The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (24 page)

C
HAPTER
58

Florence, Pitti Palace

J
UNE
1581

“Will we attend Siena’s Palio?” Bianca’s brocade dress rustled as she sashayed this way and that, admiring her velvet slippers, a gift from the Venetian Court. “I must have new dresses for my appearance on the balcony of the Palazzo Pubblico. I cannot let the Senesi see me in anything less than splendor—”

“What do you know of Siena’s Palio?” asked the granduca. He stroked her arm as if trying to erase her thoughts. “Why would you want to travel the dusty roads when you have Boboli Gardens and our country estates?

“It will be a grand festival,” she said. “Or so say our courtiers who bring news from Siena.” She smoothed his fingers under her own.

He dropped her hand, frowning.

He is in a foul mood. No matter.

Bianca’s white hand reached for a ripe fig on a blue ceramic fruit tray. As she bit into the fruit, the folds of her double chin trembled.

“I am told the contradas will race against each other as if they were nobili houses. And there is a twelve-year-old villanella riding! Delicious! This is a spectacle I must see, Francesco. Imagine, a little girl—”

“Who told you this?” he snapped.

Bianca pulled in a breath. She knew how to handle Francesco de’ Medici. Had she not managed to marry him secretly only months after Giovanna’s death?

“I heard it from Governor di Montauto at dinner last night. He praises this girl as if she were a goddess. He says she is given the most difficult colts and, despite their rearing and bucking, clings to their back—”

“Like a trick monkey!” said Francesco. “And she is fourteen, not twelve.”

Bianca swallowed the last juicy mouthful of fig.
Basta! I am the Granduchessa of Tuscany now. I will not endure rudeness!
She cocked her head at her husband.

“Francesco, why does this girl disturb you? I should think it is entertaining to see the best horsemen of Tuscany look like fools—racing against a shepherdess.”

“Because that shepherdess is a Senese!” said Francesco. “You do not understand the Senese, or you would not be so flippant! They will make her into some kind of symbol of rebellion.”

Bianca laughed, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin.

“Oh, really, Francesco! She is not going to
win
the Palio. She is simply a delightful diversion. And I should like to see a girl race the streets of Siena in her skirts. Please?”

Francesco glared at the granduchessa as if she were mad.

“You do not understand politics, Bianca. This is not for your amusement. You cannot understand the significance of this for Siena and Florence.”

“Oh, really, Francesco—”

He snatched her linen napkin and threw it to the floor.

“And stop devouring everything in sight!”

C
HAPTER
59

Siena, Pugna Hills

J
UNE
1581

My zio Giovanni came as often as he could to watch me ride. He especially liked to watch the training of Orione. But I noticed his fits of coughing as he bent low over his knees in spasms.

At first I thought it was the dust that kicked up from the tufa
in the arena. But then I saw that no one else was coughing, no one else bending over to spit, leaning against the post like an old man.

I rode up into the hills where we kept our flocks to visit him. I never went by our cottage, for I had vowed never to see Zia Claudia again as long as I lived.

Zio Giovanni and I developed a stronger bond than we ever had when I was a baby or young girl. I was nearly fourteen now, and though still considered a ragazza, I knew that other girls my age in the village had already married and were young mothers.

“Virginia!” cried my uncle. He was using his staff more and more to support his weight. “What beauty do you ride today?”

I was on a particularly skittish horse named Nero, who reared when I brought him closer to smell Zio’s hand.

I leaned forward to keep my seat. My skirt flew back, ballooning behind me. Nero heard the flap, rearing all the more.

“Tranquillo! Easy, boy. Easy, boy,” I called to him.

“Brava
,
Virginia, brava!”

When the colt had settled enough that only a thin white ring shone in his eyes, I spoke again, through my seat and hands, communicating calm.

“This is good for him,” I said. “He needs to see more, get away from the stable. He has no experience beyond his paddock.”

“You will need that skill at the mossa,” said my uncle, nodding. “So many accidents happen there. Too many fantini have fallen before even crossing the rope.”

“I will not let Caramella sweat,” I said. “I am riding her now in the streets of Siena. She sees the city’s hawkers, the ox carts, the splash of the chamber pots, the crush of people. I have ridden her among the stalls of the market, past the tanner’s vats, between the fishmonger’s stand and wine casks. Everywhere there is confusion, noise, and excitement.

“She will not sweat at the mossa, Zio, I swear it. I will be one with her.”

I slid off the colt’s back.

“He needs to have a new experience. Let’s take him among the sheep.”

We walked side by side toward the sheepfold. I caught my uncle looking from me to the horse.

“Cosa?”
I asked. “What?”

“I cannot believe that our little shepherdess has grown up to be a fantino. Look at this magnificent creature.”

