The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  He reached out and clapped Riccardo on the back. Ercole Cortile smiled. Such a gesture was rare and a great tribute.

  “I want to see the foals when they are born,” said Duca Alfonso. “Maremma stallion, eh? I need another Palio prospect. Ercole, have the groom bring my horse. We should let Signor De’ Luca get back to his painting.”

  “You see, I take artists seriously,” said Duca Alfonso, resting his hand on Riccardo’s shoulder. Then he added in a low voice, “I hope Siena finds her beloved Virginia Tacci.”

  As the duca prepared to mount his horse, he took another look at the mares, then at Riccardo.

  “You will not be challenging anyone to a duel in Ferrara, will you, young De’ Luca?”

  “No, of course not,” said Riccardo, bowing. “I honor the House of d’Este for giving me refuge. I will not disturb the peace of your city.”

  Duca Alfonso slipped his boot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle while the groom held his horse.

  “Have you tried the convents?” he asked.

  “The convents?” said Riccardo, stunned.

  Could Duca Alfonso know of our search?

  “Granduca Francesco has a history of locking up bothersome women in convents, including his own stepmother. If he could have done the same with his sister Isabella, she would still be alive.”

  The duca paused for a moment.

  “And little Leonora, the lark,” he sighed. “But neither woman would have stood for it. They would sooner have hanged themselves than be confined.”

  Again Riccardo’s eyes dropped to the ground. The duca watched, his face tense with emotion.

  “Well, Signor De’ Luca, I will look forward to seeing the foals. Remember—one has my name on it. I think . . . the one sired by the Maremma stallion. Virginia Tacci’s horse.”

  “Of course, good duca. It will be my pleasure. And a good choice.”

  As Duca Alfonso d’Este and Ercole Cortile turned their horses, Riccardo quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “He must have been in love with the girl,” said Alfonso as the two men rode away. “Ercole, send Signor De’ Luca an invitation to next Saturday’s ball. I would like to introduce him to Court. He will find there are Ferrara women who rival Siena’s beauties.”

  The duca smiled. “Perhaps my beautiful cousin, Lucia d’Este, could turn the Senese’s head.”

  CHAPTER 86

  Tuscany, Poggio a Cajano

  MAY 1589

  Thousands of burning candles lit up the Poggio a Cajano, illuminating the sumptuous wedding festivities of Granduca Ferdinando and Christina of Lorraine.

  “After the mock sea battle in the Pitti Palace, Poggio a Cajano seems quite rustic,” Ercole Cortile said to the ambassador from Venice. He sighed, quite content to have come out of diplomatic retirement for the de’ Medici marriage festivities. The House of d’Este was closely aligned with the French by marriage.

  “I find it strange that the granduca chose Poggio a Cajano as the location for such festivities,” grumbled the Venetian. “Is this not where the late granduca and Granduchessa Bianca . . . um . . . breathed their last?”

  Ercole Cortile lowered his voice. “It is, ambassador. But I think you would be wise not to bring the subject up at this celebration.”

  The Spanish ambassador leaned over to join the quiet conversation. “Granduca Francesco is surely cursing in his grave. His brother marrying Catherine de’ Medici’s granddaughter, aligning Tuscany with France—and after Spain gave Siena to Florence following the siege? Loyalty? Ha!”

  Both Cortile and the Venetian ambassador cast a worried look at the Spaniard. He was getting far too drunk for diplomacy’s sake.

  The Spanish ambassador drained his glass. “At least the wine is favorable.”

  “Compared to the swill they drink in Madrid,” Ercole Cortile murmured to the Venetian ambassador, “I should think so!”

  The Venetian ambassador laughed. Before the Spaniard could react, Cortile rose to toast the marriage of the Tuscany and France, leaving the enraged Madrileño sputtering.

  Ferdinando shot up in bed, gasping. His shoulders and back were soaked in perspiration.

