The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (30 page)

“Her uncle is deaf and dumb,” said di Torreforte, taking a sip of wine. He looked down into the red liquid, reciting the story he was to tell on behalf of the granduca of Florence.

“Signor
. . .
Amaro, is it? Florentine name?” said the abbess.

“Sì, Madre.”

“Signor Amaro. What of the aunt who signed permission for her admittance to our convent? Did she have a loving relationship with the girl?”

“Silvia’s aunt cannot control her. Apparently she behaves provocatively with the village boys—”

The abbess blanched. She looked at Giacomo di Torreforte with severity.

“Is she with child?” asked the abbess, her patrician nose tipping down at the visitor. “I need to know now, signore.”

“No, no. Not that, Holy Mother. But Silvia’s benefactor—a distant cousin, really—is a very well-respected lady of good family in Lucca. She simply cannot allow this girl to besmirch the family’s reputation. It was all the talk of the village. Gossip travels great distances.”

“I see. The patroness is from Lucca, you say?” said the abbess. She arched her brow, scrutinizing the man across from her. “The sisters have told me that she speaks with some Tuscan accent. Possibly Senese?”

Giacomo di Torreforte blinked. He had not counted on the nuns pinpointing the accent. He nodded.

“Your holy sisters are quite astute. Yes, abbess. An old noble family, I am not permitted to say more. Silvia is of a poor branch of the family, near
. . .
Asciano. They are shepherds, poor as the soil. But the good lady has taken pity upon her niece.”

“I see. And the dowry you mentioned?”

“The family is offering one hundred ducats a year.”

The mother superior straightened her back. Di Torreforte could already see her calculating what one hundred ducats could do for the convent. She caught him watching her face.

“And why has she not been sent to one of the many convents in Tuscany?” said the mother superior, narrowing her eyes.

Di Torreforte set his crystal glass of wine on the heavy oak table, taking a moment to remember what Secretary Serguidi had instructed him to say.

“The Tuscan gossips, Mother Superior. They are notorious. In return for the hundred ducats, we ask that no one here in Ferrara ever learn of her whereabouts. There are some—brokenhearted swains—who may try to track the girl down, dragging her into disgrace.”

“That simply could not happen,” the abbess said. “No one can enter without my express permission. And the gates are locked with my key only, which I wear around my waist. One hundred ducats, you said? Annually?”

“Sì, Madre.”

“
There are conditions, of course, for such a rich dowry, abbess,” said di Torreforte. “She must never see anyone but the nuns and priests.”

“No one beyond these walls shall ever see her again if she stays within the San Antonio cloisters. Except for you, of course, and her family, when they wish to visit.”

“There will be no visits,” said Giacomo di Torreforte.

“No visits?”

“None at all,” he said.

The abbess bowed her head.

“The family in Lucca selected this abbey, knowing your reputation for holiness and obedience in your order. We could, of course, take her to Convento Corpus Domini if you refuse.”

“No, Signor Amaro,” said the abbess, straightening her wimple with her restless fingers. “I think the girl will be better housed with us.”

Di Torreforte watched her closely.

This abbess is of noble blood. Or very least a wealthy family. The elegance of her hands, her throat. The mannerisms of a duchessa. But a duchessa greedy to stroke coins of gold.

The abbess noticed his gaze.

“And I will share with you, Signor Amaro, in strictest confidence
. . .
there are other noble—extremely high-ranking noble—families whose members are housed within these walls, and not all from Ferrara. Now these sisters are brides of Christ. And they reside here in the most dignified matter, I assure you.”

Di Torreforte looked startled. He set down his glass of wine, composing himself.

“These families
. . .
do they visit these sisters often? We must ensure that Silvia does not communicate with anyone. Her whereabouts must remain a secret.”

The abbess cocked her head.

“Of course Silvia will see no visitors. I repeat, only her family. Our nuns are a strictly cloistered order.”

Di Torreforte rubbed his fingernail against his chin, thinking. One more point Secretary Serguidi had stressed.

“One other word of caution. Silvia has
. . .
a fantastic capacity to lie.”

