The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  Bianca poured a cup of tea without looking at the cardinale She put two teaspoons of sugar into the cup and stirred.

  “Here, my good brother,” she said, passing the cup to the cardinale. “You do not really know our darling Antonio, do you?”

  Ferdinando looked over the brim of his cup at his sister-in-law.

  What is she playing at?

  “Of course I have met Antonio over the years at Court.”

  “And you are fond of him, as a loving uncle?” Bianca stirred her tea with a tiny spoon. The spoon made a tinkling sound against the cup.

  “I think we should not revisit that question,” he said. “As cardinale, I bless his soul.”

  “And as a de’ Medici?” said Bianca, clicking the spoon against the brim of the cup.

  Ferdinando took a deep breath.

  It has come to this. So be it.

  “As a de’ Medici, I find him lacking in every characteristic known to the family.” He eyed his adversary. “You know, Serenissima, Antonio cannot and will not inherit the dukedom. Pietro and I will oppose him.”

  “No, Cardinale. I do not accept that,” the granduchessa said, setting her jaw. “It is a treasonous pronouncement. My son is Francesco de’ Medici’s legitimate heir.”

  “Please!” the cardinale could not control his anger. “Why do you persist with this myth? All Florence knows the truth of Antonio’s birth.” He slammed the cup into its saucer, careless of the fragile porcelain. “You want to deceive your husband, deceive our entire family. Why bring up this this unpleasant subject again? Was I not invited to Poggio a Cajano to reconcile our differences?”

  Bianca drew a deep breath and looked out once more over the browning hills. She forced the air out noisily through her nostrils, a gush of hostility.

  “Yes, dear brother cardinale,” she said, acid dripping in her words. “Reconciliation.”

  Bianca said little at dinner that evening, allowing the brothers to discuss the politics of Rome and how Cardinale Ferdinando might reach the pinnacle—Pope of the Holy Roman Church.

  “You must cultivate alliances among the cardinals,” said Francesco. “Align yourself with those who support Sixtus—he has written that he will honor us with a visit to Florence.”

  The granduca chuckled triumphantly. A papal visit was a rare honor—the other princes of Italian states were furious that the Pope had granted this favor. Especially Francesco’s greatest foe, Alfonso d’Este, Duca di Ferrara.

  Ferdinando watched his brother’s spiteful glee. Then he turned, looking down at his ring. He rubbed his finger over the stamp of the Vatican.

  “It is not so easy to align wholeheartedly with Sixtus. Politics within the Vatican are fraught with danger. An alliance could turn sour overnight, depending on a marriage, a land dispute, or politics within the church. A friend becomes a foe in the blink of an eye.”

  “You are not hearing me, brother,” said the granduca, petulantly. “Do what is best for our family.”

  Cardinale Ferdinando took a sip of wine.

  Yes, brother. I will do what is best for the de’ Medici.

  He noticed Bianca watching him. For all the fanfare about reconciling the brothers—an intention sanctioned by the Pope himself—the cardinale still did not trust her.

  After a rich ragù of wild boar, the servants brought platters of fruit. A lady-in-waiting bowed to the granduca, excusing her presence. She whispered in the granduchessa’s ear.

  “Sì, Giulietta,” she said, nodding. “Please bring in dessert.” She turned to the cardinale. “I have prepared the most exquisite pear tart for us to enjoy. I made it with my own hands this afternoon. With you in mind, dear brother.”

  Ferdinando swallowed hard, smiling.

  Giulietta brought in the pear tart, golden dough crisscrossed in thin strips across the fruit, which shone frosty green and white with crystalized sugar.

  Ferdinando’s eyes widened.

  Green. The same shimmering green of the painting and wallpaper.

  “Oh! What a delicious treat so perfectly executed, my sister,” said Ferdinando without hesitation. “I had no idea you were so skilled in culinary rites. Look at the golden perfection of the crust! The green of the pears—such a rich, unworldly color.”

  Bianca dipped her head, acknowledging the compliment. She regarded her brother-in-law through lowered eyelashes.