  The damp smell of lovemaking mixed with rosemary strewn—and now crushed—in the bed linens gave off a heady scent. He breathed deeply, trying to ground himself in the real world beyond his nightmare’s reach.

  “It was a nightmare, my darling, you are safe,” said Christina, stroking her new husband’s shoulder.

  “Did you dream of your brother?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. The granduca grasped his wife’s hand. “But . . . but there was also a Jewess. From Naples. A friend of my mother.”

  “A Jewess? Friend of a de’ Medici?”

  “Benvegnita Abravanel. She came to visit us in Florence when I was a child.”

  The duca’s breathing regained its calm. “Benvegnita fled Naples shortly after my parents married. She was welcomed by my father, Cosimo. I remember the delight on my mother’s face whenever she entered the Palazzo Vecchio.”

  Christina continued to stroke her husband’s back. She could feel his muscles relax under her touch.

  “What happened in your dream?”

  “I was in the Pitti Palace gardens. Francesco had caught a fish. A beautiful fish, gold with fanned fins. He set it on a rock, watching it gasp for breath.”

  “And that frightened you?”

  Ferdinando closed his eyes.

  “It was dying. Its mouth opening and closing. Francesco watched it so carefully, doing nothing. Nothing at all. I said, ‘Throw it back into the water, so that it might breathe!’”

  “Did he?”

  “He turned to me and said, ‘Do you really care? Here you are. You watch it die and do nothing. That is your way, little brother.’”

  “But darling, it was just a fish!”

  “No, it was something more. With every gasp, I felt a pain in my heart. I felt . . . sin. Incredible guilt. I began to cry . . . I was just a child. Francesco was laughing.”

  He started breathing more rapidly again.

  “And then Benvegnita came. She struck Francesco’s fingers hard with a cane. ‘Jew!’ he cried. ‘My father will have your head.’

  “She turned to me. ‘Toss the fish back into the water, Ferdinando. You have much work to do. Start with the fish.’

  “And, though the fish was half-dead, I threw it back into the pond. It floated to the top, stunned. Then it swam away. And it swam up into the air and it turned into a black horse. It reared, its hooves slashing high above my head.”

  “No wonder you screamed out,” said Christina. Her fingers toyed with a ribbon at the neck of her nightdress.

  Ferdinando pulled his wife close to him.

  “I have many sins to atone for, dear wife,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 87

  Siena, Palazzo Dei

  DECEMBER 1590

  Giacomo di Torreforte had lived a careless life gambling, drinking, and painting. But now his father had developed a racking cough that shook his old body, rattling the wattles on his throat. With the specter of death in his near future, Signor di Torreforte turned a stern eye to his eldest son, demanding he start paying attention to the matters of the banking business of Monte dei Paschi.

  “Your brothers have learned the banking business. Now it is your turn.”

  “But father, I am an artist! I have no head for figures, you know as much. And as eldest son, I am heir to your fortune—”

  The older man winced. “Yes, you are heir to my fortune, but you will also become head of our family. Our fortunes are in Monte dei Paschi. I have neglected my duty as a father. You are spoiled and unfit to take the reins after my death. You will now make up for the time you have lost.”

  And so di Torreforte began rising early in the mornings alongside his brothers. Grudgingly, he learned the rules of investments and loans, to assess risks, to capitalize on good ventures. His brothers complained bitterly beh
ind his back at his ineptitude with mathematics, his mistakes with the ledger, the inkblots and corrections requiring a scribe to rework his figures on new parchment.

  They mocked his mistakes, and they feared his fondness for making loans to his friends and social contacts.

  It became evident that Giacomo’s father would not survive much longer. His ragged cough worsened with the winter rains, and when snow blanketed the red terra-cotta rooftops of Siena and whitened Il Campo, old Signor di Torreforte was confined to bed by his doctor.

  One bitterly cold afternoon, he summoned his eldest son to his bedside.

  “We have a serious issue to discuss,” said the sick man. “One that pertains to your character. Rumors I have heard.”

  Di Torreforte looked at the glassy eyes of his father.