“A liar!” said the abbess, crossing herself. “Not a recommended quality for our vocation—”

“More of a fantasy, really.” He bit his lip, rehearsing the story that would protect Virginia within the convent walls. “This poor shepherdess! She fancies herself to be an accomplished horsewoman. In fact, she believes she actually competed in the Palio of Siena, riding against men.”

“What?” said the abbess, clapping her hand over her mouth.

“Yes, I know it is absurd, but
. . .
I am afraid while she is at heart a good girl, she suffers from these flights of fancy. Her mother married a scoundrel who gambled away her small inheritance. They were reduced to shepherding a small flock. But, yes, young Silvia imagines herself as a Palio rider!”

The abbess looked doubtful.

“Is she
. . .
mad? Signore, our convent is not an asylum.”

“No, Madre! No. Not mad. Only—you know how feverish young girls are who desire boys. In Silvia’s case, if she cannot have satisfaction with a man, she dreams of riding astride a horse.”

“Santo cielo!” said the abbess, looking away.

Giacomo di Torreforte pulled at his tunic, suddenly uncomfortable in the heat of the fireplace.

Have I gone too far?

“That is why the family has asked me to be honest with you. We know that with strict instruction, you can purge her of these demons.”

The abbess fluttered her eyelids.

“One year,” she said finally. “She shall have no contact with anyone for one year’s time. We will cleanse her of these demons.”

Di Torreforte inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. He reached for his pouch, tied at his waist. Sparkling gold winked at the abbess.

“One hundred ducats,” he said, counting out the coins. “And no contact with anyone. Especially men who might present themselves as family.”

“She will never see a man again,” pronounced the abbess. “She will never leave the confines of our convent walls as long as she lives.”

He gave a curt nod. He could not manage anything more. He had achieved what he set out to procure. Virginia Tacci’s safety.

But this abbess!

He had bribed her, but she had given in too easily, too eagerly.

Too cruelly.

C
HAPTER
66

Tuscan Countryside

A
UGUST
1581

Riccardo De’ Luca could neither eat nor sleep. He scoured the countryside for Virginia Tacci, devoting every hour to searching for the young shepherdess.

He had heard that her aunt had sold her for a handful of ducats.

“She will be a bride of Christ. We did not want a de’ Medici assassin slipping his blade between her ribs,” Claudia had told anyone who would listen, fending off the stones and insults from those who considered her the Judas of Siena.

The Senesi held their breath, praying that the granduca had not, in fact, simply murdered her, as he had his sister and cousin.

With the help of the churches of Siena, Riccardo and Giorgio Brunelli made a list of convents throughout Tuscany. There were hundreds of convents, though Riccardo narrowed the list down to those that had high walls as a means of confinement.

Virginia Tacci would never consent. Only walls, bars, or fetters could keep her from Siena.

Or from Orione.

He wished he could include himself in that list, but he knew her heart belonged to Siena and a horse.

But she is only a fourteen-year-old girl. With time, I shall prove my love. I will find her—

Riccardo was shaken from his reverie as his horse nickered. They were approaching the town of Montalcino. Above the town, perched on a hill was yet another convent. He turned his horse away from the main road, following the route to the abbey.

A small metal door slid open behind a grate. A woman’s voice addressed Riccardo.

“Signore. May I help you?”

“I search for a fourteen-year-old girl who might be confined within your convent walls.”

The abbess studied him, pressing her chapped lips tight together.

“Are you family?”

“No. A good friend.”

“An
amante
, perhaps? A lover searching for a girl who will take Jesus Christ as her husband?”

“No. This girl is not my lover. All Siena seeks her—”

“Ah!” said the abbess, opening the door. “Come in, signore. I know the girl in question.”

A cool rush of air greeted the weary traveler. Riccardo drank in the refreshing darkness of the vestibule.

“Virginia Tacci is not within our walls, signore,” said the abbess.

“How did you know—”

“All the convents in Tuscany know of Siena’s search for the villanella,” said the abbess, a smile flitting across her face.

Riccardo dropped his head in his hands.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am weary from travel.”

“Young man, let me counsel you. I am certain Virginia Tacci is not interned within a southern Tuscan convent. Despite our apparent isolation, news travels quickly amongst orders who serve Jesus Christ. A secret like this would be difficult to keep for very long in Tuscany. Virginia Tacci is already a legend.”