  “Here, my dear brother cardinale. The pears are from the orchard. Welcome back to your boyhood home of Poggio a Cajano.”

  The granduchessa accepted a silver knife from the table steward. The blade flashed under the flickering flames of the candle as she sliced a generous portion.

  Cardinale Ferdinando licked his dry lips.

  “Oh, but dear sister Bianca! After the repast you have served me, I cannot possibly eat more. I am well satisfied.”

  Bianca’s hand stopped midway through the slice.

  “But you must!” she said, a wounded look on her face. “You cannot refuse. I made this tart expressly for you—”

  “I simply could not eat another bite—” her brother-in-law protested.

  “Serve my brother the portion you intended,” commanded the granduca sternly. “He has the good manners our mother taught us. He will savor the tart, surely.”

  The cardinale shot a look at his brother. “No, I beg you, granduchessa! I cannot. I—I have foresworn sugars and delicacies.”

  “That did not keep you from eating the crystalized orange peels you seized by the handful when you arrived,” observed the granduca. “The greedy appetite you have always had for sweets. You will partake in dessert, dear brother. I insist.”

  “Please, dear brother. I cannot. I—”

  Bianca’s face crumpled. Both men realized she was about to cry.

  “Here!” shouted the granduca. “Your precious tart will not go to waste. I will eat my brother’s portion and mine!”

  He stood up and seized the knife from his wife.

  “No!” she cried, trying to pull away.

  “Stop it!” he said. “What is wrong with you?” He cut a large portion and slid it onto his plate.

  His wife stared at him, unblinking. “Oh, Francesco!” she said, her voice strangely hushed. “Remember the doctor warned you not to eat too many sweets. Come, my treasure, please? The doctors said—please! I beg of you. Per favore!”

  The granduca glared across the table at his brother and unceremoniously stuffed a forkful of the tart in his mouth.

  “No!” she cried, her hand flying to her face.

  Francesco stopped chewing and looked at her. A river of fire passed between them, blazing from her eyes to his.

  “Delicious,” he said. His speech was muffled by the unswallowed tart in his mouth.

  He threw down his napkin, pushing himself away from the table.

  “Good night,” he said, storming out of the room.

  Once out in the hall, he turned and spat furiously, the half-chewed remains of a mouthful of pear tart staining the stone floor.

  CHAPTER 78

  Tuscany, Poggio a Cajano

  OCTOBER 1586

  Weeks passed, the ivy on the walls of the villa turning red with the first cold touch of autumn. Cardinale Ferdinando was careful to avoid further altercations with his sister-in-law. He was as wary of the granduchessa as he was of his brother.

  One mid-October morning, Granduca Francesco appeared at breakfast, white-skinned and sweating. His brother watched the small drops of perspiration bead his forehead as the granduca guzzled goblet after goblet of water.

  “Are you well, brother?” asked the cardinale.

  “I have never felt better in my life,” muttered the granduca.

  “You look pale—” said his brother.

  “My darling. It is true!” said Bianca. The cardinale observed the equally dull color of his sister-in-law’s complexion.

  Like the underbelly of a toad.

  Bianca Cappello grasped her husband’s hand. “My darling! Let me—”<
br />
  The granduca shook free of his wife’s hand.

  “Nonsense, my health has returned to its peak. Today we shall have a stag hunt! In the de’ Medici tradition, Ferdinando. We will recall our youth.”

  “But my treasure!” said Bianca, knitting her fingers together. She launched into a fit of coughing.

  “What do the doctors say?” she managed between hacking coughs. “You really do not look well.”

  “To the inferno with my doctors! It is a warm day, sunny and glorious. We shall hunt today, as we did in our childhood.”

  The cardinale’s thoughts raced back to the hunts with the de’ Medici family, in particular with Isabella.

  “Come, Ferdinando. I have a brilliant gelding for you to ride. Proud cut—he still thinks he is a stallion,” said the granduca, smiling. “See he doesn’t mount a mare on the field. It would be quite a spectacle, a Vatican prince astride a rutting gelding.”

