This day, the 16th of July, 1576, there was no lively chatter. Instead the ladies spoke in hushed voices of Leonora’s death, obsessively repeating stories the way children repeat ghost tales that terrify them.
“She had no chance to escape,” said the youngest handmaiden. “Her ladies say the room was in great disorder. She put up a great fight.”
“She nearly bit off his fingers.”
“Did blood stain the sheets? Surely that would be evidence,” said Madonna Lorenza.
“Who would dare bring evidence against a de’ Medici?” said Elicona, Isabella’s court poet. She dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and looked at Morgante.
Morgante said nothing. He turned away, pulling back the curtain of the carriage, watching the Tuscan countryside slide past. Women in white kerchiefs tended the grapevines, pulling up the ever-grasping weeds. A wizened farmer with a load of ripe melons goaded his donkey forward, coughing in the cloud of dust the de’ Medici carriages raised. Children ran alongside the coaches, jabbering in Tuscan dialect so thick, he could barely make sense of what they were saying.
Morgante had kissed Nora and Virgino good-bye, explaining to them that their mother was sick with grief. This was a hunting expedition, he said. The children knew how much their mother loved her horses and hoped the hunt would cheer her.
Her husband, Paolo Orsini, had insisted a stay at Cerreto Guidi would be the solution for her grief and illness.
Morgante had never known Paolo to be concerned with Isabella’s health, and he strongly disliked the tall, brooding Signor Massimo, who accompanied Paolo.
Morgante rubbed his mouth with his pudgy hand, a sour taste in his mouth.
They would not dare. Not six days after Leonora’s death—
“Stop talking about death,” he snapped at the ladies. “I cannot stomach any more!”
Morgante looked out the window at the throngs of peasant children, running alongside, crying, “Le Palle! Le Palle!”
The de’ Medici emblem: red balls on a gold shield.
The fresh air of Cerreto and the smell of the horse stable revived Isabella.
“I want to get up, Madonna Lorenza,” she called to her main lady-in-waiting. “I want to ride.”
“Oh, Your Highness! Do you think it a good idea to ride a horse in your weakened condition?”
“If anything on Earth can restore me, it is a horse,” said Isabella. “The Duchessa Leonora will ride with me in spirit. Her spirit needs to escape from the miserable funeral in San Lorenzo. Escape that unmarked grave.”
Madonna Lorenza bit her lip, even as she nodded.
“Sì, Your Highness. I will inquire about the horses immediately.”
“Yes. Help me to the window.”
“I beg you sit on the edge of the bed for a minute to regain your strength. You might faint—”
Isabella sat up with her servant’s help, dangling her legs over the bed. Madonna Lorenza fetched her satin slippers.
“There,” she said. “Lean on me.”
“I am too much weight for you. Ask Morgante to assist.”
Madonna Lorenza opened the adjacent door to a room between Paolo’s bedroom and Isabella’s. There, two ladies were unpacking their mistress’s clothes and Elicona was working on a poem to raise her spirits. Morgante sat, sniffing the air like a hound.
“I saw the Roman Signor Massimo walking the grounds with the Duca di Bracciano,” said the poetess. “He dresses in the Roman style, a fine moss green hunting coat. Perhaps I shall write a poem and sing it at dinner tonight.”
She noticed Morgante was not paying attention. He paced the room, distracted.
“Whatever is the matter, Morgante?”
“I do not care for the air here,” he said, looking at Elicona.
“The air?” asked the poet. “Ah, but it is fresh with nature! What a relief after the stagnant Arno in the heat of July.”
Morgante continued to sniff, his face contorting with apprehension.
“Morgante, I need your assistance with our lady,” interrupted Madonna Lorenza. “She wants to look out the window. We need to steady her. I fear she may fall.”
Morgante hoisted himself up on his stubby legs. “Did she mention riding?”
“Yes, can you believe it? She can hardly stand,” said the maidservant.
He smiled and clapped his hands together with glee.
