The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “Do not tell me you have not noticed how he hangs around, watching you ride. Contrada del Drago is a long way from Vignano. Surely he does not come here just for the scenery.”

  “I do not care why he comes if it means I can ride Caramella in a Palio!”

  “You must be careful,” said my godfather. “If anything happens to that filly, you may lose your support . . . and your admirer. To a De’ Luca, a horse is more important than a rider.”

  “I shall never betray the De’ Lucas’ trust,” I promised. “I love Caramella.”

  I smiled so wide, I could feel the bright sun warming my teeth. I reached down and stroked Caramella’s tawny coat, glistening chestnut in the afternoon light.

  “A Palio, Caramella,” I told her. “Not Siena’s Palio, but a Palio just the same.”

  We were ready, Caramella and I. She had had two days’ rest after making the ride from Siena to Monteroni, on the banks of the Arbia where it joined the Ombrone. When we got to the town, my padrino had insisted I stand her in the cold waters of the Arbia.

  “She is still a baby,” he said. “Babies need care. This was a long ride for a filly who has now to run a Palio.”

  Now we stood by the edge of the course, the four of us: my padrino, Giorgio, Caramella, and I.

  The track, made of the good tufo earth carried into Monteroni from the countryside around the town, had been packed by the villagers’ feet. Although compressed, it made an ample cushion on the cobblestones.

  Monteroni’s course started and finished at the piazza. The course ran clear through town, alla lunga, like that of Siena. But it ended with one final lap alla tonda, a circuit around the piazza, where the crowd could watch the finish.

  “Are you ready for this, Virginia?” asked my godfather. Despite the crowd’s raucous laughter and festive chatter, his voice flew to my ear clear as an arrowshot.

  “More than ready,” I said. “Caramella can beat any horse here.”

  His forehead creased.

  “Too much confidence can lose a race, cara. These are all experienced horses—and experienced riders. You must respect them. They know many tricks to win—and to make another jockey lose.”

  “I am not afraid,” I said.

  My padrino grunted.

  “Maybe you should be. Just a little, ciccia.”

  I made a face. Why should I be frightened when I knew I could best them? I had worked hard to blot out any shadow of doubt.

  “Caramella is a headstrong filly,” said my padrino, as he adjusted the spennacchiera on her headstall. The little mirror, rimmed with yellow, green, and red satin ribbons, flashed in the sunlight. If Caramella were to lose this precious ornament, she would not be qualified to win the race. She could cross the finish line without me on her back and still win, but without the spennacchiera, all was lost. I would have to fight to keep her head away from the snatching hands of another fantino.

  “Guide her carefully into the turns. Monitor her speed. Otherwise she will take the bit in her teeth and use her strength, not her wits. The corners in this village are even tighter than Siena’s.”

  “Not as tight as our Siena finish,” I insisted, “the turn onto the final stretch to the Duomo, Via del Capitano.” I wanted to show him how much I already knew.

  “No,” he said. “Not that tight. But there are more of them, and a young horse like this could easily take a fall. And the final lap around the piazza can throw off the best horse and rider.”

  We had walked the course together, and now he reminded me—yet again—of the landmarks I had already memorized and dreamed of all night.

  “Watch for the market corners. Both of them! And then the chiesa. The three pillars. And then let her run!”

  He patted my knee.

  “Use the gifts you have, feel the horse under you. Stay centered, Virginia. But do not forget, you are la testa, the head that guides this horse. Guide her wisely.”

  “Sì, Padrino.”

  “Up you go,” he said, boosting me up.

  My linen skirt whispered as it creased under me. I tugged material away from my legs, leaving my skin bare against the filly’s body.

  “What do you think?” I said.

  His face creased in a smile.

  Giorgio spoke for the first time since we had made our way to the track. “I think you look like a ragazza-fantino. I never would have imagined it. You look like you were born on the horse’s back.”

  I dipped my chin in gratitude. I gave the slightest pressure with my right leg. Caramella danced forward, bobbing toward the mossa, the starting area.

  “Virginia!”

  “Sì, Padrino?”

