His face brightened like a child’s. The groom unfastened the girth and withdrew the saddle.
“Give me a boost up,” I said, bending my leg. “I can no longer swing up the way I did as a girl.”
Giacomo cupped my foot in his hand. “Uno, due, tre!”
I settled on the horse’s back. To feel the warmth and the symmetry of the horse under me gave me a rush of memories.
“Open the gates!”
I fell off many times. With age, I learned, each fall is harder to endure. I limped for months.
The mare, who was gentle enough and well used to such foolishness as a rider who could not stay on her back, looked at me almost in remorse every time I tumbled off. Slowly—too slowly for my impatience—I recovered my muscles and balance.
One day, I rode to the ancient church, its walls covered in moss. A young priest was sweeping the paving stones.
“Buongiorno!” I greeted him. “I am . . .”
“Excuse me, signorina, but I know who you are!” said the priest, smiling. He set his broom against a column. “I am Prete Mariano. Welcome to Corsano, Signorina Notari di Giovanni.”
The name still didn’t fit me, as if I were wearing someone else’s clothes. Still, it served its purpose to conceal my identity, as I had sworn to do. I owed that much to those who had risked so much to save me.
“I come with a proposal, Prete. I wish to teach the village children how to read and write.”
“Signorina, how generous!” said the priest. But the smile slid from his face. “I regret we have not the money for such instruction,”
“Signor di Torreforte will pay for the books, parchment, quills, and ink,” I told the priest.
“Have you consulted him, Signorina Silvia?” the priest asked. “Such a generous gift—”
“No, not yet,” I answered. “But he will provide all we need for the school. I am quite certain of it.”
I knew Giacomo would deny me nothing.
I taught the boys and girls—for I insisted girls be included—the rudimentary skills of reading and writing. The poor children of Corsano could spare only a few hours away from their chores each week, but slowly I taught them their letters and the magic of the written word.
I called our little school L’Accademia di Santa Caterina.
Then, one morning, I awoke to a shrill neigh in the courtyard and the strike of iron horseshoes on the cobblestones.
I opened my shutters to see a chestnut mare, her neck as defined as a Roman sculpture. Those strong curves and bulges, the fine solid head and body, made my heart skip a beat.
“Buongiorno, signorina!” called Giacomo, smiling up at me, though he could barely tear his eyes away from the mare.
“Come down and meet your new mare, Celeste.”
“She is—she’s bred from—” I could not finish my sentence.
“Sì! Caramella and Orione. It took a pretty penny to pry her away from the d’Este stables in Ferrara. She is in foal, and he was not the least inclined to sell her. But it seems someone whispered in the granduca’s ear who would be her new owner.”
I raced down the stairs so fast, I did not realize I was still in my bedclothes. My linen shift fluttered as I raced across the cobblestones, making the mare shy. Then she swung her big head around toward me.
Caramella’s eyes. Orione’s neck. His body.
I pressed my nose into her warm neck and sobbed.
One day the following spring, I was riding home from the hills when I saw a coach approach Corsano. A woman with a young boy with red hair, perhaps ten years old, descended. The driver unloaded a leather bag from the top of the coach, and the woman and boy each took a handle and walked toward the villa.
I cantered up to them. The woman was a striking brunette, her hair shot through with streaks of silver. Her green eyes sparkled as she gazed up at me and smiled.
“Virginia Tacci,” she said in a Florentine accent. “I see you are riding again.”
I hesitated, astonished. “I am afraid you are mistaken. My name is Silvia.”
“Oh, I am not mistaken, Virginia. I want you to meet my son, Giorgio.”
My heart stopped. I could not breathe. I slid down from the mare.
“Go on, Giorgio. Give your Zia Virginia a kiss,” said the woman. Her eyes held mine. “I am Carlotta Spessa. We have a special bond between us, villanella.”
I swung down from the saddle, held my reins in one hand, and opened my arms wide to the boy in front me.
In a heartbeat, I recognized him.
“Mamma says you will teach me to ride,” he said. I studied his brown eyes, soft as his father’s. His white, freckled hands were sensitive, his artist’s fingers as tapered as altar candles.