  “Father, you are not well. The fever has seized you. We should speak of serious issues when you—”

  “No!” shouted Signor di Torreforte, triggering another spasm of coughing. “We should have spoken of these matters years ago. I have spoiled you as my heir and firstborn. Now I am on my deathbed. We will speak!”

  Di Torreforte bowed his head, fingering his silk scarf.

  “You were challenged to a duel by Riccardo De’ Luca. But you did not respond. You refused to accept.”

  “The scoundrel was arrested, you know that,” sputtered Giacomo. “Banished from the city! It is against the law of Siena to—”

  “You acted the coward!” said his father. “In front of all Siena.”

  He broke off, racked by coughing again. His son wondered if the old man was going to die right then, right before him. But the coughing subsided, and the elder di Torreforte gathered his strength to speak again.

  “The cowardice is shameful. But there is still worse that we must confront. I hear ugly rumors that you know the whereabouts of the villanella. That somehow you arranged for her to be spirited away from Vignano.”

  Signor di Torreforte locked eyes with his son.

  And the son did not answer. He dropped his eyes to the carpet.

  “That girl belongs to Siena, to no one else,” said the old man, beginning to cough again. His thrashing wound the bed linens tight around his arms. He slumped against the pillows, gasping.

  Giacomo took his father’s arm, supporting him.

  “Father, you should rest. Do not trouble yourself with—”

  “Let me speak, damn you! I want that girl returned to her birthplace. I can see now that the rumors are true. Yes, I will die. Soon. But if you do not remove this blasphemous stain from our family name, I will haunt you from my grave.”

  Giacomo’s eyes widened.

  “And that grave shall be here in Siena. I will be buried as a Senese,” said Signor di Torreforte. “My coffin shall be taken to Il Campo and nod its respect to the Torre del Mangia in the city I love. Not Florence, do you hear me! Here! My bones will rest under the floors of San Domenico until our Lord shall come to raise them.”

  He focused a cold eye on his heir.

  “But wherever I may be buried, you will not avoid my specter if you do not bring the villanella back to Siena.”

  Giacomo di Torreforte shuddered.

  CHAPTER 88

  Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio

  DECEMBER 1590

  I raked the dirty straw from the donkey’s stall into a heap. Because my arm had never healed properly, I was slow and clumsy at my task. Even then, my arm ached. The mother superior would say it was God’s just punishment for my disobedience.

  I wiped the sweat from my face, knowing my white scarf would be stained with dirt and perspiration by the end of the day. The conversa Margherita would have to pound the cloth hard against the rocks of the Po to clean it to the strict standards of the abbess.

  “God bless you,” said Suor Loretta, entering the little shed. “You keep Fedele’s shed clean and smelling sweet with fresh straw.”

  “It is good straw, Sorella Loretta. It smells of heavenly fields and summer sunshine.”

  The suora laughed. “You notice even the little things. Yes, we procure the best from the duca’s stables—”

  She clamped her mouth shut like a turtle, but not before I noticed her consternation.

  “The d’Estes give us this straw?” I asked. I pitched a forkful onto the ground, spreading it around. “That is an unusual contribution to a convent, is it not?”

  “Duca Alfonso is generous to the convent,” she said. “A donkey is a religious symbol. For the Holy Bible says both Christ and the Madonna were carried on an ass.”

  She was fumbling for an answer, though I could not imagine why.

  “I will leave you to your labor, Silvia. I have been summoned to speak with the abbess.”

  “Oh?” I said, stopping. “Is everything all right?”

  “It is a small matter,” answered the suora, waving her hand. “I will see you before Vespers, I am sure. Make sure you scrub out Fedele’s bucket. There is green scum forming on the sides of the wood.”

  “Sì, Sorella Loretta. I shall do so.”

  She turned and left the shed. I watched her black robes retreating toward the abbess’s office.

  “I am sorry, but there is no alternative,” said the abbess. “The family promised a dowry of a hundred ducats a year. They have not sent payment in nearly two years now.”

