The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (43 page)

C
HAPTER
91

Florence, Palazzo Vecchio

A
PRIL
1591

“I should have you imprisoned,” said Granduca Ferdinando. “If your noble family weren’t allied so closely with Florence—”

And if your family did not manage Monte dei Paschi so profitably.

“Forgive me, Granduca,” said di Torreforte. “But hear me, I pray. I come to make amends for past deeds.”

The granduca took a moment to control his anger. Then he nodded. “Proceed.”

“Serenissimo
,
I carried out the express wishes of our late Granduca Francesco. And the villanella’s aunt gave written permission. Granduca Francesco had all the proper legal authority. I obeyed his orders.”

Granduca Ferdinando glared. This matter would further stain the de’ Medici name. As if Francesco had not done enough damage already.

“So.” He took another moment to calm himself. “You took her to a convent?”

“Sì. I suggested it to spare her life. Granduca Francesco wanted to—”

“What convent? Where?” Ferdinando did not want to hear what his brother had wanted.

“In Ferrara. In the city of Ferrara.”

The granduca nodded fiercely. His mind worked quickly. “Does Duca Alfonso know about this?”

“Absolutely not, Serenissimo.”

The granduca scowled, pulling at his beard. “What about Ercole Cortile? Surely you must have had papers to move across the borders and within the walls of Ferrara.”

“I was a messenger of Granduca Francesco. As an emissary of the granduca, I had official papers. But I never went as far as the d’Este Castle. My business was at the Convento di Sant’Antonio in Polesine.”

“And so, Virginia Tacci is—a nun?”

“I am not sure. She was a most unwilling postulant. The granduca paid a dowry of one hundred ducats a year to keep her within the convent walls. I do not know what happened after your brother’s death.”

“Dio mio!” muttered the granduca. “I ordered those payments stopped when I audited the treasury. I could not see why the de’ Medici coffers should be opened to a Ferrarese convent.”

“Then
. . .
I do not know. Perhaps she is no longer there. Perhaps they cast her out, if there was no more dowry. They would have sent her to a much poorer enclave. We may not be able to find her.”

“Why are you here now, di Torreforte?”

Giacomo looked straight into the granduca’s eyes.

“I want to right a grievous wrong. And I am answering a request from a dying man. One you know. Giorgio Brunelli.”

The granduca lifted his chin. He looked away from his visitor, out the open window.

“You did not suspect as much, Serenissimo?” Giacomo asked.

“Why should I suspect anything?” he snapped. “What do you mean, signore?”

Di Torreforte held the gaze of the granduca.

“Certain paints are deadly, as you well know. To those on whose walls the paintings are hung, perhaps. To the painter, most certainly, Serenissimo. Giorgio Brunelli turned a deaf ear to warnings. His love of his art and his devotion to the villanella were his only guides. That has led him to a dark end, I fear.”

The granduca said nothing but turned away, looking out the window of the Palazzo Vecchio down to the red bricks of the piazza.

“You must find the girl,” he said, without turning. “Find her and free her. But you must not drag the de’ Medici name into this matter. And she cannot return to Siena. She could be indeed a spark that lights the fires of rebellion.”

Giacomo di Torreforte glanced at the profile of the great granduca.

“I will find her,” he said.

As the door shut quietly behind di Torreforte, the granduca drew a heavy breath. He sat down at his desk, dipping a sharpened quill into the inkpot.

Giorgio Brunelli, whom I hold in high esteem,

It has been brought to my attention that we have unfinished business to discuss
. . .

C
HAPTER
92

Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

A
UGUST
1591

The conversa Margherita opened the door of the dispensary. She had come to pay her last respects to Suor Loretta.

“Who is there?” The old woman’s voice was scarcely intelligible.

“It is I, the conversa Margherita, sorella. I—I ask permission to speak.”

“Please, speak now,” whispered the suora. “I fear I have little time left on this earth.”

“I ask your counsel,” said Margherita. “And then your forgiveness.”

“What, my child? I am no priest. I cannot grant absolution.”

Margherita inhaled, drawing in the medicinal smells of the dispensary and the dying woman.

“Your personal forgiveness is what I seek. I have kept secret for ten years some evidence. I believe that the young postulant Silvia was brought to our convent shrouded in a lie. The story she tells—that she is a rider of horses—I believe is truth.”

The old suora pulled her blue-veined hand over her face. For a long time, she did not speak.

“What evidence do you possess?” said the suora finally.

