The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “I wish you would take my invitation to forgo these late nights, Maria,” said Leonora, catching the old woman’s eyes in her looking glass. “It is far too late for you to be up.”

  “Whenever you need me, I shall be here,” said Maria, her smiling eyes crinkling with crow’s-feet. But she stifled a yawn, born from fatigue deep in her bones. “And who else can untangle your hair as well as I? Have I not cared for you since you were a baby?”

  Leonora’s heart ached suddenly for her dead mother.

  “I love you, Maria,” she said. “Dearly.”

  Maria stopped the brush halfway down her mistress’s tresses. She sought Leonora’s eyes in the mirror.

  “That is the dearest gift you could ever give me,” said the servant. “I have loved you since the day you were born.” Her eyes misted.

  A ferocious rap at the door made them both jump. A second later, three men rushed into the room.

  Leonora started to scream when a hand was clapped over her mouth.

  “Your husband, Pietro de’ Medici, commanded us to prepare you for his visit.”

  A bearded man pushed Leonora’s old maid along the red tiled corridor to her small bedchamber.

  “Go, old woman. Gather your belongings,” he snarled. “You will have only a minute to take what you can carry.”

  Maria stumbled in the dim light, the flickering sconces casting pools of moving shadows in the dark hall. She was too shocked to cry, too shaken to protest.

  In her room, Maria’s hands fumbled among her few belongings. She took the crucifix given to her on her Saint’s Day by her mother, and a locket with a strand of red hair from her beloved mistress.

  She wrapped her gray hair in a black woolen shawl. Furtively she made the sign of the cross, and then kissed her fingertips.

  “Adesso!” said the guard. Now! “The coach is waiting.”

  The old servant stared in bewilderment.

  The guard pushed her toward the stone staircase. Pietro appeared above, his bulging eyes staring down the flight of stairs. His mouth was twisted in rage.

  “Get rid of her!”

  The guard pushed the old woman again, making her stumble and grasp the marble banister.

  Above her, she could hear Leonora’s sobbing.

  “But. My mistress—”

  “Get in the coach, you old Spanish cow,” hissed the guard, “before he commands me to break your neck.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Florence, Palazzo de’ Medici, Via Larga

  JULY 1576

  Isabella opened her window wide, despite the street noise of the Florentine night. Midsummer, it was nearly impossible to sleep. She could smell the approach of rain, a mineral tang in the first cooling breeze of the season. The dampness would bring the deer out from the woods, making for good hunting.

  Still, Isabella shuddered, thinking ahead to the next few weeks with her husband, Paolo Orsini.

  “Come away from the window,” whispered her lover. “I cannot bear your absence. There has been too much of that.”

  The de’ Medici princess smiled, studying Troilo Orsini’s body twisted in the sheets. His left flank was naked, and she could make out the strong riding muscles in his buttocks and thighs. His jousting arm was sculpted with sinewy tendons and hard muscle, born from carrying and thrusting the heavy lance. His aquiline nose, aristocratic and thoroughly Orsini, tilted toward her, eager to nuzzle her neck. No wonder he was a favorite in the Court of Catherine de’ Medici.

  She thought of the thick bands of fat that circled the waist of Troilo’s cousin, her husband, Paolo. Next week, Paolo would take her to the de’ Medici estate of Cerreto Guidi for time together as man and wife.

  His sudden affectionate letters made her skin prickle with fear. She began counting Paolo’s mistresses, slowly touching her fingertips in the dark.

  Isabella, deep in thought, jumped when she heard Troilo’s voice from the bed.

  “Why do you torture me? Come back to my arms, Isabella.”

  Isabella gave a last look out the window, her eyes searching in the blackness of the clouds.

  “It is going to storm,” she said, sliding back into her lover’s arms.

  “All the better to mask your screams of pleasure,” said Troilo, sliding his lips down her neck.

  The first clap of thunder struck. Isabella shuddered.

