” cried Bianca, her white face turning crimson. “I see his ghost each night as I sleep. His blood stains the walls of Santa Trinita for all eternity—”

  “Stop, Bianca! He was a traitor, blackmailing me. Treating me as if he were an equal, instead of merely a greedy cuckold. He cared nothing for you!”

  Bianca covered her face with her hands, sobbing.

  “But now, Granduchessa Giovanna! She will destroy everything. The Florentines already dare to call me puttana. While they call her ‘our queen,’ the withered old stick!”

  Francesco ground his teeth, thinking of his lover’s humiliation. He loved Bianca Cappello above anything on Earth, including his reputation and that of the de’ Medici family.

  “I shall go mad if I am not allowed at Court!” said Bianca. “I cannot be a caged bird. I must laugh and entertain. I must dance! Remember when we celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday? You pledged your undying love—”

  Francesco took his mistress in his arms, smelling the sweet powder and Venetian soap lingering on her white skin.

  His finger strayed, toying with her ivory bosom, freed from its restraints.

  “The granduchessa has approached Cosimo, asking that you be banned from Court. He has told her to let things run their course, that I will return to her—”

  “You bastard!” she said, striking at him with her fists.

  He caught her hands in his, kissing them. His lips lingered on an emerald the size of a sparrow’s egg.

  “No, my darling. My father understands our love and my needs. He has told my wife that he will not ban you permanently. He does send word that a hiatus would be beneficial to all concerned.”

  Bianca smiled, sniffing back her tears. She directed his hands toward her nipples.

  “Your father has always understood affairs of the heart. Dare I think he is fond of me?”

  Francesco snorted. He looked into her eyes, the color of the Adriatic Sea.

  “He understands women,” he said. “And he understands me.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Siena, Pugna Hills

  APRIL 1574

  Midnight riding lessons carried on into the crisp nights of early spring. I crept in the window to my pallet a few hours before dawn. Never had the straw felt so delicious, the scratchy wool blankets so comforting.

  I slept like the dead until the first light of daybreak.

  Zia Claudia complained I was a lazy girl, wanting to sleep past dawn every morning. She shook my shoulder hard, grumbling that I was useless if I would not wake earlier to start the morning fire and fetch water.

  The chilly dawn air stung my face as I drew water from the well. I cranked the bucket to the rim, the rope beaded with ice, glistening in the sunrise.

  All day, I watched our fields for signs of the de’ Medici hunt. I craved the vision of Isabella galloping over the hills, jumping fallen trees and stone fences.

  “The de’ Medici will not return to hunt here again,” said Giorgio when I confessed my hopes.

  “Why not? There are plenty of wild boar in our hills, deer that linger in the meadows.”

  “They prefer their own land in Florence to that of Siena. I doubt we will see them here again, unless for the Palio.”

  I felt a rush of disappointment.

  “I would like to show Duchessa Isabella I can ride now.”

  Giorgio smiled.

  “You have a lot of learning to do before you impress that horsewoman, Rompicollo. She has ridden the best horses—and had the best horsemasters—all her life. She would only laugh at you, villanella.”

  I turned Adela, cantering away from him, the three-beat rhythm of the hooves resonating deep within me. The low stone wall caught my eye, and I directed Adela toward the rocky barrier.

  “No, Virginia!” I heard Giorgio shout.

  The wind whipped against my cheek, filling my ears with its roar. My hands slid up the mare’s neck with the rein, my fingers entwined tight in her mane.

  The white stone shone luminous in the moonlight.

  “No! Stop!” he screamed.

  “Come on, Adela,” I whispered. “Take it!”

  Her haunches bunched under me, jolting us into the air.

  It was not as smooth as I had imagined.

  But for a moment, we were airborne. Together. Then we landed.

  Slipping to one side, I pulled desperately at her mane, trying to right myself.

  She broke into a trot and I tumbled off, landing flat and hard on my chest, my chin knocked back.

  I lay crumpled in a ball, trying to breathe. I could not draw air into my lungs. My fingers dug at the muddy ground, panicked.

  I heard the footfall of running strides.

  “Virginia! Are you all right?”

  I couldn’t speak, only gasp.

  “You’re all right. Be calm, take little breaths,” Giorgio said, pulling me to a sitting position.

  My eyes widened. I felt as if a horse were standing on my chest.

  I was dying. Surely no one could survive without breathing.

  “It’s all right. It will take a minute before your lungs get over the shock of the fall.”

  I nodded my head, desperate to believe him.

  He rocked back his head on his shoulders. I saw his white throat, his eyes cast straight up at the moon like a wolf’s.

  “Santo cielo!” he cried. “Give me strength!’”

  He looked back at me, furious. “You scared the holy spirit out of me!” he said.

  “I’m sorry—” I gasped.

  “What were you thinking? You could have broken your fool neck. When you begin to jump, we will start with a wooden rail. And a saddle!”

  “I do not want a saddle,” I managed to say. “In the Palio, the fantini ride bareback, always bareback. So shall I.”

  He was right. I was beginning to breathe normally again. I would live.

  Giorgio shook his head.

  “The Palio! There are no obstacles to jump in the Palio. And Virginia, you may learn to ride and ride well. But your dream of the Palio is—is—”

  “What?” I asked, my hand against my heaving chest. “What?”

  I dare you to say it!

  “Is it not enough to learn to ride well?” he said, lifting his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. He turned his palms out at his sides in utter frustration.

  I looked at him as if I did not know him. I spat mud from my mouth.

  “No,” I said, struggling to my feet. “No, it certainly is not enough.”

  PART II

  The Death of Cos
imo de’ Medici

  ANNI 1574–1576

  CHAPTER 21

  Firenze, Pitti Palace

  APRIL 1574

  On the evening of April 20, 1574, Cosimo de’ Medici breathed his last. His final gesture was to raise his left arm and take the hand of his wife, Camilla.

  As the news of his death spread, Florentines mourned the old granduca and feared for their own future. They forgot his failings and remembered his victories and accomplishments.

  Cosimo had made his beloved Firenze a great military power, defeating the ferocious Turks in battles at sea and sending his armies to fight against the Ottoman invaders. He had drained the malarial swamps of Pisa, banishing the disease that killed two of his sons and his wife, Eleonora di Toledo. He built aqueducts to carry fresh water to Florence—and the city glittered with fountains. He commissioned frescoes for the cupola of the Duomo, acquired priceless works of art for the royal palaces, expanded the magnificent Uffizi, and used all his courage and political wile to protect his city from the power of the Vatican, which sought endlessly to extend its tyranny.

  Cosimo had made his city a center of power and culture and beauty and, perhaps above all, he had conquered its ancient enemy and rival, Siena.

  He had defeated the Senese, the most fiercely independent of Tuscan people.

  Florence wept at the passing of their great Granduca of Tuscany. Throngs mourned outside San Lorenzo chapel as Cosimo was laid to rest under the floor of the church alongside his ancestors.

  But most of all, the Florentines mourned because they feared that with Cosimo gone, his son, Granduca Francesco, would become a brutal, pitiless ruler.

  They were correct. Francesco cared about only one human being on Earth—his mistress, Bianca Cappello.

  As the bells tolled the death of Cosimo, his eldest son wasted no time in seizing power. Before his father’s body was cold, he had his stepmother, Camilla, locked away in a convent, ordering that she be sequestered for the rest of her life.