  “Do not let anything distract you. Forget your pride, forget everything but the race.”

  “Of course, Padrino,” I said. “But we will win, you will see.”

  Brunelli pulled off his cap, rubbing his gray head. He cast a look around at the other riders.

  Five other horses and riders—two from Siena houses of nobili, and three from Florentine nobili—lined up at the rope, inside the mossa. A sixth horse—the rincorsa, the starter horse—and rider from Arezzo took a position outside the mossa. When the rincorsa entered the mossa at a full gallop, the rope would drop and the race would be on. That is the way of the Palio. That last fantino controls the start completely. He can wait as long as he wants until he sees an advantage—perhaps a rival is distracted—and then he starts.

  I maneuvered Caramella into the line at the rope. The filly reared, squealing at the scent of the other horses, especially a stallion right beside us.

  “Be careful, ragazza,” shouted the fantino, not much older than I. His horse was black, a glossy sheen reflecting the morning sun.

  He reminded me of Orione. I swallowed hard, seeing the sculpted muscles prancing under the fantino. I was riding a novice filly who had not the strength and weight of that horse.

  If I were on Orione . . . but, no, Orione would not do well in the flats. He would be impossible to control. Only running uphill—

  An older fantino on my other side muttered, “This is no pony ride, ragazzina.” Little girl. I scowled at him. He had a Tuscan accent but a coastal look: the salty look of a sailor. His thin face was creased and scarred, the skin pulled tight over his skull.

  Probably from the Maremma—the wild west of Tuscany—raised to ride Palios in Florence.

  “Stay out of my way. I do not have time to watch out for little girls,” he snarled.

  A laugh rippled through the crowd, pressing close to watch the start of the race. I saw the glint of a silver flask tipped to the sun as a young nobleman dressed in silk brocades took a draught. He lowered the flask and stared right at me.

  I stared back, not recognizing him. The nobleman pointed at me and pushed his way closer to the mossa. In the intensity of that moment, waiting for the race to start, I saw everything with a fierce clarity. A few drops of red wine stained the young nobleman’s lips, colored his teeth purple. I saw Giorgio turn toward the stranger and his eyes widened. He shouted something, but the noise of the crowd covered his voice. Then he pointed to the nobleman and back to the Maremma jockey.

  Now I could hear him as he stabbed his finger at the older fantino. “Stay away from him, Virginia!”

  The young nobleman turned. “Outrageous, Brunelli! A girl riding a Palio?”

  “Next we will have pregnant women riding!” said a jockey.

  “Or worse, the whores of Siena,” taunted another.

  The oldest jockey laughed wildly. “At least I ride for Signor di Torreforte, who can tell the sex of a rider. Where are your coglioni, girl?”

  I screwed up my mouth, preparing to spit at the fantino. Caramella sensed my agitation and danced, rubbing her chest hard against the taut rope of the mossa.

  Just as I let the spit fly from the gap in my teeth, I saw a movement from the corner of my eye.

  The start horse galloped into the mossa. The rope dropped in front of us.

  The oldest jo
ckey had kept his eye on the rope, using his laughter to distract the rest of us. He was first across the start line, with the others close behind.

  Caramella leapt forward, her herd instinct attuned to the other horses. I was pitched backward, then flung to the left side, my hand grasping for her mane.

  As I fought not to fall, that fierce clarity returned, and I was certain I could hear my padrino’s voice.

  “Tieni duro, Virginia!” Hold on!

  I pulled myself upright as Caramella flew down the street.

  Bits of mud from the other horses’ hooves splattered my eyes and face. I leaned down low, my chin touching Caramella’s mane, my hands pumping the reins as the filly surged forward.

  “Diabolo domine!” spat Giorgio as the horses disappeared into the city streets.

  “She was distracted,” muttered his father. “Her pride lost her the advantage.”

  “She can still make it up, Papa,” said Giorgio, his fists clenched.

  “She must learn to control her temper, or she will never be a fantino.”

  “Fantina,” mumbled Giorgio under his breath. “The first fantina.”

