The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (15 page)

P
ART
III

Murder in Tuscany

A
NNI
1576–1578

C
HAPTER
37

Tuscany

J
ULY
1576

Cafaggiolio, the most ancient of the de’ Medici villas, lay several hours’ travel north of Florence. With its crenellated walls and tower, the villa looked remarkably like the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence.

As the coach rumbled north from Florence, Leonora dabbed her eyes with her kerchief. The summer dust of the road penetrated the silk curtains of the carriage, coating her clothes and skin.

Pietro sat across from her, his face rigid and sullen. His expression never changed, despite the rocking and sudden jolts as the carriage ran over the rutted road.

Little Cosimo, usually so mobile and curious, sat motionless. He stared at the stitching of his mother’s skirts rather than lift his eyes to his father’s face.

“How fine we should have time together,” said Leonora, stroking little Cosimo’s head. “Just the three of us, away from the Court and the heat of Florence.”

Pietro did not answer but pulled the curtains wide to watch the progress along the road.

Both Leonora and Cosimo moved away from the window, coughing, as dust blew into the coach.

Peasants walking along the road stared, wide-eyed, at the de’ Medici coach. Leonora caught sight of an old woman with a bundle of fagots strapped to her back. The woman’s face was a map of creases, her gray head covered with a black shawl. Leonora’s last glimpse out the window was the woman mouthing words to her, making the sign of the cross with her gnarled hand.

Leonora shuddered, pulling Cosimo close to her, despite his sticky dampness.

Her mind flew to the latest missives from Naples. Both her father, Garza, and her uncle Luigi begged her to leave Florence at once and come directly to the kingdom of Napoli.

Leonora, now more de’ Medici than di Toledo, was troubled by their concern. Surely they must have reason to want her to leave her husband. She wondered what secrets and what gossip had prompted them to demand she return to Naples.

What did they know in Naples that she did not?

The de’ Medici retinue had arrived at Cafaggiolio the day before to ready the villa for their master and mistress.

Maria took little Cosimo in her arms, kissing his cheeks while murmuring endearments in Spanish. She turned and handed the boy to an Italian maid, with instructions to take him directly into the kitchen to be fed his luncheon.

“Madonna,” said Maria, her old knees creaking under the burden of a curtsy. “How was the trip from Florence?”

“Get out of our way!” snapped Pietro, nearly pushing his wife out of the carriage.

A footman stepped forward, taking Leonora’s hand so she did not stumble and fall.

“Grazie, Simone,” said Leonora with relief. She swallowed quickly, regaining her composure. But her cheeks burned with humiliation.

“I have a great need to make water,” Pietro said, bolting from the coach. “You and the lady can make your hen cluckings in her chambers, beyond my earshot. Such chatter gives me a headache.”

As he strode toward a manicured shrub, Leonora caught her breath. She struggled to remain calm.

“Cafaggiolio is looking grand under your expert care,” she said to the servants clustered around her. “I commend your efforts. I am sure we will be most pleased with our stay here.”

“All the arrangements for tonight’s dinner party and dancing have been made,” said Pietro’s secretary. He cast a quick look at the bush and his master. Seeing him ill disposed, he turned to Leonora.

“I am sure you will find a sufficiency of gaieties planned, my duchessa. And the hunting is said to be superb this year. We have your two favorite horses awaiting you in the stable.”

“Perfetto!”
said Leonora, smiling. She breathed in the scent of freshly cropped hay in the fields. “What a relief to leave Florence for the wholesome goodness of the countryside. Sweet Cafaggiolio has never looked so lovely in my eyes.”

As Leonora picked up her skirts to walk in the villa, a black crow flew from the cypress trees to the high wall, cawing harshly in the sunshine.

The evening’s guests included nobili who had summer homes in the north and who were gladdened by the de’ Medici invitation to dine.

“She is truly a beauty,” said a neighboring nobleman, Signor Mignone, gesturing with his wine goblet to Leonora on the dance floor. “Duca, you certainly have the most beautiful woman in all Tuscany.”

“Shut up,” said Pietro, gulping what was left in his goblet.

The nobleman gasped at the insult. Before he could reply, Pietro added, “See how she dances without a care as to how tired I am. I loathe the air she breathes, the—”

A servant with an accent from Romagna, to the east, poured the de’ Medici prince more wine.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, his dark eyes gleaming. “Shall I inform the lady you would like to retire?”

Signor Mignone watched Pietro exchange looks with the servant. How strange he should import a servant from Romagna when his Florentine retinue had accompanied him.

Pietro de’ Medici was a strange being, Mignone thought, and never remotely equal to his enchanting wife.

“What a fine reception to Cafaggiolio!” said Leonora, lifting her arms so that the maids could remove her linen chemise. “I am afraid I have dampened all my clothes with my dancing. Such dashing men—”

“Will you wear the beaded nightdress, my lady? With the lacework at the neckline?”

A frown flickered over Leonora’s face. She did not wish a conjugal visit from her husband, but the way he had watched her with hungry eyes that night had made the event a possibility.

Leonora exchanged a look with Maria, who nodded, lowering her eyes. It was her signal that the duca had requested that his wife visit his chambers.

“Yes, please, Maria. And my perfumed oil, please. I will have you scent my clothes, please.”

Leonora sat down at her dressing table as Maria, tired and wan, brushed her mistress’s long red hair.

“I wish you would take my invitation to forgo these late nights, Maria,” said Leonora, catching the old woman’s eyes in her looking glass. “It is far too late for you to be up.”

