The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “The earth is freshly mounded over his mistress’s grave,” she said. “And so leaves the faithful donkey. She told me once the beast had a soul. The most blasphemous utterance.”

  I wondered if the abbess had made her do penance. I never saw any punishment of Suor Loretta. Nor Anna Rosa, despite her rebellious nature. And now I knew why.

  “I was told that Fedele would be buried here,” I said.

  The abbess flashed a look in my direction.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Suor Loretta herself. It was decided years ago, I was told. You gave your permission, she said.”

  The abbess’s fingers sought her rosary beads tied to her belt.

  “We discussed it,” she said finally. Her fingertips rubbed hard against the beads. “I assuaged her concerns about the donkey, saying that we would care for it generously during its lifetime. I have kept my word.”

  “She told me you promised he would be buried here, close to her.”

  The abbess was silent for a minute. I knew she was measuring her words carefully.

  “Postulant Silvia,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Do you really think that the hallowed ground of a convent is the suitable graveyard for a common ass?”

  “Suor Loretta said you had come to an arrangement. She told me—”

  “If the bishop should learn that an animal is buried alongside the great Beatrice d’Este, I shall lose my position! The cemetery is consecrated to the brides of Christ.”

  “But—”

  The abbess dropped her hand from her rosary. Her face tightened, the skin pinched at the edges of her wimple.

  “Do not dare to argue with me! Suor Loretta is beyond such matters. She is with God. And I shall keep my promise of caring for the donkey. You may stay here in the shed and forgo prayers in the chapel. I will expect you to pray here, of course. On fresh straw.”

  “Sì, Madre.”

  “When the time comes, we will send for the knacker.” With that, she turned swiftly toward the door, her robes fluttering behind her.

  I closed my eyes, stroking the old donkey’s back, his ragged breath the only sound.

  “Come with me, faithful donkey,” I said. I took Fedele out of the shed to stand in the sunshine near Suor Loretta’s fresh grave. He lowered his gray muzzle to the mound and let out a stillborn bray, a choking sound that wrenched my heart.

  I stared at the freshly turned earth, thinking of its weight on the fragile bones beneath.

  Anna Rosa found me standing by the grave with the donkey’s lead rope in my hand.

  Her fingers sought mine, taking my free hand in hers. “At least she is finally free,” I said.

  She looked around, making sure no nun was within earshot.

  “We shall be, too, Virginia,” she said. “One day.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Of course. Until that day.”

  My heart would stop beating if I ever thought I would not see Siena again.

  I was stationed at the dying creature’s side when I heard rocks being thrown over the wall. It was during Vespers, when the watch nun was at prayer in chapel. The pelting of stones hitting the slate roof of the shed made Fedele lift his head once more, swiveling his ears at the sound.

  The stones were wrapped in parchment. I collected them one by one.

  I unwrapped the missive from one:

  Virginia Tacci! Are you truly within these walls? Riccardo

  “Riccardo?” I whispered.

  I called in a voice as loud as I dared.

  “Riccardo? Is that you?”

  “Virginia? Virginia!” he called back.

  “How did you find me?

  How did he know I could read now? That I would be there at the donkey shed alone?

  “Senti!” he called. “Listen! I will come tonight at Matins prayers. I will scale the wall—”

  “The top layers are not mortared. The bricks will fall. You cannot—”

  “I shall have help. I will have rope. You need to be ready to climb.”

  “I—oh, God, yes! Riccardo get me out of here!”

  “At Matins, then. I will return.”

  Fedele’s condition worsened. His head hung so low, his puffs of breath scattered the bits of straw at his feet.

  “God, please end his suffering,” I prayed. I called on the abbess to report on his health.

  “I think he will die very soon,” I said. “There is no luster in his eye, and he cannot lift his head. He refused hay, even grain.”

  “Stay by his side, Postulant Silvia. Report to me in the morning,” she said, barely looking up from her papers. “You are dismissed.”