  Virginia’s light weight allowed Caramella to fly through the course. Together they passed several riders, recovering time lost at the start.

  The small, twisting streets of Monteroni offered few straightaways. Her padrino’s words and the sight of the landmarks filled her mind. The market’s two sharp twists. Yes. The Chiesa di San Fabiano’s three pillars. And now! The one long straight leading to the piazza, her chance to let the filly stretch out her stride.

  The black stallion came into view. As Virginia rode past the boy, he whipped his horse wildly. The fantino’s teeth clenched white against his dark skin as his lips pulled back, desperate not to let Virginia pass him.

  Ahead of her by two lengths was the Maremma fantino. He looked over his shoulder as the course bent around the last turn and spilled out into the piazza.

  His eyes widened as he saw Virginia’s skirts.

  To a roar from the crowd, they entered the piazza—the Maremma fantino and Virginia far ahead of the rest.

  The young nobleman with the wine-stained teeth leaned forward, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted at the Maremma rider.

  “Dai! Dai!” Come on! Come on!

  Standing near him, Giorgio’s eyes narrowed to slits. His mouth stretched into a smile.

  “Babbo! She’s gaining!”

  “Dai, Virginia. Dai, dai!”

  As Virginia and the Maremma jockey galloped neck and neck, the fantino raised his whip in an arc. He lashed out at Caramella, slashing at her neck.

  “No!” screamed Virginia.

  Caramella wavered, then regained her stride. The fantino raised his whip again and Virginia, without a thought, slashed out with her whip, striking the fantino hard in the face.

  The jockey raised his hands, protecting his eyes. The horse slowed, confused by the tension on the bit.

  Caramella surged forward, Virginia clamped her torso flat against the filly’s mane, and they crossed the finish line half a length ahead, to the delight of the roaring crowd.

  The young nobleman—Giacomo di Torreforte—spat in disgust. He kicked at the wooden barrier set up along the course.

  “Maledizione!” he cursed and turned away, elbowing through the crowd of well-wishers swarming to congratulate Virginia.

  Riccardo and his father, Signor De’ Luca, approached her. Signor De’ Luca’s stroked his mare’s neck, then nodded his head.

  “You have made the House of De’ Luca proud this day, Virginia Tacci,” he said. Riccardo stared up at Virginia saying nothing, but his face radiated joy.

  “Will you, Virginia Tacci, do the Contrada del Drago the honor of riding the Siena Palio on Caramella in August?”

  Virginia’s mouth opened in a gasp of joy. She sought Giorgio’s eyes, then her padrino’s.

  “Sì,” she said, clasping Caramella around the neck. She buried her face in the mare’s mane, drinking in the warm smell of horse. Then she heard her padrino clear his throat.

  Virginia straightened up, sitting tall, the way she had been taught to ride from that first night in the hills of Vignano.

  “It would be the greatest honor of my life to ride Siena’s Palio for Drago,” she said.

  CHAPTER 55

  Florence, Palazzo Vecchio

  MAY 1581

  Francesco de’ Medici slit the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Governor di Montauto’s letter reached from the granduca’s eyes to his waist.

  “Too wordy, this di Montauto fellow,” said the granduca to his secretary.

  He hurried through the document, then handed it to Serguidi.

  “It seems I am invited to a Palio in Siena. In August.”

  “Serenissimo, of course. As the Granduca of Tuscany, you are always invited to the Palio,” said Serguidi. His forehead creased as he strained to make out di Montauto’s exuberant handwriting.

  “But this is a special Palio. Only the contradas will run. Not a single nobile house. It seems that Siena’s Balia has given permission. Damn my father for granting them their own government! The scoundrels shall not have my approval.”

  “What do the commoners know of staging a Palio? Where will they get the horses, the money? Preposterous!” said Serguidi.

  “He does not say. Only that the Contrada dell’Aquila is hosting the event for the Assumption in August. You will write immediately, insisting Palios are a reserved right of the nobili. We cannot let Senese contradas think they are our equals.”

  The granduca clenched his fist. “A Palio for the commoners. It would only foster rebellion.”

  The secretary looked down at the letter again.