I wrapped my arms around him, squeezing him hard. The gelding’s head swung toward us, his reins pulled tight. Then the boy looked at me impishly, taking a stubborn stance the way his father used to do, with his palms turned out at his side.
“I want to ride the Palio,” he said. “Like you did.”
I was forced to wipe the tears from my eyes with one hand. I could not let go of the little boy’s hand. I felt each throb of his heartbeat, my fingers enlaced tight with his.
“How did you find me?” I asked Carlotta, watching her strap her bag onto my mare’s saddle.
“Granduca Ferdinando told me. He is a very different from his brother, Virginia. It gives me hope for Tuscany. For us.”
“Who—how did—” I asked.
“It is best you ask no more questions,” she said quietly. “I have promises to keep.”
I shook my head in wonderment.
“Come, Giorgio,” I said, releasing his hand. “Lead the mare. Yes, there on the left side. Do not let her lead you! She knows the way back to the stables.”
We walked together, our boots mashing down the dry winter grass, exposing the new green of the coming spring.
“I have a surprise for you, Giorgio,” I said when we reached the stables. I handed the mare to a groom, directing him to carry the bag into the villa after that.
I took them to the stall to see Orione’s newborn grandson.
“You will ride the Palio, Giorgio. On this horse, one day. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Giorgio’s eyes grew large, his freckled face breaking into a lopsided smile.
“May I pet him?”
“Pet him! Oh, Giorgio, he is yours . . . you must spend every hour with him, feed him, groom him, sleep in the stables by his side. I shall talk to Signor di Torreforte, but I am sure he will agree most wholeheartedly.”
“Mine!” cried the boy. “Mamma, did you hear! My own horse!”
The foal nickered, sensing the emotion in the air. The high-pitched whinny of a foal never failed to make me smile.
He approached little Giorgio and began exploring the boy’s smell, his tiny horse nostrils flaring wide.
Carlotta took my hand and squeezed it.
“We have waited many long years for you to return, Virginia. Your secret is safe with us. I have instructed Giorgio to call you Silvia in public. I have told him Virginia Tacci is a magic name, a secret never to share with anyone.”
I turned toward her. She was a beautiful woman with high coloring, despite the streaks of silver in her black hair. Her looks were dramatic, lightning and thunder. I could see why Giorgio had fallen in love with her.
“A magic name,” I murmured. I stared off into the distance, toward Siena.
“Sì. Perhaps it is.”
A fortnight later, a carriage arrived at night. I heard the earsplitting whinny of a horse and the efforts of the driver trying to calm him.
“Tranquillo, tranquillo,” he called. Then he muttered, just loud enough to hear, “You devil!”
In the moonlight, I could see that the horse causing the trouble was not the one that pulled the carriage but one tied to a lead, following behind. He balked, rearing at the torches in the courtyard.
I pulled on my tunic and ski
rt, hurrying down the stairs. Giacomo was already in the courtyard, paying the coachman.
“He has been the devil to lead,” said the man. “I thought he would break his rope more than a dozen times on our way from the Maremma. He almost overturned the coach itself. Look how he rears!”
I stopped dead, staring at the horse. A white star on his forehead gleamed in the moonlight. I turned to Giacomo, my face frozen in shock.
“Go on, Virginia,” he whispered. “He is yours. Take him.”
In an instant, without thinking, I hugged Giacomo fiercely. Did I? Did I really hug the man I had declared my enemy forever? Yes. Yes, I did.
And then I spun again and rushed toward the black stallion with the white star, wanting to fling my arms around his neck. He would not let me. He shied away.
I was not the skinny shepherdess he had known since birth.
I approached him again, and he shook his head and reared, his front hoofs slashing the air.
“Easy, boy,” I said. And then I began to whistle.
Nella piazza di città . . .
Orione hesitated, not quite remembering. His ears pricked up, focusing on me. Then he lowered his head, snorting in my scent. I approached him, my hand out to his muzzle. Giacomo untied the rope silently, fastening the end in a knot under the halter.