“He is a beauty,” I said, admiring the colt.

“And Orione?” asked Zio.

I smiled.

“My heart will always belong to Orione. But Carlo Ruffino thinks he is too tempestuous to be a Palio horse. He still will not take a bit—I always ride him in Stella’s collo di cavallo
.
”

“To forever ride the stallion in a halter? No, you would never be able to control him in the turns of the Palio.”

“It is the only way to ride him. He fights iron in his mouth. And I am the only rider he has had on his back. But you should see how he gallops up hills! That is the time I can truly control him. Coming down, he is wild. He takes me for quite a ride!”

Zio raised his hand to my head. He let his hand slip down my hair in a caress.

“You must know how proud I am of you, ciccia. And how proud your babbo and mamma would be,” he said, pulling me close. “Yes, you would make your parents proud.”

“Carlo says Orione does not have the testa
for the Palio,” I said, chattering on
.
“And it is the head that is most important. To stay calm, to focus, says Padrino.”

One of the ewes that I had raised from a bottle caught my scent. She
maaa
-ed and bounded up to me.

The colt reared, pulling the reins from my hand. He stood snorting, his nostrils so wide I could see the red flesh far inside his nose.

“Easy, tranquillo, tranquillo,” I cooed, my fingers hooking the loose reins.

I brought colt and ewe together slowly.
Poco a poco
.

“There now, Nero,” I said. “This is Petra. She is a good friend. She used to keep me warm at night.”

I remembered the years when the tangy odor of the grass in Petra’s cud was the smell that accompanied sleep. I would entwine my fingers deep in her wool, the way I would later do with Orione’s mane. Before Orione, Petra and Dog were my only companions, night after lonely night.

“There, much better. Friends now, no?”

“You are still a shepherdess, Virginia,” my zio said, laughing. Then he began to cough.

“I am a horse trainer, Zio! I—” The coughing became choking.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He waved me away. “Nothing,” he said.

But then he bent over, the way I had seen him do at Vignano. I watched him spit bloody sputum.

“Zio
,
you are not well!”

“Nothing, niente!” he repeated between spasms.

“We must go speak with Padrino Brunelli. He can make you a tonic to cure your ailment. Come!”

“I cannot—leave—the sheep.”

“I will stay here with Nero. I will spend the night. You must go!”

Zio nodded to make me stop nagging, but it meant nothing. Then he collapsed in the grass, his hand clutching his chest.

“Zio!”

He groaned, his cheek mashed down into the grassy loam.

I galloped Nero as hard as he could run to Brunelli’s stable. Nero ran all the faster, knowing where we were headed.

Giorgio set down the bucket in his hand, seeing something was wrong.

“It’s Zio Giovanni!” I said, swinging down off the colt. He reared back, the hem of my skirt frightening him.

“I have left him in the hillside with the sheep. He—he—”

Giorgio called out, “Babbo! Giovanni Tacci is ill! I will fetch your bag.”

He turned to a stable boy leading a mare into the barn for a rubdown.

“Hitch up the wagon with the young roan at once!”

Padrino drove the wagon while Giorgio and I raced ahead to the hillside.

The sheep were scattered along the grassy banks, while Zio’s two dogs chased them toward the lower pasture. I saw Zio’s body in the exact same position.

The wind lifted a tuft of his graying hair.

My zio Giovanni lived, but God had taken his speech. He could walk with the help of a cane, but only stumbling steps. He moved his eyes slowly, like a baby trying to focus.

One morning when he awoke, he could not even raise his hand. He lay in bed, paralyzed.

I visited the house daily, though my zia did not acknowledge my existence. Still, she did not chase me from the cottage, as she knew that she and my zio needed me more than ever to help with the sheep.

“I promise I will tend to the ewes and help the cousins as much as I can. Do not worry, zio,” I said, pressing my cheek to his. “Do not worry, I will take care of you.”

I could see by the desperate light in his eye he understood.

C
HAPTER
60

Siena to Vignano

M
AY
1581

Governor di Montauto breathed in the fresh air of the countryside. It was still cold enough in Siena for wood fires to burn in the hearths, choking the city with the lingering smoke of winter.

Only beyond the great walls, in the country, was one able to see and taste the first signs of a late spring. Birdsong filled his ears as he rode his mare along the muddy road, through pastures where the red poppies patched the green with brilliant swatches of crimson.

Di Montauto pulled up his mare, leaning on the pommel of his saddle. His weight made the leather creak.

“Beautiful,” he sighed as he surveyed the rolling hills. By his side, his stablemaster, Fausto, nodded silently.