  As I left, I saw her eyes slide toward me under her glasses.

  I fell into a restless sleep, right after Compline. I dreamt again of the donkey flying across the convent wall. I woke to the sound of Fedele’s breath rattling hoarsely in his throat.

  I moved next to the poor creature, stroking his neck. “Forgive me for not being by your side when you pass,” I whispered. “But Suor Loretta would have wanted this for me—my escape, Fedele.”

  Would she indeed want this for me? Yes, she would. She showed me the fresco of Christ on the wall of the chapel. “He is making a choice by climbing the ladder on the cross. It is his own volition. That is the way we should all approach God. Willingly.”

  And I had not made that choice willingly. I was kidnapped, sealed within the convent. Still, as I listened to the bell toll Matins prayers, I thought about what Suor Loretta had said about the convent providing a home, a sanctuary of peace and protection for women who might otherwise be abused by unloving husbands, shut away as spinsters, or forced to make their livelihood as puttanas in the back alleys.

  It was a refuge for many. But not for me. Never for me.

  Fedele made a strangled sound in his throat, trying to bray. Warning me of his death.

  I crept out of the tiny donkey stable when the bell finished tolling, leaving Fedele to die alone. My heart was sickened, but I couldn’t miss my chance to escape with Riccardo. The stars were bright overhead, the sliver of a moon low in the horizon.

  I heard a brick fall. Then another.

  “Riccardo?”

  “Merda!” I heard him curse, along with more tumbling bricks. “A le guagnele!”

  “Be careful! The bricks—”

  I heard the crashing of something heavy fall to the ground.

  “Oh! Santa Maria!” I cried. I ran through darkness, guided by soft moans.

  It had been nine long years since I had seen him, but I recognized him in the dim light. The high cheekbones, the strong nose.

  “Riccardo! Have you hurt yourself?”

  “I think—I think I am all right. It is my hand, my forearm.”

  He held his left hand against his chest like a child would hold a baby bird.

  “Let me see—here, come into the shed where there is a lantern.”

  “All right,” he said. “But first, Virginia . . .”

  He pulled me tight against him with his good arm, making me lose my balance. He kissed my lips. His mouth opened against mine, spicy and warm. The taste of his kisses made me hungry for more. I opened my mouth, breathing in his masculine scent.

  “I love you, Virginia. I have always loved you.”

  I did not answer. I had never loved him—or any man. I had never spent any time thinking about men. But nearly a decade had passed since the Palio, and I had not so much as seen a man, except for the old priest and an occasional bishop.

  The sweet taste of his mouth, his breath! A pull that brought me into his body, surrendering me to his embrace. My spine tingled as he held me; a warm rush climbed to my cheeks. I felt suddenly alive again after a long sleep.

  He let out a hushed scream, but his lips still sought mine. In our passion, he had tried to press me closer using his injured arm.

  I pushed him away.

  “Basta! Let me look at your hand and arm!” I took his good hand and led him to the stable.


  “We must work quickly. The suoras will be returning from Matins soon.”

  In the light I saw his wrist, already swollen to two times its normal size. His arm was turning blue-black with blood.

  “I think you have broken your wrist, at the very least,” I said.

  He closed his eyes tight.

  “We must get you over the wall,” he said. “Come! I will tie you to the rope and we will hoist you up.”

  It was then he noticed my crooked arm.

  “Virginia! What happened to you?”

  “I fell, just as you did, years ago, trying to escape. The nurse did a bad job of setting the bone. I cannot straighten it.”

  His eyes widened. “Do . . . do you think you can scale the wall with my companions pulling the rope?”

  “I do not know. What I do know is that you must go first. If the nuns catch you, they will turn you over to the duca for justice. You will be flogged and thrown in prison, Riccardo. The church will destroy you. The abbess will see that you are punished without mercy.”

  Riccardo turned pale.

  “I cannot anger the duca,” he said. “I am here under his protection. I would lose my farm, my horses, my—”

  “Come then,” I said pulling him behind me. “We must get you over the wall at once.”

