I swung off the horse, burying my head in Giorgio’s chest.
“Isabella de’ Medici was murdered!”
A d’Elci servant took the reins from my hand. He recognized Giorgio from the art classes held in the d’Elci Palazzo. “Shall I take this horse to the stables?”
“Per favore,” Giorgio answered. He held me tight in his arms.
“I know, I know,” he said, comforting me.
He whispered in my ear, his breath warm.
“But careful what you say, Virginia. She was a de’ Medici, and you are surrounded by Senese.”
“But the granduca had her murdered!” I whispered back. “He murdered her—”
“Careful,” he murmured. “There are also Florentines in the street. Your words could be treason.”
“Treason!” I said, pulling back to look at his face. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Treason?” I shouted. “She was a woman! She rode like an angel. I do not care if she was a de’ Medici! She was brave—”
At that moment, I felt a soft touch on my shoulder blade.
“The duchessa has asked me to escort you,” said a gentlewoman dressed in blue.
I raised my eyes. Looking high above, I saw a figure standing by the window. A pale hand beckoned me.
I nodded and kissed Giorgio on the cheek.
“I am sorry I galloped Principe over the stones,” I said. “I was not thinking—I pray I did not lame him. Forgive me.”
“Do not worry. I will care for his feet,” said Giorgio. “We will not ride him for a week. Now, go! Give my best regards to the duchessa.”
The lady-in-waiting took my arm, leading me through the crowd.
Giorgio’s blue-eyed companion stared at me, unblinking. I felt his eyes follow me through the wrought-iron gates of the palazzo and up the polished marble staircase.
CHAPTER 45
Siena, Palazzo d’Elci
JULY 1576
“Who is she?” asked Riccardo, still looking through the wrought-iron gates of Palazzo d’Elci as Virginia was escorted up the marble stairs.
Giorgio slid the palm of his hand across his forehead. He barely heard his friend’s question.
What was she thinking? Crying for a de’ Medici? Galloping an unshod colt over cobblestones?
“Hmm? Cosa?”
“I said, ‘Who is she?’ This, this young goddess of the horse.”
For the first time, Giorgio noticed his friend’s rapt attention.
“Her name is Virginia Tacci,” he said, tugging at his companion’s sleeve. “Come on, I need to look after the horse. It is one of my father’s best colts.”
The two artists walked to the stables, tucked into a little passageway off Via di Città. Ancient brickwork curved over their heads, darkened with age and smoke from the night torches.
“But how did she learn to ride—”
“It is not important,” Giorgio said, waving away his friend’s question. “What is important is whether this colt comes up lame.” They approached the Selva stable, where the servant had taken the horse.
“Ragazzo, show me the horse just brought in from Palazzo d’Elci,” said Giorgio.
The stable boy eyed Giorgio warily.
“He belongs to my father, Cesare Brunelli. I want to make sure he is all right. He has never been ridden on cobblestones. His feet are unshod—”
Riccardo said, “He is with me, ragazzo. Show us the horse.”
Everyone in Siena knew the De’ Luca family of Contrada del Drago. The groom nodded. He led Giorgio to a roped stall, where the colt pranced, weaving back and forth in excitement.
“She should not have ridden him into the city,” muttered Giorgio.
He calmed the horse, clucking to him, muttering sweet nothings. One by one, he picked up the horse’s hooves, checking for stone bruises or swelling.
“He looks all right, grazie a Dio,” said Giorgio. “Still, she had no business—”
“Basta, Giorgio! Who is she?”
Giorgio looked at his friend, finally noting the hungry look in his eye.
“Riccardo! She is a shepherdess, as poor as a bone. She is the girl I was telling you about who trains horses for my father.”
“Ah, but how incredible, her control of that horse! Did you see how she sat its rearing? Did you see how he shied away from the donkey cart like a bolt of lightning? She sat bareback as if she were a part of the horse.”
“She is getting better at horsemanship,” said Giorgio, rubbing his chin. “Still, she should not have taken—”
“Giorgio! You act as if we see una donna, a young woman, ride like that every day! She astonished everyone in Via di Città. Did you not notice?”