“A lost legend, I fear.”

The abbess joined her hands together in prayer. She pressed her fingertips against her lips.

“She will never be lost, signore. Not to us.”

The abbess saw the young man turn his face away.

“I suppose you think it is possible that a northern Tuscan convent would keep such a secret as a favor to the de’ Medici family and the granduca,” said the abbess, touching the forlorn man’s sleeve. “Especially one that he supports monetarily. Some convents are completely beholden to the de’ Medici. But even the granduca’s money and power could not keep Virginia Tacci’s name from being whispered amongst the sisters.”

“Where else should I search?”

“Ah! She could be anywhere. Spain, quite possibly. Venice—with the granduchessa Bianca Cappello’s roots there, she could have been admitted as a mad relative of the granduchessa. The granduca’s new wife might lack the royal Habsburg blood of her predecessor, but she is not without her own network of connections. The Venetian sisters would prepare her to take the orders.”

Riccardo’s face crumpled. He heard the bells toll for prayers.

“Then she could be anywhere,” he said, his voice cracking in despair.

“Anywhere at all,” said the abbess. She shook her head so that her veil trembled over her wimple. “I am sorry, signore.”

Riccardo fingered his cap. He prepared to leave.

“Grazie,” he said.

“One point I must make before you leave,” said the abbess. “Montalcino, Montepulciano, Asciano, Grosseto—never! None of us would ever confine the villanella. No abbey in Siena’s regions would permit such a crime. You waste your time searching here. Go home to Siena.”

Riccardo bowed his head in respect. The abbess unbolted the door for him to leave.

“We are as proud of her here as you are in the city, my son,” she said. “Do not forget that Montalcino suffered and sacrificed in the struggle against Florence. Virginia’s image burns strong for the sisters here in Montalcino. As does the thought of our republic’s independence, despite the de’ Medici grip on our throats.”

Then she added, her eyes gleaming, “Besides
. . .
Virginia Tacci would never make a good nun.”

C
HAPTER
67

Ferrara, Convento di Sa
n
t
’
Antonio, Polesine

A
UGUST
1581

From my cell in the convent, I could see rows of grapevines, their leaves bright green, their sweet fruit swelling under the late summer sun. A lazy drone of bees entered my one small window, attracted to the white flowered vine clinging to the stone walls.

Below, I could see the outer cloisters and a patch of green land, a vegetable garden. The black-and-white magpies—that is what we called nuns in Siena—bent over the rows of plants, digging weeds with whittled sticks. I could not see the city of Ferrara from my cell, only the massive brick wall surrounding the convent.

Why had the granduca imprisoned me here? I rubbed my mouth and jaw, still sore from the gag. I had been here scarcely more than a day.

So far away. Had I been taken to a cloister in Siena, someone would gossip and word would get back to Giorgio and my padrino, or even Governor di Montauto.
Who would ever search for me in Ferrara?

I felt a chill on my neck. Despite the rising heat of August, the stones were still somehow cold. I shivered, thinking of a winter within these walls.

The sackcloth robe I had been given smelled sharply of the last girl who had worn it. Her terror, tears, and sweat had soaked deep into the weave of the cloth through years of kneeling, nights lying on a cot, and those countless hours of chapel until she had finally been given the habit of a confirmed nun.

W
ho was she? Or had she perished of a broken heart or disease?

The sackcloth robe may have been washed and beaten on the rocks of the stream beyond the convent walls, but it still stank of a hard life
. . .
and of my future.

A nun with buckteeth brought me stale bread and water. When she spoke, I could see the flash of teeth, which I first had mistaken for a smile.

“Eat this, the mother superior commands it,” she said, jabbing a finger at the bread. “You will need your strength. Our abbess wants you to work the gardens and hitch up the donkey to the little wagon.”

I looked at her, stupefied. I was still emerging from my drugged haze. “Hitch up a donkey?”

“To carry the vegetables to the storehouse, girl. You will drive the cart.”

“Asino?”
I said. “
Sorella
, I know nothing of donkeys!”

“We hear you claim you rode the Palio,” mocked the nun. Now I saw the mean spirit in the flash of her buckteeth. “You must know horses well. Surely you can manage a donkey,” she said through her tight lips. “Let us pray to God for the bread you eat and your safe deliverance to his service here at Sant’Antonio.”