“It is a good sign. She should get out of this house. I smell something—something evil—in the air,” he said. “A horse will take her away from the bad air and revive her spirit.”
The poetess Elicona regarded the dwarf, her soft blue eyes registering his fear. She knew Morgante’s strange ways of thinking. There was something bestial about his mind, instinctive as a feral dog’s. She also knew that he hated Duca Paolo as much as Isabella did. Perhaps the Orsini’s presence here had affected Morgante’s senses.
Isabella had already stood up by the time Morgante entered the room.
“Let us help you!” said Madonna Lorenza.
“Grazie. I believe I am all right.” Isabella took a wobbly step.
Morgante seized her arm. “The trip from Florence has tired you, my lady,” he said. “Far more than you realize.”
“Morgante. I want to ride. I must ride,” she pleaded.
Morgante pressed her hand in his. “I understand, my princess. No one understands better than I! You need fresh air to clear your mind and your heart. But perhaps it would be better to wait a day, and walk about the gardens to regain your strength and equilibrium.”
Isabella drew a deep breath.
“If I could only ride. I know I could recover my heart.”
Morgante nodded.
“I, too, want you to leave this house. But you do not want to fall from your horse. Let us walk and inspect the estate. We can pay a visit to the stables now, before dinner. You can see your horses and give the grooms your orders for the morning.”
“But—I must ride!”
“I understand,” said Morgante. “A horse will cure you, the wind in your face. But it is almost time for the midday meal. After you eat, I will escort you to the stables.”
Isabella refused to descend for the midday meal. She sent a letter to her husband, begging him to forgive her absence at the dining table and apologizing to their guest, Signor Massimo.
Isabella’s note was answered in person only a short time later. Paolo Orsini’s heavy footfall on the stairs heralded his approach. He saw the small cluster of Duchessa Isabella’s entourage gathered in the hall outside her bedroom.
“Out of the way!” growled Paolo. “Should you not be attending your mistress within her bedroom?”
“She is sleeping, my lord,” said Madonna Lorenza. “She tried to rise to ride her horse but was too fatigued after the journey from Florence.”
“Horses!” he spat. “Always horses! She and her cousin.”
Morgante kept his eyes lowered to the floor.
“Tell her she must visit my chambers at once. I do not care if she is tired. I have a gift for her to raise her spirit. A halter for her favorite horse.”
A deep drumming began in Morgante’s ears. He felt as if he were swimming underwater.
When no one moved, Paolo’s jaw tightened. “Bid my wife come to my room!”
Morgante’s eyes widened, his nostrils flared. No one moved. Lorenza and Elicona turned pale, frozen in place like statues.
“Are you deaf?” said Paolo. “Send her at once!” He turned his back on the stunned servants, slamming the door.
“But my duca—she is sleeping,” said Madonna Lorenza to the closed door.
“Let us all go together,” said Elicona. “Is she only in her chemise?”
“Yes.”
“We will wrap her in her robe,” said Lorenza. “Then the three of us will walk in—surely nothing could—”
The trio could hear stirrings in Paolo Orsini’s chamber.
“I must fetch her,” said Madonna Lorenza. “If
I do not, it will make Master Orsini even angrier.”
She and Elicona slipped into Isabella’s bedchamber, leaving Morgante shocked with despair.
Morgante could hear the slip of leather soles approaching the door.
I must think. I must protect her. I must—
The door creaked open, and Isabella appeared, refusing the support of her female servants.
“I will go alone,” the Duchessa di Bracciano said, shrugging her shoulders, as if she had resigned herself to what lay beyond the door.
Morgante stood paralyzed. “No” was all he whispered.
Madonna Lorenza and Elicona joined arms, standing behind Isabella as she walked through the door. Morgante shook his head, still dazed, and pushed in with them.
“I asked for my wife!” shouted Paolo. “Not a traveling circus. Out, all of you!”