Giorgio shook his head vigorously. “I was busy. Besides, she is not a woman. She is a little girl. Ten years old, if that!”
“Why was she—”
“Never mind,” snapped Giorgio.
Why was he annoyed at Riccardo’s interest in Virginia?
“Let us go to the taverna and have some wine and dinner,” said Giorgio. “I am famished.”
“Will you tell me more about the girl?” asked Riccardo.
“What?” said Giorgio, shrugging his shoulders while lifting his open palms in supplication. “Do you not have young ragazze in Contrada del Drago?”
“Not like her, you idiot! Not who can sit a horse like that! I do not know a man who can sit a horse bareback while it is rearing like that.”
“She has developed a good seat,” admitted Giorgio. “With enough tumbles to break every bone in her body!”
Riccardo stopped midstride. He grasped his friend’s shoulder.
“Come, you will dine at our palazzo. I insist!” He collared a peasant boy in the street.
“I will give you a lira if you will run to Piazza Matteotti. To Palazzo De’ Luca, in front of the Carmelite convent. Knock on the door and tell the maid that Signor Riccardo brings home a guest for the midday meal.”
The boy’s grubby hand stretched out for the coin, nodding his head eagerly.
“Thank you, Riccardo,” said Giorgio. “I suppose I shall accept your invitation. Although you did not wait to hear my acceptance.”
Riccardo clapped his friend on the back.
“Forgive me for not giving you the opportunity to refuse.”
Giorgio smiled.
“It will be an honor.”
“Come.” Riccardo gestured up Bianchi di Sopra. “But you must tell me more about this astonishing girl.”
CHAPTER 46
Siena, Palazzo d’Elci
JULY 1576
I collapsed in the arms of the duchessa, and though she was old, she supported me. Her hands stroked my hair, tangled from the wind.
“Oh, Virginia,” she said. “Do not cry anymore. Isabella is in heaven now, surely riding the best horses that have ever lived. Jumping clouds, ciccia! Imagine how beautiful!”
I shook my head bitterly. Then I looked at her through blurring tears.
“You do not hate her, do you, Duchessa? She was a de’ Medici. Everyone tells me I should hate her!”
“No. No,” said the duchessa, shaking her gray head.
“But all the others, everyone in Siena. They all despise her.”
“Of course. She is a de’ Medici. They are Senesi. It is only natural.”
“But if it is natural, how do you forgive her?” I asked. “You have suffered as much as anyone. Why do you not hate her like all Senesi?”
The duchessa cast her clouded gaze into the distance. “I think of Isabella as a woman of great courage and spirit. A woman who defied her brother . . . no! She defied all men. How could I hate her?”
“Giorgio said I should not shed tears over her. My zia Claudia said it was treasonous that I should admire a de’ Medici. That I should have learned to hate her from birth.”
“Yes, we all have good reason to hate the Florentines, especially the de’ Medici. But not Isabella. She was a rebel. Like the Senesi. She could not be domi
nated. Not even by the Granduca Francesco de’ Medici himself. She was murdered because she did not obey his wishes.”
The duchessa gave me a fazzoletto to blow my nose. When I had done so and cleaned my face, I looked up at her.
“I knew you would understand. I do not understand why, but I knew you would. That is why I rode here.”
She studied my face.
“I understand what you saw in Isabella. You recognized her as a kindred spirit, with her love of horses and independence. You did not judge. Only the innocent have such a facility.”
“But how do you understand? You must hate the de’ Medici as much as anyone. You lived through the siege! Do you not despise them all?”
The duchessa pulled me close again, patting my back. She rocked me in her arms, kissing the top of my head. She smelled of sweet powder.
She released me, lifting my chin with her finger.
“Not all is black-and-white, Virginia. There is more in this world than simple evil and good.”
The duchessa took my hand. “Come, sit with me in the library. We will have some tea and panforte. The best baker in Siena makes panforte for the d’Elci family with a secret recipe that has been in our family for centuries. Long before the siege.”