  The rope dangled against the bricks. Riccardo tugged it down, looping it around his waist. I had to tie the knot because his left arm was useless.

  “This will be difficult,” he said, wincing. “But watch me. I will place the sole of my foot against the wall and pull myself up with the aid of the rope.”

  “With one arm? Do you think you can?”

  “I must,” he said.

  “Then I will have to do the same.”

  His eyes flickered with panic. “You must, Virginia!”

  “Show me,” I said. “I will try with all my heart. Show me first.”

  He pulled me close, kissing me passionately.

  “Basta!” I said pushing him away. “The Pope will demand your life if the nuns catch you here.”

  Riccardo nodded. He tugged three times on the rope.

  The slack in the rope immediately went taut. He pulled hard with his right hand and slowly began scaling the wall. I heard him cursing in pain.

  As he neared the top of the wall, I could hear him gasping for air as he struggled to hang on to the rope.

  There was a small gap at the top of the wall where several of the bricks had fallen. He tried to swing his foot up to the top, flinging it like a puppet jerked on a string.

  But he couldn’t kick high enough, and he just knocked more bricks down on the far side. He swung from the rope tied to his waist, groaning,

  Again he tried. And again. Without the use of one arm, he could not hoist his weight up.

  The great door to the chapel creaked open, and I heard the rustle of habits. The suoras were returning to their cells. While it was quite dark in the corner of the courtyard where Riccardo struggled, he would be spotted soon enough by the sharp-eyed nightwatch.

  If the abbess learned of this escape attempt, she would confine me to my cell for weeks—months. Stale bread and water to starve me. With Suor Loretta dead, there was no one to intervene on my behalf.

  I spotted the nightwatch lighting her lantern at the portal of the chapel. The flame grew bright as the oil fed the fire.

  I whispered, “Riccardo! The nightwatch approaches!”

  He spun a half-turn on his rope, looking over his shoulder. He called to his friends.

  “Ranieri! Giuglio! Venite su, aiutatemi! Subito!”

  The nun picked up her lantern, walking her rounds. She checked the cells first. She was coming our way.

  A head appeared at the top of the wall. The young man hung down headfirst, his legs apparently anchored by invisible hands on the other side of the stonework. He looped his arms under Riccardo’s armpits, hoisting him high enough to swing a leg over the wall.

  As the path of light from the nightwatch’s lantern touched my face, I saw both men disappear.

  I heard a thud on the other side of the wall, muffled cries.

  “Riccardo! Riccardo!” cried men’s voices. “Dio mio!”

  Then silence.

  “Silvia,” said the nightwatch, spotting me. “What are you doing out here?”

  I bent over, pretending to vomit.

  “The heavy smells of death from the donkey sickened me,” I said. “He is purging his last. I had to breathe fresh air.”

  The suora’s face puckered in concern. She brought the lantern to my face.

  “You look pale indeed. Shall I escort you to the dispensary?”

  “No, no. Only a few minutes of fresh air. Then I shall return to my charge. Suor Loretta’s donkey will not live much longer, I fear.”

  That night, a few hours before dawn, as Fedele’s legs buckled under him, I knelt beside him, stroking his neck.

  I walked to the door of the little shed and stared out into the starry predawn sky.

  Had I really been so close to freedom?

  Nothing had changed. I was accompanying a dying donkey to the edge of his life. He would surely die before dawn.

  I had tasted kisses for the first time, finding them irresistible. I ached for the touch of Riccardo.

  But I would remain alone, a prisoner. Suor Loretta had left me, and with her death, I lost my protection from the abbess. The abbess hated me for my knowledge of her lie. I knew she had forsaken her promise to grant the earnest wish of the old nun.

  I touched my lips, my tongue remembering the spicy warmth of Riccardo’s mouth closing over mine. I had felt a weakness in my legs as he pressed me against him. I recognized for the first time an urgency, a passion for something other than horses.