  A tinge of color returned to the granduca’s countenance as he conjured up the image. He clapped his brother on his back.

  “Perhaps a mare would be more fitting,” said the cardinale. “One of my carriage horses—”

  “Carriage horse! Nonsense—the gelding will be yours for the hunt. Bold of heart, he will take any obstacle—flying on air!”

  Ferdinando smiled grimly. He hoped he could survive whatever mount his brother had chosen for him.

  The day was indeed warm. The men sweated nearly as much as the horses. Before midday, the brothers had slain two stags. The beasts were tied to long poles and carried on the shoulders of the huntsmen out of the forest to Poggio a Cajano.

  The sun blazed down on the vineyards. Cardinale Ferdinando saw that the grapes had already been harvested. The few that still clung to the vine had withered to raisins.

  As the brothers approached a hillside villa, the granduca said, “I have a thirst that would kill a lesser man.” He motioned to one of his servants. “Alfredo. Go and see if the proprietor there has wine, at the granduca’s request.”

  Cardinale Ferdinando reined in his prancing horse as the gelding skipped sideways.

  “A beautifully bred horse,” said the granduca, grinning.

  “High-spirited,” Ferdinando called over his shoulder. “Isabella would have loved this one.”

  The granduca snapped his horse’s head around to face his brother.

  “Ferdinando! Never mention her name again in my presence!” he said. The gelding shied at the loud voice, leaping into the air in a series of sidesteps and rears.

  “Tranquillo, tranquillo,” the cardinale coaxed his horse. When the horse had settled, he turned to his brother in rage.

  “She was our sister, Francesco! My sister. You may forbid the rest of Tuscany from mentioning her name, but not me! She is in my heart and in my prayers. And your dispute with her will be settled before God.”

  The estate owner hurried out to the granduca.

  “Please, good duca! Come, taste my wine. I have some new vintage and grape juice to quench your thirst as well.”

  “Now that is the answer to my prayers,” said the granduca, dismounting. He threw an angry look at his brother. He accepted an earthen jug of grape juice, warmed in the vat from the sun.

  He tipped the jug up to the sky, emptying it.

  “More!” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve like a peasant. The proprietor hurried away to refill the jug.

  The servant Alfredo murmured to his master, “Pardon me, my lord. The doctors begged me to remind you—”

  The granduca waved his hand in disgust.

  “Grape juice! Now I cannot be allowed to drink the purest Tuscan beverage, the fruit of the vine?”

  “But my lord, the strong essence, the doctors say—”

  “Silence!” roared the granduca. “Fie on the doctors! God, how will I ever slake this infernal thirst?”

  “Here, Your Majesty!” said the proprietor, returning with a full jug.

  Cardinale Ferdinando noticed his brother’s arm shaking violently as he raised the jug to his lips. Crimson drops of juice bloodied his sweat-stained tunic.

  A violent convulsion seized him, shaking his body from head to toe.

  The granduca’s steward Alfredo stepped closer to catch him if he fell.

  “Come to the cool shade of my well, Your Highness,” said the proprietor, casting a worried eye from the granduca to the cardinale. “There is a spring there—shady and damp. It will cool you.”

  “Fetch the doctor from Poggio a Cajano immediately,” whispered the cardinale in Alfredo’s ear. “Bring him in a coach. The granduca is not well.”

  That night, Francesco called for the servant who slept on a mat outside his door. He jangled a bell by his bedside.

  “My lord granduca!” said the servant, his eyes heavy-lidded with sleep. “Are you ill?”

  “Help me sit up. I cannot breathe.”

  The servant placed his hand under Francesco’s arm, helping the granduca off his pillow. His master’s back was drenched in sweat, soaking the bed linens. The smell of fever, acrid and pungent, filled the room.

  “Water,” mumbled Francesco.

  The young man poured water into a cup. He tipped it to the granduca’s blanched lips.