Despite my sorrow, my traitorous stomach growled at the thought of panforte studded with fruits and nuts.
“And then, ciccia, I will tell you a story about the war with Florence. You will see that the de’ Medici are a complicated family.”
I nodded.
“Then maybe you will understand why I can forgive your admiring a de’ Medici. You should know: I, too, have de’ Medici blood in my veins, though I despise it.”
“You?” I said, pulling back to examine her face. “You are a de’ Medici?”
“Generations ago. All nobili are intermarried, Virginia. But I am Senese, through and through.”
The duchessa poured our tea from a beautiful ceramic pot. Everything was so delicate. I cradled my cup like a baby bird.
“This is de’ Medici paste porcelain,” she said. “The cup was a gift from a Florentine nobleman at the de’ Medici court.”
I closed my eyes, savoring the flavor of the panforte, letting the honey sweetness slowly dissolve in my mouth.
“You know, at the very start of the siege, we made as much panforte as we could. It gave us strength through many long days of war. But it couldn’t outlast the de’ Medici armies.
“It was a sad day when we ate the last of the panforte.” She turned her face toward the window, but her eyes were unfocused. “We ate the pigeons and even the bony swallows that swooped over our heads in Il Campo. Then the skies were empty, and we understood dark times were upon us.”
She turned back to me again.
“You cannot understand what we felt. Every day, we awoke to hunger, if we were able to sleep at all. My stomach felt as if it were eating itself, cramping and grinding. I am surprised I could give birth to children after starvation had ravaged my body.
“No thought was as keen as finding food. The noble hope of withstanding the siege, a show of Senese pride, dulled each day as the urge to eat overwhelmed everything.
“We could not feed anyone. Jesus could make three fishes and three loaves nourish the multitudes, but we had no divine power, despite our dedication of the city to the Virgin.
“There was no difference between the nobili and the most common beggar. We were all beggars together, all committed to the cause. We became, for those eighteen months, a true republic once again.
“We ladies of the nobili and the merchants’ matrons banded together. We formed three divisions. The first led by Signora Forteguerra, dressed in violet cloth. The second by Signora Piccolomini, in red satin. The third by Signora Livia Fausta, in the white of angels. We were three thousand ladies—now soldiers in the defense and succor of Siena. I was with the first division, and my violet gown was soon filthy and torn.
“We carried pikes and spades. We dressed soldiers’ wounds, fed the hundreds of children housed in Maria della Scala.” The duchessa dropped her eyes. “Until there was no more food to give.
“The French soldiers, as well as our Senesi troops, starved along with us. When our stores of grain ran out, and with no bread to feed them, we sent one hundred and fifty children, and the old and infirm, from Maria della Scala—” She swallowed, looking away. “We sent them out the gates of Siena, begging the enemy for mercy on the innocents. Instead, they were attacked by the Spanish.
“The Spanish slew many, even the youngest. At dawn, the houses at the perimeter of the city were awakened by the wailing of children. Beyond the gates were children crying to be let back into the city. Others lay dead in the frosty grass.
“We had no food to give them, but we took them back in to die within our walls. We had never expected that our enemies would kill the innocents, waving white flags in their baby hands.”
The duchessa took a deep breath and stared into my eyes, her own eyes shining beneath the cloudy haze of age.
“We few who still had horses that had not been butchered rode into the surrounding hills, searching for lost children. But I thought of how the children, along with all of us, were condemned to the agonizing death of starvation, and I turned my horse toward the north, riding where I knew I would find the encampment of Cosimo de’ Medici.
“My horse, painfully thin, like all of us, galloped bravely across the hills. I felt its sharp ribs digging into my legs. When I saw smoke billowing from the campfires in the distance, I stopped and ripped the hem of my white undershift, putting it in my right hand, tight to the rein.
“As I drew closer to the encampment, a mounted guard raced down the slope to take me prisoner. I waved my tattered white cloth and shouted, ‘I am Lucrezia d’Elci. I come to speak to Duca Cosimo de’ Medici.’