  Would I ever feel that sensation, that desire again?

  Fedele’s eyes lost their focus, clouding under his long lashes. He struggled to breathe, a hoarse gasp expanding his rib cage, then the guttural grunt of air expelled. My fingers stroked the cross on his back, tracing down his spine, gently finishing the black horizontal line across the top of his shoulders.

  Fedele drew his last breath just before dawn. His body shuddered, a massive spasm, and lost control of all his muscles at once. Urine soaked the hem of my skirt as I pressed close to stroke his long ears.

  Then he lay very still.

  But I could still sense his spirit lingering there in the dim light of the shed. I cried quietly so as not to chase it away too quickly.

  CHAPTER 95

  Ferrara, Castello d’Este

  AUGUST 1591

  In the early evening, Alfonso, Duca di Ferrara, greeted a guest: the scion of the Monte dei Paschi banking family, Giacomo di Torreforte.

  “I am glad to make your acquaintance finally, Signor di Torreforte.” The duca beckoned the visitor forward into the Lion’s Tower. With a gesture, he dismissed the manservant who accompanied the visitor.

  Giacomo raised his eyes to the frescoes high above him.

  “This is the Sala dell’Aurora,” said Duca Alfonso. “The winged goddess driving the chariot of three white horses carries the sun, the light of day. She follows Aurora, who runs ahead with two candles.”

  “Magnificent,” murmured Giacomo. “The power of the horses, the strength and beauty of the goddess.”

  When the doors of the apartment were closed, the duca stepped closer to his visitor. “I awaited your visit a decade ago . . . but you never appeared, Signor di Torreforte.”

  Di Torreforte bowed his head. “Forgive me, Duca, for that great error in decorum. But many events have transpired since that first folly.”

  “Indeed?” said the duke. “Pray tell me. In detail.”

  “I obtained permission to visit the d’Este Court and Your Serenissimo under false pretense, at the specific request of Granduca Francesco de’ Medici.”

  Duca Alfonso arched an eyebrow.

  “I appreciate your candor. I am aware of many transgressions of the de’ Medici. One more do
es not surprise me. Continue, Signor di Torreforte.”

  “I shall confess all if you are willing to hear, Duca,” said Giacomo. “But I also require your favor to rectify my errors.”

  Alfonso settled back in his chair.

  “You surprise me, Signor di Torreforte. You admit to a lie—you entered Ferrara as an envoy from Florence, yet never appeared for an audience. And now you have the gall to ask me—no, to require—a favor?”

  “If you would grant me the good grace to listen to my story, I will tell you how I have erred, committed unforgivable trespasses against man, woman, and God. Then I will beg you to help me right a grievous wrong committed here in your dukedom.”

  Duca Alfonso nodded.

  Who is this Tuscan who now betrays the de’ Medici?

  “Begin. I am curious to hear your tale.”

  The oil burned low in the lamps. The duca listened in silence, his eyes occasionally blinking in astonishment.

  When Giacomo di Torreforte finally concluded his story, there was silence in the room for many minutes. At last the duca nodded. “I must consider what you have told me,” he said, “and decide what course of action to take.”

  As di Torreforte rose to take his leave, a messenger arrived from the convent with a letter from the abbess. With it was a folded parchment sealed with red wax bearing the imprint of a crowned eagle . . . the emblem of the d’Este family.

  “Wait!” commanded the duca, lifting his hand. “This news may concern you, Signor di Torreforte.”

  Alfonso scanned both letters, then walked to the fireplace, tossed the parchments into the flames, and watched them burn.

  Stirring the ashes, he turned his head and said, “You may have a chance to atone for your sins more quickly than one might have thought, Signor di Torreforte.”

  CHAPTER 96

  Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

  AUGUST 1591

  When the royal horsemaster arrived at the convent, the mother superior’s hand reached for her rosary beads.

  Why would the horsemaster come here? This is only an old ass that finally died.