  “I will fetch the doctor at once!” said the chamber servant. “Let me call for your other attendants to sit with you.”

  As the servant opened the door, he saw one of the granduchessa’s favorite ladies-in-waiting come running down the hall, her skirts flying behind her.

  “The granduchessa!” she gasped. “Where is the doctor? She is dying, I am quite sure of it.”

  The granduca heard the soft slap of leather soles running down the hall, the sound diminishing. His gaze followed listlessly to the closed door. His eyes focused and unfocused, looking around the room.

  Granduca Francesco de’ Medici found himself staring at the painting of Virginia Tacci and her black stallion. Something about her expression appeared to have changed. She seemed to be looking straight at him.

  PART VII

  The Reign of Granduca Ferdinando

  ANNI 1586–1591

  CHAPTER 79

  Florence

  OCTOBER 1586

  After the death of his brother and sister-in-law, Cardinale Ferdinando wasted no time in renouncing his position as cardinale of the church and returning to claim the dukedom of Tuscany.

  Ferdinando’s first act of kindness as duca was to release his stepmother, Camilla, from the convent. Sadly, she had spent too many years in sorrow. She arrived at the Pitti Palace a stooped and demented old woman, barely able to make sense of her surroundings.

  The new granduca quickly declared Antonio to be illegitimate, with no de’ Medici blood in his veins. The rumor of his true birth spread like wildfire through the streets of Florence. Yet once that was done, Ferdinando kept Antonio as a member of the Court and as a royal envoy. As long as Antonio was not a threat to the dukedom, he would remain in the embrace of the de’ Medici. Granduca Ferdinando also saw that Isabella’s children, Virgino and Nora, were brought up in the de’ Medici Court.

  But despite these good deeds, the granduca forgot one promise he had made.

  A visitor approached Florence’s walls on a black stallion. He dismounted at the Porta Romana, asking permission to enter the city walls.

  “I am here to see Granduca Ferdinando. He knows me.”

  “What business do you have with the granduca, Senese?” said the city guard.

  “I cannot speak of it. But Granduca Ferdinando knows me.”

  The guard scoffed.

  “A Senese with a country accent and no papers. If the granduca wishes to see you, his secretary will send you a letter of admittance to these gates.”

  The stranger and the big black stallion with the white star on his forehead set off a trot away from the Florentine walls.

  “You ride a good-looking stallion,” the guardsman called after him. “For a Senese!”

  The man
didn’t look back. He was deep in thought. In the past, Cardinale Ferdinando de’ Medici had summoned him to Florence. But now, because he had become granduca, the path to an audience was harder. But no matter. Cardinale or granduca, Ferdinando de’ Medici owed him a great favor. He would find a way.

  With the death of Francesco, Granduca Ferdinando inherited the dwarf Morgante. He was quite old now, and dwarves usually lived short lives. The little man tried his best to entertain the children of his new master, though he was too aged to juggle or caper.

  But the granduca himself, struggling with the effects of his brother’s ruinous reign, found Morgante’s company comforting, for there were few who had hated his dead brother more.

  “I have often wondered about the man from Siena. If he had anything to do with the death,” said Morgante, watching the granduca’s eyes scan the wall where his sister’s portrait once hung.

  “What’s that?” Ferdinando was startled out of his reverie. His face grew pale.

  Could Morgante know about the painter from Siena?

  “Here in this room,” said Morgante. “A man who wore a black silk scarf. There was a look in his eyes that chilled my heart. I remember thinking a man like that could murder a princess.”

  Ferdinando sat up, unfolding his hands. He breathed freely now. Of course. The death of Isabella.

  So many de’ Medici deaths.

  And even though he now knew Morgante was speaking of the death of Isabella, Granduca Ferdinando thought about his brother. The dwarf was still prattling on. Something about a donkey and visitors. But the granduca wasn’t paying attention. He was remembering his promise to a Senese artist.

  He shook his head, ridding himself of the memory. It was far too soon to associate himself with the artist whose paintings hung in the death chambers of his brother and sister-in-law.