“Whenever you need me, I shall be here,” said Maria, her smiling eyes crinkling with crow’s-feet. But she stifled a yawn, born from fatigue deep in her bones. “And who else can untangle your hair as well as I? Have I not cared for you since you were a baby?”

Leonora’s heart ached suddenly for her dead mother.

“I love you, Maria,” she said. “Dearly.”

Maria stopped the brush halfway down her mistress’s tresses. She sought Leonora’s eyes in the mirror.

“That is the dearest gift you could ever give me,” said the servant. “I have loved you since the day you were born.” Her eyes misted.

A ferocious rap at the door made them both jump. A second later, three men rushed into the room.

Leonora started to scream when a hand was clapped over her mouth.

“Your husband, Pietro de’ Medici, commanded us to prepare you for his visit.”

A bearded man pushed Leonora’s old maid along the red tiled corridor to her small bedchamber.

“Go, old woman. Gather your belongings,” he snarled. “You will have only a minute to take what you can carry.”

Maria stumbled in the dim light, the flickering sconces casting pools of moving shadows in the dark hall. She was too shocked to cry, too shaken to protest.

In her room, Maria’s hands fumbled among her few belongings. She took the crucifix given to her on her Saint’s Day by her mother, and a locket with a strand of red hair from her beloved mistress.

She wrapped her gray hair in a black woolen shawl. Furtively she made the sign of the cross, and then kissed her fingertips.

“Adesso!”
said the guard. Now! “The coach is waiting.”

The old servant stared in bewilderment.

The guard pushed her toward the stone staircase. Pietro appeared above, his bulging eyes staring down the flight of stairs. His mouth was twisted in rage.

“Get rid of her!”

The guard pushed the old woman again, making her stumble and grasp the marble banister.

Above her, she could hear Leonora’s sobbing.

“But. My mistress—”

“Get in the coach, you old Spanish cow,” hissed the guard, “before he commands me to break your neck.”

C
HAPTER
38

Florence, Palazzo de’ Medici, Via Larga

J
ULY
1576

Isabella opened her window wide, despite the street noise of the Florentine night. Midsummer, it was nearly impossible to sleep. She could smell the approach of rain, a mineral tang in the first cooling breeze of the season. The dampness would bring the deer out from the woods, making for good hunting.

Still, Isabella shuddered, thinking ahead to the next few weeks with her husband, Paolo Orsini.

“Come away from the window,” whispered her lover. “I cannot bear your absence. There has been too much of that.”

The de’ Medici princess smiled, studying Troilo Orsini’s body twisted in the sheets. His left flank was naked, and she could make out the strong riding muscles in his buttocks and thighs. His jousting arm was sculpted with sinewy tendons and hard muscle, born from carrying and thrusting the heavy lance. His aquiline nose, aristocratic and thoroughly Orsini, tilted toward her, eager to nuzzle her neck. No wonder he was a favorite in the Court of Catherine de’ Medici.

She thought of the thick bands of fat that circled the waist of Troilo’s cousin, her husband, Paolo. Next week, Paolo would take her to the de’ Medici estate of Cerreto Guidi for time together as man and wife.

His sudden affectionate letters made her skin prickle with fear. She began counting Paolo’s mistresses, slowly touching her fingertips in the dark.

Isabella, deep in thought, jumped when she heard Troilo’s voice from the bed.

“Why do you torture me? Come back to my arms, Isabella.”

Isabella gave a last look out the window, her eyes searching in the blackness of the clouds.

“It is going to storm,” she said, sliding back into her lover’s arms.

“All the better to mask your screams of pleasure,” said Troilo, sliding his lips down her neck.

The first clap of thunder struck. Isabella shuddered.

“Is that from the thunder or my kisses?” said Troilo.

A rap on the door made them both freeze.

“Quickly,” said Isabella. “Into my dressing room.”

She donned her chemise and robe.

“Who is it?”

One of her ladies-in-waiting entered the chamber.

“Forgive me, my lady,” she said. “I would not disturb you—”

“Speak!”

“The Spanish maid, Maria, Leonora’s servant, begs to speak to you in private. She says it is a matter of life or death.”

“Show her in immediately!”

Old Maria, wet as a ship rat and smelling of damp wool, entered Isabella’s bedchamber. Her clothes were splattered in mud, her face white as chalk.

“Come in, Maria. What has happened? Here, sit in a chair before you collapse.”

The maidservant helped the old woman to a chair, then began lighting candles around the room.

“Lucia, send for some wine to revive her.”

When the door closed, Isabella knelt beside the old servant. She took her hand.

“What has happened? Why are you not with Leonora?”

“Oh, my lady! They dragged me from her bedchamber. Your brother Pietro. I have never seen his face more bedeviled.”

“Why did you take your leave?”

“The guards forced me, shoving me into the coach. They left me on a wet, muddied road outside Florence’s gates.”

“Leonora? How fares she?”

“In great danger, my lady. I fear for her life. We waited in the courtyard a few moments before the coach drove away—there was some problem with the horse, the driver was shouting. The lights were still ablaze in the master’s chamber. And I saw her silhouette in the window, her hand raised, fending off someone. The Duca de’ Medici, if I dare say so.”

“And then?”

“I heard him scream in pain, in agony. A screech to raise the devil!”

“And then?”

“Then two large silhouettes blocked the window.”

Maria broke into sobs, her face in her hands.

“My lady, forgive me. They were pulling her away.”