  “But, Madonna, the postulant Silvia is a godsend!” said Suor Loretta. “She works the skin off her hands caring for Fedele—”

  “A financial arrangement was settled upon. The family has not kept their bargain. And she refuses to take the veil. She can be transferred to another convent—”

  “No!” said Suor Loretta.

  The abbess stiffened her back but said nothing.

  “You cannot send the girl away,” said the old suora. “She has suffered enough! And I think you are well aware of the depth of that suffering, Madre.”

  The abbess worked her mouth.

  “The hundred ducats—”

  “You know, of course, that I will procure them,” said Suor Loretta. “Send parchment and fresh ink to my cell. My supplies have dwindled. I will write to my family immediately.”

  Suor Loretta pressed down hard on both carved armrests to raise herself from the chair.

  “And do not dare breathe a word of this to our . . . Silvia,” she said. Without asking permission, the suora walked to the door, turning her back on the abbess.

  CHAPTER 89

  Siena

  JANUARY 1591

  Giacomo di Torreforte winced in the cold wind that blew through the little passage leading to Il Campo. The black hearse descended the narrow vicolo into the great piazza, the black satin coverings fluttering in the wind.

  How could my father insist on being buried in Siena? Florence is our ancestral home, the root of our fortunes. The grandeur, the legacy of Florence—

  He accompanied his father’s horse-drawn hearse to the center of the piazza. His youngest sister, walking behind, began to sob as the coffin was removed.

  He moved to comfort her, but his brother Giovanni had already thrown an arm around her, pressing her face to his breast. He whispered words of comfort. They turned their backs to him.

  Di Torreforte felt inexorably alone. The raw wind bit his skin, playing capriciously with his silk scarf.

  He felt all the eyes of Siena were on the coffin . . . and on him. His hand seized his scarf, tucking the foolish ends under his woolen cloak. He cringed, thinking about the Florentines’ opinion. His father’s funeral was a tribute to Siena’s traditions.

  He watched the pallbearers as they removed the coffin from the hearse and stood it on end. His father’s last wish was sacred: He would show respect to the city in the Senese fashion. As the bells at the top of the Torre del Mangia rang, the pallbearers tipped the head of the coffin in respect, a last nod to Siena.

  Both the Florentines and the Senese bowed their heads to the man who had been the head of the most powerful bank in Tuscany. Many charities ha
d profited from Monte dei Paschi’s generosity and the open hand of Signor di Torreforte. The nuns escorted the children of the orphanages to Il Campo dressed in warm clothes the dead signore had provided, their little bellies full of bread and warm soup paid for by Monte dei Paschi.

  The bell tolled.

  The coffin was carefully returned to the hearse. Slowly the horses walked back toward the northwest of the city, where Signor di Torreforte’s body would be laid to rest in sacred ground, under the floors of San Domenico in the Contrada del Drago.

  His father’s bones would rest deep below the mummified head of Santa Caterina of Siena.

  Giacomo di Torreforte worked alongside his brothers, still struggling to learn the banking profession. As he battled with the ciphers, he raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end—and leaving him looking like a madman.

  As heir, he commanded respect from his younger siblings. The family house on Via di Giglio in Contrada della Giraffa belonged to Giacomo now, and most of the family lived under the same palazzo roof.

  But it was clear to everyone that di Torreforte was dismal at figures, poor at calculating risks, tight-fisted with charities, and wretched at cultivating alliances both in the banking community and within the cities of Siena and Florence.

  The next oldest brother, Simone, had gracefully taken over most of the tasks that should have fallen to di Torreforte. Simone’s head digested figures in the ledger book easily and instantly. His hand was open to charities, especially to Maria della Scala’s orphanage, just as his father’s had been.

  One day, bent over figures in a ledger, Giacomo di Torreforte realized he had made a great error—thousands of scudi—on the parchment. He flung his pen, dripping with ink, across the room. The deep indigo splattered against the white plaster, the impact leaving a radiant star.