I stared at the bread in my wooden trencher while she prayed aloud.

“Our Father, we give thanks for your bounty and mercy upon our new postulant, Silvia,” she said, her eyes squeezed tight in piety.

Silvia?
I thought.
Who is Silvia?

“May this food sustain her this day so that she may serve you, our Lord.” When she had finished, she looked to me to make the sign of the cross. My hands flew from my forehead to my breastbone, left and right. I seized the chunk of bread, ravenous with hunger. I tore savagely at the crust with my molars—it was too hard for my front teeth. Still I could not tear it.

“Dip it into water,” said the nun. “It is easier.”

I stared at her yellowed teeth. Maybe they were useful after all with bread this stale.

“I leave you to your repast. Recover your strength and wits. In our lord Jesus’s name, and us to his service.”

I rose from my straw pallet, smelling the cold, damp stones surrounding me. I used the terra-cotta chamber pot to relieve myself, squatting in the darkness. The rattle of my urine echoed in the tiny room.

I stumbled to the window, not much larger than an arrow slit, and pressed my face against the stone, breathing in the air of freedom beyond. I heard birdsong in the gardens. The potion di Torreforte had given me had worn off, and I was fully aware—and lost in despair.

“You are awake at last,” said a voice.

I whirled around. It was not one of the magpies, dressed in black with a white wimple, but a
conversa
, a lay laborer at the convent. Her white head scarf was tied tight, hiding her hair. She carried a clay pitcher of water.

“I am Margherita, your serving girl. It is part of your dowry that I should serve you in order to better serve God.”

“My dowry? I—no! I am not a postulant. I am a horse trainer!”

Margherita averted her eyes as if she were speaking to God.

“Give me patience to help serve you,” I was sure she was saying.

“If we hurry with your ablutions, you will be groomed and ready for your audience with the abbess before Sext.”

“Audience? Sext?”

“Of course you must speak to the abbess, who has graciously accepted you as a postulant at Convento Sant’Antonio. Sext is the noon prayer. There are eight prayer times when we cease our work in the convent. You shall learn them quickly.”

“Eight? Santa Madonna!”

“Oh, no!” she whispered, her face tight in horror. “You mustn’t use the Virgin Mary’s name in vain. Ever again, I beg of you.”

“Eight prayer services?”

“Yes, I shall teach them to you. But first, let me pour water in your basin.”

Her hands gently tilted the spout of the pitcher toward the washbasin. The splash of water was strangely comforting.

“We will comb the knots from your hair and wash your face,” she said, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You must be clean and presentable for our abbess. I will fetch more water.”

Margherita disappeared before I could say anything.

As soon as she was gone, the bucktoothed nun—her name was Adriana, I soon learned—appeared in the doorway.

“You were given a potent draught, Postulant Silvia. Your family must have good reason to deliver you to our convent.”

“My name is Virginia Tacci. I was kidnapped!”

“You are in safe hands now, Postulant Silvia. You have been delivered into God’s care. He will drive the demons from your soul.”

“No! I must get back to Siena. My horse—he is lame. I must tend him.”

“Postulant Silvia,” said the suora, her voice cold and toneless. “You must learn to control these evil spirits that possess you. You are a girl, a shepherdess. Not a horse trainer. That is a man’s profession. A woman astride a horse is—”

“I am most certainly a horse trainer. I rode the Palio just days ago!” For a moment I was almost struck speechless, even in my anger, as the memory of that ride, the memory of the Palio, filled my mind. The colors so bright, the noise so loud, the cheers still ringing so clearly in my memory. Though I had not won, I had ridden—and that was a triumph they could not take away from me. Except that they had. They had taken everything bright—my life, my horse, my triumph. They had taken it all and imprisoned me here in this cold, damp darkness. My anger flared, and I almost shouted.

“Do you not understand? I was kidnapped! Granduca Francesco of Florence had a hand in this! That man who brought me—he is a relative of the de’ Medici. This is all a plot to keep me from riding another Palio.”