He held his arm out for me silently to give me a leg up.
I heard the barefoot clap of feet on the stones. A boy’s voice said, “Where is she taking him, Giacomo?”
“Wherever she wants,” he said.
Then I rode out the gates into the Crete moonlight.
We galloped through the fields, our silhouettes stretched long under the rising moon. I swung off Orione’s back at the foot of a lone cypress. I let him graze as I watched the torches on Siena’s walls. The city’s towers had diminished even more during my long absence, taken down stone by stone by the de’ Medici. Still, the great walls of Siena shone mystical and mighty on the hilltop. There is no better view of Siena than from Corsano. My padrino Cesare was right about that.
“Grazie, Padrino,” I whispered, kneeling in the grass. Giacomo had told me Cesare Brunelli had been buried here according to his wishes: in the Crete hills, overlooking Siena.
Grazie, Giorgio.
Orione mouthed at my hair the way he used to do as a colt, when I was a lonely shepherdess who dreamed of riding the Palio.
“Andiamo,” I said, standing up. I stroked his neck.
I led him to a rock wall and climbed up onto his back, gathering up the lead rope as reins. We headed across the rolling hills of the Crete in the bright moonlight that bleached the summer grass white, casting unworldly shadows. Under me, I felt the powerful muscles of the stallion contract and release as we galloped over the fields. On my left in the distance glittered the torchlights of Siena as the bell of the Torre del Mangia tolled the midnight hour.
In front of us was a fallen olive tree. Orione did not hesitate as I reined him toward it.
I laughed with abandon, just as she had so many years ago, as we soared through the air. Weightless.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In my search for historical documents on Virginia Tacci, I am indebted to many people and sources. Thank you all for the essential information that was the backbone of my novel.
IN SIENA:
So many people have helped me! This book is dedicated to them.
Contrada del Drago (and della Giraffa!): Deep gratitude to former Drago capitano Antonio De Luca and Dr. Silvia Giovanni De Luca, a loyal giraffina, who have sat beside me for hours, explaining the prova, the tratta, and the intricacies of the Palio. We have attended the cena generale of Drago, witnessed blessings for the horse and jockey in the De Lucas’ Drago and Giraffa contradas, watched sons Francesco and Giovanni’s alfieri (flag-throwing) talents in the Palio parades, and been included in many moments of Senese life through them.
Historical archivist of Contrada del Drago, Walter Benocci. Thank you for giving us the historical tour of your museum that snowy February day, and for making us feel like a part of your celebrations. Vai Drago!
Dragaiolo Fabrizio Gabrielli’s article on Virginia Tacci was one of the first I encountered that succinctly traced the history of this legendary hero of Siena. Thank you, Fabrizio, for your excellent introduction to Virginia Tacci.
To the Mignone family: Anna Rosa (Goga), Alvise, and Margherita. Goga, you introduced me to so many who have helped my historical research. Your beautiful Villa Corsano is featured in the last scenes of the novel. Your hospitality and friendship helped illuminate the wonders of Siena.
Thanks to Luigi Bruschelli, il Trecciolino, horseman extraordinaire. Gigi, my gratitude for spending time with me and introducing me to your magnificent horses. Your insight into the Palio as a fantino inspired many moments in this book.
Enormous admiration and gratitude to Rosanna Bonelli, “Rompicollo.” Meeting you was a highlight of my research. I thought of your words of experience as I wrote the character of Virginia Tacci. I will forever admire your courage. (And I hope you don’t mind my borrowing “Rompicollo” for Virginia. I hoped to have her spirit in my novel match yours.)
To the d’Elci and Pannocchieschi family: Writing this book in the d’Elci palazzo above Il Campo inspired me every moment. Thank you for our months there with you in the heart of Siena.
Accademia dei Rossi: Their journals (riviste) were a major source of information. Thank you, Ettore Pellegrini, for your assistance and gracious nature. And for your help in navigating sixteenth-century Italian poetry . . . and expletives!
Petra Pertici, scholar of medieval Siena. Thank you for your help and friendship.