  “Is that from the thunder or my kisses?” said Troilo.

  A rap on the door made them both freeze.

  “Quickly,” said Isabella. “Into my dressing room.”

  She donned her chemise and robe.

  “Who is it?”

  One of her ladies-in-waiting entered the chamber.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” she said. “I would not disturb you—”

  “Speak!”

  “The Spanish maid, Maria, Leonora’s servant, begs to speak to you in private. She says it is a matter of life or death.”

  “Show her in immediately!”

  Old Maria, wet as a ship rat and smelling of damp wool, entered Isabella’s bedchamber. Her clothes were splattered in mud, her face white as chalk.

  “Come in, Maria. What has happened? Here, sit in a chair before you collapse.”

  The maidservant helped the old woman to a chair, then began lighting candles around the room.

  “Lucia, send for some wine to revive her.”

  When the door closed, Isabella knelt beside the old servant. She took her hand.

  “What has happened? Why are you not with Leonora?”

  “Oh, my lady! They dragged me from her bedchamber. Your brother Pietro. I have never seen his face more bedeviled.”

  “Why did you take your leave?”

  “The guards forced me, shoving me into the coach. They left me on a wet, muddied road outside Florence’s gates.”

  “Leonora? How fares she?”

  “In great danger, my lady. I fear for her life. We waited in the courtyard a few moments before the coach drove away—there was some problem with the horse, the driver was shouting. The lights were still ablaze in the master’s chamber. And I saw her silhouette in the window, her hand raised, fending off someone. The Duca de’ Medici, if I dare say so.”

  “And then?”

  “I heard him scream in pain, in agony. A screech to raise the devil!”

  “And then?”

  “Then two large silhouettes blocked the window.”

  Maria broke into sobs, her face in her hands.

  “My lady, forgive me. They were pulling her away.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Florence, Palazzo Vecchio

  JULY 12, 1576

  The first light of dawn brought out the street sweepers, their red reed brushes scraping rhythmically at the wet cobblestones of the Piazza della Signoria.

  The half dozen men raised their eyes at the clatter of Isabella’s coach, approaching the Palazzo Vecchio at a full gallop.

  “Mala fortuna,” said a grizzled old man, resting on his broomstick.

  The other men grunted, shaking their heads in the pale light.

  “Francesco, I think Pietro has plotted to murder our cousin!”

  Francesco sipped his morning tea as his sister stood before him, white-faced.

  He set down his cup with a clatter, his fingertips flying to his burnt lip.

  “This is too damned hot,” he snapped to the servant.

  “Francesco!” said Isabella, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it. “You must send the guards at once! Leonora’s servant informed me an hour ago. It may be too late already!”

  “My sister, you must calm yourself,” he said, removing her hand from his shoulder.

  “I will not!”

  “I am sure the maidservant is suffering delusions. I found her Spanish prejudice against our family to be insulting—I am glad she was finally dismissed.”

  “Your Highness,” said Serguidi. “I am sorry to interrupt. But I have a letter.”

  “It must be an important letter for you to interrup
t a conversation between us!” said Isabella.

  Serguidi bowed.

  “I fear it is . . . most important.”

  Francesco broke the seal and unfolded the letter. His eyes raced across the words. He called, “Servant. Bring grappa for the duchessa at once.”

  Then he passed the letter to his sister.

  Isabella reached for the letter, seeking her brother’s eyes. He drew a long breath and refused to look at her.

  With trembling hands, she held the letter.

  “Last night, at seven o’clock, an accidental death came to my wife. I beg you to write and instruct me what I should do, if I should come home or not.”

  Isabella crumpled into herself, her body shrinking in her chair.

  “Your grappa, my lady,” said the manservant. He looked nervously from the granduca to the duchessa.