  “Why does di Montauto not use his scribe?” said the granduca. “His handwriting is like a drunken poet. All flourishes and ridiculous squiggles. I can barely make it out.”

  Serguidi stood with the letter in his hand. His dark eyes darted left to right. Then his jaw dropped open, like a turtle drinking raindrops.

  “My granduca,” he said. “I fear you did not finish the letter.”

  “Full of Senese gas, this signore,” said the granduca. “I have not the patience. Tell me what he says. I have work to do.”

  “There is to be a special entry in this race of the contradas. A girl.”

  “Una ragazza?”

  “A fourteen year-old girl, Granduca. Representing Drago contrada.”

  “Let me see!”

  The granduca snatched back the letter. Serguidi pointed his fine manicured finger at the offending sentence.

  “A ragazza! A girl riding among men? In a Palio?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. A girl. And it seems the race is dedicated to tutte le donne.” All the women of Siena.

  “And who is this ragazza?”

  “I will inquire immediately. Might I see the letter again?”

  “Are there not . . . laws?” stormed the granduca, rising to his feet. “These Senese are insufferable and . . . sublimely treacherous. Are they doing this to draw attention to themselves? To shame Tuscany? To shame me? Letting a girl race a Palio!”

  “Might I see the letter again, Your Highness?” asked Serguidi once more.

  The granduca flung the parchment to his secretary.

  “We must find a law!” Francesco thumped his fist against Serguidi’s writing desk, making the inkpot erupt in a black spurt. “This is against all moral decency. A virgin, I would assume. Riding astride, bareback! We shall write to the Pope, to my brother the cardinal. Women astride on horseback, acting as if they had a cazzo between their legs.”

  The granduca crossed his arms over his chest. Serguidi scanned the letter. He cast a quick glance at his master, wondering if he was thinking of his dead sister.

  “It seems,” said Serguidi, “the girl’s name is Virginia Tacci. She is of di Montauto’s own contrada, the Drago. And . . . she is a shepherdess.”

  “A shepherdess! He is joking, yes?”


  “No, Your Majesty. Already there are poets who write sonnets to her talents, according to di Montauto.”

  “A girl riding the Palio? A shepherdess, at that? Find a law, Serguidi. Or create one, damn it, subito!” This minute!

  Serguidi dipped his head, acknowledging the granduca’s instruction.

  “Might I offer counsel, Granduca?”

  Francesco expelled his breath so fiercely, Serguidi could smell the red wine and garlic from his noonday repast.

  “Speak!”

  “I will look to see if there is such a law, but I doubt there is. My counsel to you would be to accept the invitation. I think it is a challenge. I think the Senese mean to make you look weak, threatened by a mere shepherdess.”

  Francesco glared, but said nothing.

  “If you write to Governor di Montauto and forbid this girl from riding the race, it will only bring back memories of—forgive me, Your Highness—”

  “Speak, damn you!”

  “Memories of Princess Isabella and Lady Leonora. Everyone knew how you despised Isabella’s independence, including her riding and hunting.”

  Francesco shot a look at his secretary.

  Serguidi paused. When the granduca remained silent, he continued. “Let the Senese do as they please, I beg you, Granduca. Permit the Palio. The Contrada dell’Aquila will soon see that the expense of hosting such a race is ruinous. And the girl will most likely fall off early in the race, humiliating herself. Then you can justly amend the law to forbid girl fantini forever. For their safety and well-being, of course.”

  Francesco pulled at his mustache. He looked across the room where the Bronzino painting of Isabella used to hang.

  “The Senese fling sand in my eyes. But damn it! Yes, as always, your counsel is wise. I shall sidestep their trap, damn them to hell! But I shall have some words for the loquacious di Montauto. Clearly he needs to straighten his mast, for it leans windward toward Siena.”

  CHAPTER 56

  Siena, Palazzo d’Elci

  JUNE 1581

  The dark interior of Palazzo d’Elci was a cool marble refuge from the heat of the Siena summer. Giorgio drank in the chilled air, lingering to enjoy its refreshing embrace before mounting the stairs.