Carla Galardi—your knowledge and love for Siena shines through in your historical tours.
Grazie a Cinci, La Contesessa Angiola Piccolomini. Thank you for your hospitality and the exquisite joy of spending evenings at your lovely palazzo. While sipping champagne and conversing, I was secretly writing scenes for this book in my mind!
Viola Carignani, Stelle di Palio editor in chief. Thank you for all your help. I enjoyed our interview on Toscana Canale 3 during Palio week 2012 and now follow your Palio coverage via live streaming in Colorado.
To Gina Stipo and your knowledge of Senese cookery in the renaissance. Experiencing the Palio with you was a blast! Kelly and Linda Hayes, thanks for our introduction years ago.
My stay at Castello di Quattro Torra with hosts Nicola and Laura Guerrini inspired several chapters of the book. What a setting! Thanks to Caterina for introducing me to Antonio De Luca!
Thank you to Patrizia Turrini and staff at the Historical Archive of Siena. Ms. Turrini was one of the editors of The Palio and Its Image, a magnificent tome for anyone interested in the Siena Palio.
Former captain of Aquila Vittoria Nepi, grazie for sharing your knowledge of both the Palio and Siena.
Silvia Notari, thank you for your friendship and our afternoon Italian lessons.
Simone Bocci, the proud chiocciolino. Thank you for including me in the festival dinner in the streets of your contrada.
Maria Serena Fantechi of Scuola Leonardo da Vinci. Your knowledge of and enthusiasm for the Palio sparked my imagination. How I loved your lectures and guided tours of Tuscany!
IN FLORENCE:
Alessandra Marchetti, Florentine guide extraordinaire. Thank you for your help walking through the Medici corridors of history.
Sheila Barker of the Medici Foundation. I could spend weeks just listening to your knowledge of the Medicis. Thank you for helping me find my way around the Bia research browser and the visit to the Medici archives. I would love to find another novel featuring the Medicis . . .
IN FERRARA:
I am grateful to the kind sisters of Monastero di Sant’Antonio for my guided visits.
IN GENERAL:
Caroline Murphy’s book Murder of a Medici Princess was instrumental in researching the deaths of Isabella de’ Medici and Leonora de’ Medici. Her book is highly recommended f
or further reading about the family of Cosimo I.
The Palio in Italian Renaissance Art, Thought, and Culture (2005): This dissertation was a treasure trove of information for me. Thank you, Dr. Elizabeth MacKenzie Tobey. What incredible research! You are a true sleuth for historical tales.
In researching Bianca Cappello, I relied heavily on Mary Steegmann’s book published in 1913, Bianca Cappello.
The poetry of Virginia Tacci is translated loosely from the Renaissance original of 1581. Riccardo De’ Luca’s words of ardor were actually the poetry of Domenico Tregiani: In lode de virgin a tacei corsiera il Palio ed Giove per il Dragoî (In praise of Virginia Tacci, rider of the Palio of Jupiter for the Drago).
Lucia Caretto helped me to translate and understand sixteenth-century documents written in Italian. In addition to teaching me Italian, she has long been a supporter of my fiction and a good friend.
Nancy Elisha, my beloved sister, has always encouraged my writing. She accompanied me to Siena in February 2012 while I researched this book.
Bridget Strang and the breathtaking Strang Ranch of Carbondale, Colorado, gave me inspiration every day. Bridget and Marie McAteer’s understanding of horses helped me, particularly in writing about Virginia’s training sessions. The venue for two National Sheepdog Finals, Strang Ranch gave me the opportunity to observe sheep 365 days a year, in addition to providing stellar horse training for my young mare, Shiner.
Thanks to the Aspen Writers Foundation, especially Jamie Kravitz and Maurice LaMee. Also grazie to Aspen’s Pitkin County Library: Susan Cottle and Margaret Durgy.
Isabella Kirkland, our friend and extraordinary artist. I appreciated your loan of books on renaissance painting and Max Doerner’s The Materials of the Artists and Their Use in Painting. Your careful demonstration preparing egg tempera paint (in your houseboat studio in Sausalito) inspired me.
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