“The guard looked at my dirty violet uniform, my spiked helmet, my worn boots, and the dagger at my side. ‘Do all the noble ladies of Siena dress in such a peculiar style?’ he asked.
“‘Spain and Florence have fashioned our apparel,’ I said bitterly. ‘And have slain our orphans and left them to rot on unhallowed ground!’
“I spat at the ground beside his horse’s hooves.
“‘It was not our army, but the Spanish,’ he said. He was unable to look me in the eye. He lifted his chin, pointing toward the campfires. ‘Come. You will find Duca Cosimo de’ Medici over there. Allow me to accompany you.’”
The duchessa stopped again and closed her eyes. I wondered what she was thinking, what horrible visions she was reliving in her mind’s eye. After a long pause, she spoke again.
“Cosimo was standing in front of his tent when we reached the camp. He looked much like his portraits, clad in armor, gallant in his military garb.
“And I hated him more than any soul on Earth.
“He studied me, his hands on his hips.
“In my younger day, I was considered a great beauty, but that was before the siege had stolen the blossom of my youth, carving deep hollows in my face, reducing my body to bones.
“I straightened in my saddle, knowing that on my skinny horse, dressed in my tattered gown, I appeared pathetic to the duca.
“But somehow he recognized me. I saw the light in his eyes. He laughed.
“‘What a surprise, Duchessa. May I offer you tea? Or perhaps a draught of something stronger?’
“The aroma of fried pancetta, bread, and roasted meats made me weak. I tried to control my trembling, but it was impossible. I quaked like a leaf.
“His face fell, all the levity vanished. He hurried to help me off my horse.
“‘Forgive me, brave lady. I do not treat you with the respect you merit. Come to my tent and partake in a meal as my honored guest.’
“After more than a year of starvation, I accepted my enemy’s invitation.
“How I wanted to turn away. But I challenge anyone to resist such a meal after eighteen months of siege. Had Our Lord Jesus Christ himself faced s
uch temptation in the desert, I wonder if he could have resisted.
“But still, I could not allow myself to forget why I was there. ‘The children,’ I said straight away. ‘We sent them out Siena’s gates, and they were butchered by the Spanish.’
“An attendant placed a plate in front of me, laden with roasted partridge—oh, I remember it so well, glistening with olive oil.
“‘Eat, my good lady,’ said the duca.
“‘No! The children!’ My voice cracked.
“‘We will speak of the children once you have eaten. I swear to you.’
“I twisted my fingers around and around in my lap, my eyes never moving from the plate. I could not betray my weakness with too much eagerness.
“‘Will you not join me, Duca de’ Medici, in my repast?’ I said, swallowing back the juices in my mouth.
“‘No, I have eaten. Please, go ahead. Buon appetito. But take care you do not eat too much.’
“As I picked up the silver fork, my hand trembled.
“‘You are truly a most remarkable woman,’ said the duca quietly. ‘I do not know when I have seen more bravery.’
“I said nothing, but began to eat, closing my eyes, my whole body shaking as I tasted the roasted partridge. One bite, and I felt my stomach rebel, unaccustomed to real food.
“As Cosimo had warned, I could not eat much at all. I stared at the plate of food, pushing it away before I had eaten even half. I could not make myself ill and forget my task.
“‘May I speak honestly to you, Duca?’ I said. ‘As one noble to another?’
“He nodded, his eyes seeking mine, as if we were lovers instead of mortal enemies.
“‘You are a Tuscan!’ I said. “How can you treat other Tuscans so cruelly?’
“‘Duchessa, I shall do you the honor of speaking candidly. I shall tell you the truth, a favor I extend to the few who merit it.’ Again he sought my eyes, his look deep with meaning.
“‘I mean to make Siena part of my Tuscan empire. I shall be granduca of all Tuscany one day. I will protect us all from invaders . . . and from Rome. We will be Tuscan brothers and sisters—’
The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany Page 18