  “Drink it, Isabella,” said Francesco without emotion, not moving from his chair. “You need it. You must compose yourself, sister. Do not forget you are a de’ Medici.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Florence, Palazzo d’Este

  JULY 1576

  The Duca di Ferrara set down his goblet of wine, his ringed fingers unfolding the encrypted letter from his ambassador at the Florentine court.

  “Scribe!” he called. “Interpret this letter.”

  The scribe rushed to his desk to find the tablet with the key to Cortile’s code.

  “Read it at once!” snapped the duca.

  The scribe fixed his spectacle on his nose, bending over the soft vellum.

  “It seems Lady Eleonora di Toledo de’ Medici has been murdered, duca mio,” said the scribe.

  “What?” gasped the duke. “Leonora? Murdered?”

  “Yes, it seems so. I—”

  “Read the details!”

  “She was strangled with a dog leash by Don Pietro.”

  The scribe looked up from the cryptogram, his eyes blinking behind the glass lenses.

  “Go on!” shouted the Duca di Ferrara.

  “And died after a great deal of struggle. Don Pietro bears the sign, having two fingers injured from the bite of the lady.”

  The scribe paused to study the encrypted message, then read on.

  “He might have come off worse were it not that he called for help from two villains from Romagna, who, it is said, had been brought to the villa for that purpose.”

  “That purpose? The swine could not murder his young wife without the help of two brutes? From our provinces?”

  The scribe, befuddled and frightened, said nothing. He bent his head once more over the letter, his index finger searching on the key for the appropriate letters.

  “The poor lady, it is understood, put up the greatest defense, as was seen from the state of the bed, found all tumbled, and from the voices heard throughout the house.”

  “Good God!” said the duca, running a finger through his hair. “Are there swine anywhere more vile than the de’ Medici?”

  CHAPTER 41

  Siena, Pugna Hills

  JULY 1576

  Despite my tutelage in riding, Padrino would not teach me to jump.

  “No Palio rider needs to jump a horse except to mount him!” he scoffed. “Put that idea out of your head.”

  But the image of Isabella de’ Medici soaring over the fallen olive tree danced in my memory, in my dreams.

  My padrino insisted we work on the basics of riding.

  If I was not to be taught to jump a horse by Brunelli, I would teach myself. But first, there was a colt that needed to be broken. Then we would jump.

  I slipped out of the stables with an old bridle that was never used, the iron rusty, the leather reins chewed by rats. In the cold lambing shed on winter nights, I filed away the rust until the bit was smooth and the iron shining once more. Then I hid the bridle in the hay pile.

  Orione galloped to the stone wall, snorting. The muscles under his neck bunched and curled like a snake, waiting to spring. He had grown to be a solid three-year-old, big-boned like his father, with a glossy black coat.

  His star gleamed bright in the full moonlight, dancing around erratically as he shook his head at my approach.

  “Good boy,” I said. “You and I are going to learn to jump together.”

  I did not realize how foolish I was. I was too blinded by my love for Orione to see the danger. And I had forgotten what my padrino had told me about the danger of a full moon.

  “We will do what the de’ Medici princess did, but we will do it even better, because we are both Senese, you and I,” I said, rubbing his star. “Senese always do things better than Florentines.”

  Orione threw his head, pushing away my hand.

  I tried again.

  “Now. First you must hold very still. I will put something in your mouth. Yes, caro, it will feel hard against your mouth. But you must not worry.”

  Orione looked at me dubiously.

  “Here,” I said, hovering the bridle above his head. “We will just slip my thumb in here, and you will take the bit like this—”

  The cool iron of the bit touched his teeth and tongue. I sensed raw anger in the air, like an electrical storm. He reared up next to me, the whites of his eyes shining in the dark.

  “Orione! It’s me, la tua Virginia!”

  His hooves sliced the night as I covered my face. He came down hard against me, banging my shoulder and knocking me to the ground. A copper taste filled my mouth. I realized I had bitten my tongue.

  The whites of his eyes shone in the moonlight. He backed up a few steps, snorting.