The women lingered. Morgante stood firm, his hands clenched in fists at his waist. But with one push from the big man, angry and rough, the three fell out of the doorway like bowling pins.
A double click of the lock secured the door.
They heard a muffled cry from across the hall, behind the closed door.
Morgante sank to his knees.
Half an hour later, Paolo threw open the door.
“Come quickly!” he shouted. “Your lady has had a fainting spell. Bring vinegar.”
Madonna Lorenza did not search for vinegar but rushed into the room, falling to the floor beside her mistress, who lay on the stones, her mouth agape, tongue protruding.
“The vinegar!” shouted Paolo.
Morgante pushed into the room. He fell to his knees, cradling Isabella’s head. Under his fingers he saw the blue marks of strangulation. Her eyes bulged hideously from their sockets.
“I ordered vinegar!” shouted Paolo. “Can you not see my wife is ailing? Witness her condition!”
“She is dead,” said Morgante.
“You have brought her to her death, signore!” cried Madonna Lorenza. “What do you need with vinegar or anything else?”
Elicona stood staring from the doorway, unable to move. Her eyes played over the bulging eyes of her dead mistress. Under the bed, she saw the moss green sleeve of a man hidden from sight.
Paolo yanked the poetess into the chamber along with the others and locked the door. His brow was beaded with sweat, his hair matted and tangled.
“Listen well, you servants. If any of you dare to utter any suspicions, I will have you killed. Worse yet, thrown into a de’ Medici dungeon in Firenze,” he snarled. “Do you understand?”
They nodded.
“You will simply say she died,” Orsini said, pointing a stout finger at all three. “Because . . . well, you all are witnesses to her delicate condition. She has been sick for months! Sì, you are witnesses and will bear testimony to her frail health. She drank cool liquid on this hot day. A grave mistake for one so ill.”
The ladies-in-waiting and the poet blinked.
Is that the best he can do?
The dwarf’s foot struck something just at the edge under the bed. He looked down.
A leather horse halter.
When Morgante looked up again, his eyes met Paolo’s. Morgante puckered his mouth, despising the murderer who stood before him. But he was not even worth the dwarf’s spit.
“Now go!” roared Paolo. “You are all dismissed. I must write to the granduca immediately. He will want to make the appropriate funeral arrangements at once.”
The granduca!
Morgante swallowed hard. Paolo shot a look at him.
Now the dwarf was sure.
Granduca Francesco’s hand was behind this murder. This murder and Leonora’s.
CHAPTER 44
Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano
JULY 1576
As I entered the stable, leading a three-year-old colt from the morning’s training, I heard a snatch of conversation.
“. . . the devil’s own ill-born litter,” said the cobbler.
“And that fat Orsini?” said the baker. “I curse the dirty sow who gave him birth.”
“A disgrace,” said the cooper. “But he would never have dared if the granduca had not given approval.”
“Certo. The deed stinks worse than the tanner’s vats. Surely the King of Spain . . .”
The men looked up, hearing the colt’s iron shoes on the cobblestone.
“Buongiorno, Virginia,” they said. They looked down at their feet sheepishly.
I noticed they were not gambling, but sharing a jug of wine and a loaf of bread. The cobbler swallowed his mouthful, swabbing his lips with the back of his hand.
“Are you not throwing your dice this morning?” I asked, tying up the colt for a rubdown.
The men looked at the ground, studying the bits of straw and dry shreds of manure.
“What is the matter?” I asked them, picking up a rag to rub the colt’s back. “Has the cat snatched all your tongues? I would think her too busy with all the barn mice.”
Brunelli entered the barn, limping because a mare in heat had kicked him the day before. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and turned to me.
“How did Principe run this morning?”
“Bene,” I said. “Though I had to rein him in quite a bit in the fields.”
Brunelli noticed the men were still, with no dice in their hands. “No gambling?” he said.
“Something troubles them,” I said. “And they will not tell me.”
“It is not a topic for young ladies such as yourself,” said the baker, wringing his cap in his hand.