Suor Adriana breathed deeply, consuming all the air in the room. She expelled it noisily from her flaring nostrils like a dragon. I waited for her to shout, but the toneless pronouncement was even more chilling.

“Here, under the holy roof of God, we will purge you of these devil dreams.”

She turned on her heel, nearly upsetting the bucket of cold water Margherita was bringing to my cell. The conversa set the bucket on the floor.

Once the door was closed, she bent near my ear. I felt her warm breath on my face.

“Suor Adriana is prone to anger,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “She can make your life miserable. Speak little in her presence. Your words are her weapons, sorella. She will be sure to use them against you to the abbess.”

I raged, pleading with the conversa Margherita.

“I am held prisoner here! I am a free maiden, I earn my own keep. I train horses in a village just outside the walls of Siena. I belong to no one!”

The conversa continued brushing my hair. It was so dusty and matted from the long coach ride from Siena—and the dust from the Palio—that she could barely work a comb through it. She dampened her fingers in the basin of water, trying to free the knots with her hands.

Her silence infuriated me.

“Are you deaf? Have you no reaction? I am a prisoner. I was kidnapped by the Granduca of Tuscany!”

Margherita’s fingers pried apart a particularly treacherous snag of hair.

“I am not knowledgeable in these matters,” she said in a loud voice. “My mission is only to serve you and the convent. Here—lean over the bucket so I can rinse the dirt from your hair.”

She beckoned me with a crooked finger. When I knelt beside her, she whispered in my ear.

“Let me teach you the prayer times,
Postulant
Silvia. They are listening for compliance. They assign spies who report to them. It will go better for both of us if you allow me to teach you, for they will punish me, too.”

She straightened up and spoke loudly and clearly. “Lauds are the early morning prayer, before dawn.” Margherita supported my head with the palm of her hand, lowering my hair into the bucket. “Prime will be an hour later. Terce are midmorning. Sext is at noon—the abbess will expect you to see you there today. Nones are the midafternoon. Vespers before dark. Compline are just after dark and before retiring to your cell in the evening.”

She swirled my hair in the water.

“Then we sleep? We have spent the whole day praying!” I protested.

“You can sit up now. Allow me to dry your hair.”

Margherita shook out a white cloth embroidered with a family crest I did not recognize. She patted my hair between the linen folds.

“Oh, no. There are chores to be done throughout the day. When you return to your cell, you will be tired, but you must spend time in contemplation and personal prayer. Then you will extinguish your candle and sleep until Matins.”

“Matins?”

“I had not gotten to that yet. Matins are the eighth prayers of the day. At two hours past midnight.” She smiled. And, despite the harsh thought of prayers at two in the morning, her smile was the first moment of real warmth I had felt in this cold stony place. “They are the hardest for young postulants. But you will grow used to them with time. And it is the quietest, most spiritual hour of prayer, when the rest of the world is asleep.”

She moved the basin of water to me.

“Now please wash your face. Bring back the radiance that God has bestowed in your pure heart.”

I did as I was told. I was beginning to understand the rules in the Convento di Sant’Antonio.

The morning breeze carried the sounds of Ferrara through the narrow slit of my window. I could hear the tolling of bells beyond the convent, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and the rattle of carriages.

Margherita handed me another linen cloth, again embroidered with a family crest. I noticed it was stitched with the initial T and realized it was the
stemma
of the di Torreforte family. I flinched. But wiped my face on it just the same.

Then I blew my nose in it for good measure.

I learned the routine of prayer quickly. My conversa, Margherita, taught me the life of the convent, the manners befitting a novice.

And I broke every rule there was. My audience with the abbess was the first revolt.

“You come here under the auspices of your gracious aunt,” began the abbess, who sat behind an enormous desk spread with correspondence in parchment and vellum. “Surely you must include her in your daily prayers.”

“My aunt? My aunt is a sheep-breathed fool who has begrudged me every day of my life!”

“She is generous beyond measure giving you this opportunity—”

“Zia Claudia is poorer than the dirt she treads on. She hates me—”

“Postulant Silvia! You will learn not to speak until I ask your opinion.”

“Silvia, who is Silvia? I am Virginia Tacci, and I will speak! I will shout until you give me my freedom! I am a horse trainer from Siena. I rode the Palio!”