  Bits of spittle flecked my bodice.

  “No, you brute,” I said, slapping the spit off my clothes. “We are going to prove them wrong. You will be ridden. You will not become another Tempesta, locked away for life.”

  As I approached him, he reared again, high off the ground. He shook his head, menacing me. I caught my breath, chasing away the memory of Tempesta nearly killing me. “No, caro. We must do this.”

  I took a step closer. “Here,” I said, hovering the bridle above his head. “Slowly, now—”

  He reared up next to me, spinning on his hind legs. He knocked me to the ground once more.

  “Figlio di puttana!” I screamed. “Bastardo!”

  Scrambling to my feet, I shook my fist in his face.

  “If you cannot be ridden, they will wall you up someplace or even shoot you. You must—”

  Orione took a step toward me and bit my arm. His teeth clamped hard and fast, striking like a viper.

  “Ow!” I screamed. “Ow! Stronzo! Testa di cazzo!”

  I swung my leg up from under my skirt and kicked him as hard as I could in the belly. He grunted in pain, galloping away.

  I crouched over, holding my arm. I pulled up my sleeve and saw the teethmarks where Orione had miraculously not broken the skin, but pinched deep into my muscle.

  “I hate you!” I screamed, my cry echoing across the hills. “Do you hear me? I am sorry I ever saved your life, you wretched horse!”

  I crawled over the stone wall, clutching my arm.

  In the nights that followed, I tried other ways of persuading Orione to take the bridle. I rubbed the bit in crushed apple to sweeten the taste. I hummed “Per Forza e Amore” to him, the song I had sung the night he was born.

  He would mouth the bit, curious at the taste of apple. But time and time again, he threw his head, refusing to let me bridle him. He had grown strong and broad across his chest and muscled in the neck, and he looked more like the stallion he was.

  Still, he followed me whenever I was near the pasture. He paralleled the stone wall as I moved with the sheep, racing back and forth, shaking his head. He wanted to be near me. But he would not let me place a bit in his mouth.

  My cousin Franco caught my sleeve one afternoon as I was working with the dog, dividing my ewes from the herd.

  “That colt needs cutting,” he said, gesturing down the hill to the pasture.

  I pushed away the memory of Ori
one’s slamming against my shoulder when I tried to bridle him.

  “As if you knew anything about horses,” I retorted over the backs of my sheep. “Tend to your flock and stay out of my business.”

  I turned away from my cousin. I leveled my staff over the sheep I wanted cut from the herd, drawing an invisible line among them. The dog picked them out one by one.

  “I know about uncastrated males,” said Franco, spitting thickly on the grass. “You can see the danger in that one. No matter whether you saved his life or not. That stallion has Tempesta in him. If they don’t cut him, his coglioni will rule him. His father killed two men. He looks just like his father did at his age. They should castrate him now before he kills you.”

  “Shut up, Franco. Come on, Dog!” I shouted.

  I developed a plan. If Orione could not abide the taste of iron in his mouth, I would not fight him.

  The collo di cavallo now hung in the Brunelli stables in a place of prominence, near the entry. I had insisted it belonged to my padrino as much as me. Also, I did not trust Zia Claudia with such a treasure.

  While rubbing down a horse I had just ridden, I took the collo from its hook, folding it in the shepherd’s bag I wore slung across my chest when I wandered the hills.

  “What are you doing with that?” asked Giorgio.

  I whirled around, gasping, my hand to my heart.

  “You always appear from nowhere! Why are you always spying on me?”

  “I asked a simple question. The collo.”

  “I need it. La duchessa gave it to me. I can do what I want with it.”

  “I never questioned that. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Never you mind,” I said, turning away to rub my horse’s steaming back. “Go back to your painting and leave me alone.”

  Now, with the collo di cavallo, I was ready to try again. But the night before I planned to ride, when the moon was only a sliver, I heard galloping hooves.