“Ha!” I said, rubbing hard at the salt and sweat. “Training colts is not appropriate for girls either. But here I am, signori.”
Padrino Brunelli glanced at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Go ahead, tell her. She will learn anyway from the gossips in the village—or worse, from her zia Claudia.”
The men nodded solemnly.
They looked at the cobbler, signaling him to be their spokesman.
“The two de’ Medici princesses were murdered. Leonora and Isabella de’ Medici.”
The rag hung tight in my fist, poised above the horse. I noticed how the sunlight entered the stable door, catching the spinning motes of dust. I heard the throbbing of my heart in my ears, like it did the time Giorgio held my head underwater in the horse trough as a joke, and I thought I would drown.
I felt I was looking at the world from underwater and would never reach the bright surface again.
“Isabella?” I whispered. “Murdered?”
“La Princessa Isabella and Donna Leonora de’ Medici. Both.”
I could hardly will my lips to move.
“How? Why? But when—”
“Leonora’s death was said to be an accident, but her Spanish servants have let the truth spread. Her husband strangled her with a dog leash. She bit and fought, leaving the marks of her teeth on his hand, scratches on his neck—”
“And she would have broken free, but Pietro had henchmen from Romagna in the bedchamber to help him finish the job.”
“What of Isabella?” I asked. “What happened to her?”
“Strangled with a horse halter. Never could I imagine a collo di cavallo—”
“A halter?” I said. I marveled at the word, as if I had never heard it before in my life.
“By that brute Orsini husband of hers.”
“Oh!”
I dropped to my knees in the filth, my kneecaps striking hard on the stones. My godfather limped to my side.
“Virginia, Virginia,” he said, sliding his arms around me. “These are the cruelties of the nobili of Florence,” he whispered. “They have nothing to do with the Senese, with us. The de’ Medici are our enemies! Forget them, ciccia!”
“I will never forget her,” I said. “Isabella. Her horse leaping over the olive tree—”
“They are Florentines! De’ Medici! Our sworn enemies—”
“No! You do not understand. She—she was not my enemy!”
/> I pulled the halter off the young horse and, standing on my tiptoes, slipped on his bridle again.
“Ciccia! Where are you going?”
I swung up on his back and galloped out of the stables without another word.
I headed the colt straight to the Porta dei Pispini of Siena. The muddy road changed to stone as I rode through the Contradas del Nicchio, del Leocorno, della Civetta, to della Selva—straight to the heart of town.
Women and men alike stared at me, their mouths dropped open.
“Una ragazza!” they shouted. “Look at the ragazza!”
I had never ridden the city streets before, and my horse—accustomed only to the paddocks and fields around Vignano—shied at every creaking wheelbarrow, every hawking street peddler, every braying donkey. He jumped at the flapping laundry and the colorful banners of the contradas.
I held tight, reaching my legs down deep as Brunelli had taught me.
Melt your body over the horse until you become one.
The sound of hooves clattering on pietra serena echoed through the streets: Via di Pantaneto, Banchi di Sotto, and Via di Città, until I reined in my horse in front of Palazzo d’Elci.
“Per favore!” I screamed to the guards. “I must see the duchessa at once! Tell her it is Virginia Tacci.”
“La duchessa knows you?” said the guard, doubt scrawled across his face.
“Sì! It is of the utmost importance—”
By this time, a small crowd had gathered.
Among them were the artists, coming out of the hall from their morning lesson in the palazzo.
My horse danced and reared, not accustomed to the bustling crowd.
“Virginia!” shouted a voice I recognized.
Giorgio had his paints in a leather satchel under his arm. Beside him was a black-haired youth with the most startling blue eyes I had ever seen.
“What are you doing riding Principe in the city?” said Giorgio. He handed his satchel to the blue-eyed companion, who stared at me, wide-mouthed.
“How dare you gallop that colt over the cobblestones! Did you not think of his tender feet, the stone bruises? He may be lame—”
The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany Page 17