The governor of Siena insisted on riding, rather than taking the ornate governor’s coach. At heart, di Montauto was a horseman, and Siena’s passion for the Palio had fanned his own ardor over the years. There was nothing he loved more than the Palio—and he was excited that this year, the contradas would host their own horse race for the first time.

Despite being a de’ Medici pick for governor, Federigo di Montauto had been seduced by Siena’s charms. It was not a popular sentiment at the de’ Medici Court, and the governor had to contain his enthusiasm for Siena and its people when talking to the granduca.

But sometimes, despite di Montauto’s best efforts, his affection for the Senese spilled over into his conversations and letters. It was then he would notice the sour look on the granduca’s face, as if he had sipped bad wine.

Gazing out at the beauty of the Senese hills, di Montauto knew he would have to do a better job of controlling his passion for his new home—lest he lose his position, his privilege, perhaps his life.

“Over there,” said his stablemaster, breaking into the governor’s thoughts. “The girl—you can see her. See, just there, on the crest of the hill. Virginia Tacci.”

Governor di Montauto lifted his hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the sun.

“Dio mio!” he whispered. “She has grown. No longer such a little child perched on top of her mount. Look how she commands her horse now. She truly rides like”—he was going to say angel, but there were no horses in heaven for angels to ride, were there?—“a goddess,” he finished, resolutely. “This girl rides like a goddess. And the horse! Look at the horse she rides.”

Di Montauto studied the bulging lines of the horse’s neck, the muscled torso and haunches.

“It is a stallion! Look how she is one with him as he gallops. What a horse!”

“I believe it may be Oca contrada’s stallion, from the d’Elci dam Stella.”

“Stella?” said di Montauto. “I watched her win the Palio twice! He does not resemble her. He looks more like—an Arabian horse, but much larger, sturdier of bone.”

The stableman said, “Stella was bred to a wild Maremma horse, Tempesta. Tempesta has never been ridden. Too pazzo—crazy and dangerous! The Duchessa d’Elci insisted she wanted an Oca foal from him.”

Di Montauto smiled slowly, watching the girl gallop the stallion across the poppy fields, cutting a swath through the pools of red.

“What a horse,” he said, then he whispered it yet again. “What a horse!”

When Carlo came to the stables, Giorgio stood in the stall with Virginia.

“I am sorry, Virginia,” said Carlo, leaning over the boards. His voice was soft and gentle. “The Duchessa d’Elci sends her apologies as well. It is for the Palio we do this, you realize. We must keep the governor’s favor.”

Virginia’s fingers entwined around Orione’s mane and neck. “Please let me have a few minutes to say good-bye to him.”

Giorgio nodded to Carlo.

“We will bring out the stallion in just a minute, Carlo.”

“Sì, signore.”

“How could they?” spat Virginia. “How could the duchessa do such a thing? I am the only one who can ride him. The only one!”

“Listen, Virginia. Governor di Montauto is all that stands between Siena and the tyranny of the granduca. If the duchessa refuses to sell Orione to him, it could be disastrous. If di Montauto said one word to Florence against us, Francesco would forbid our Contradas’ Palio. With joy.”

“But Giorgio, Orione is mine, I saved his life!” She choked back tears, tears that Giorgio had never seen before, despite the many falls and injuries of learning to ride, despite hunger and loss, the lonely childhood of an orphan, the cruelties of a hateful aunt.

Never had he seen Virginia Tacci cry.

Outside the stable door, they heard Florentine accents. Hooves clattered on the paving stones. Carlo, waiting respectfully at a distance from Orione’s stall, went out to greet Governor di Montauto’s horsemen.

Giorgio pushed back her hair, wet with tears. He whispered in her ear.

“In spirit, he will always be yours. But one girl’s love for a horse cannot stand in the way of Siena’s Palio. Think of the contradas! Think of Siena—”

“But it is Orione!” Virginia sobbed. “Giorgio—it’s Orione!”

“The Palio,” said Giorgio, shaking Virginia’s shoulders. He pulled her arms away from the horse to make her look at him. She struggled, twisting away, but he held her tightly by the shoulders.

“This is bigger than your love for a horse, Virginia. Listen to me. It is the
Palio
, our Palio—the way it always should be. The contradas of Siena. This is our chance to see Siena united and proud again.”

He shook her.

“Look at me, Virginia. You will ride Caramella for Drago. A shepherd girl, a poor villanella—the impossible! If you do anything that interferes with Governor di Montauto’s pleasure, there will be no Palio to ride.”

She stopped crying. He knew she was listening at last.

“If you do not let Orione go, people will laugh forever at your dream—
our
dream, Virginia. You do this for Siena.”

He let go of her shoulders and tied the leather lead to Orione’s halter. She shook, holding back sobs, but in her shaking, she nodded her head.

Yes.