“I kept these things—little things—from the fire when her clothes were burnt. I believe they are horsehair. Chestnut hairs, black, even white. And salt. Her clothes were stained with a brown mix of salt and dirt. Horse’s sweat, I believe.”

Margherita unfolded her linen cloth, displaying the hair, the flakes of salty dirt.

“Silvia says her real name is Virginia Tacci. One of my cousins works in the stables at the d’Este Castle. He says there was indeed a girl who rode the Palio of Siena in 1581. A girl of fourteen. He says her name was Virginia. He doesn’t remember her family name.”

“Dio mio,” gasped the old suora. “Have you told the mother superior?”

“Sì,” said Margherita. “I showed her my evidence over a year ago. She told me to hold my tongue, that this was the devil’s work. I would lose my position and she would put Silvia under stricter watch, take her away from you and from her work with the old donkey.”

The conversa’s face twisted in a spasm of pain.

“Then she seized the hair and dirt and cast them into the fire.”

Suor Loretta drew her bony hand over her face. Margherita noticed the meandering blue veins coursing through her translucent skin.

“How is it that you still have the evidence, as you call it?” the suora said finally, pointing to the cloth.

“I took half to the mother superior and kept half
. . .
in case I needed it. I also have a soiled riding boot with traces of horse dung.”

The old suora’s face slowly transformed. She smiled.

“You are far too wise to be only a conversa, Margherita. Now we must decide what to do with your pieces of dust, hair
. . .
and footwear.” Suor Loretta chuckled, setting off a long spell of coughing.

“There must be some contact outside the abbey,” said the suora at last, her fingers clutching the coverlet. “My nephew Duca Alfonso must see this evidence. Only he could wrest a confirmed novice from the grasp of the convent.”

The conversa bowed, hearing the name of the Duca di Ferrara.

“Bring me a pot of ink and parchment,” said Suor Loretta. “I shall write my nephew while I can still hold the quill. You have done the right thing, conversa. May God bless you.”

Margherita kissed the suora’s hand. It was cold as ice.

C
HAPTER
93

Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

A
UGUST
1591

The toll of the chapel bell resonated in my heart. I knelt, praying as hard as I could.

God receive Suor Loretta’s beautiful soul.

I shook my head as I prayed.

So much time lost! What has become of all whom I love in Siena? What of Orione? Did he mend, or was my godfather forced to take his life to end his suffering?

This last thought tormented me. I began to sob, slumped over my clasped hands. I heard the rustling of linen near me. A gentle hand grazed my sleeve.

Anna Rosa took my hand in mine.

“Virginia,” she whispered. “I know how much you loved her.”

She paused, looking into my eyes. “Suor Loretta called me to her bedside last night.” She had been whispering; now she dropped her voice so low that I could scarcely hear her. “She and I were related. She never wanted anyone to speak of her origins. Only the old nuns know—”

“Know what?”

I strained to hear—and to understand. Anna Rosa’s hand reached out from under her black habit, beckoning me to follow her outside.

“Know what?” I repeated once the fresh air touched my face. “What do only the old nuns know?”

“Suor Loretta was the aunt of Duca Alfonso.”

I stared at my friend.

“I am her second cousin. I grew up calling her Zia Loretta. Both of us are of the House of d’Este.”

“The House of d’Este? Related to Duca Alfonso?” I had heard what she said, but I could scarcely believe it.

“The duca is my cousin. Suor Loretta was his favorite aunt. He gave her Fedele the donkey.”

It explained why the abbess and the old suoras looked the other way when Anna Rosa was sharp-tongued. Never had she been made to lie prostrate on the floor in penitence.

“Before she died, Suor Loretta told me to see the conversa Margherita, that she had something that could remedy a terrible sin. The conversa gave me something to show my brother,” said Anna Rosa. “The one who has a stable of Palio horses.”

“What did she give you?”

“Some flakes of sweat-caked dirt and horse hair. And a boot. A girl’s riding boot, tanned light brown.”

“It must be mine! I had such boots when I entered the convent.”

“I have written my brother that he must visit me immediately,” she said. The sun passed from behind a cloud, warming us. A smile blossomed on her pale face as she squinted in delight.

Anna Rosa kept glancing toward the wrought-iron grille, knowing that the nuns were always eager to eavesdrop. She beckoned her brother, Sandro d’Este, to lean close.

The moment Anna Rosa finished whispering and placed the little bundle in her brother’s hands, he gave a curt nod. Anger darkened his face.

“Do not worry, little sister. I know a Senese who will be interested in what you have given me. The duca must be made aware of this as well.”

“Will he dare fight with the church?” Anna Rosa whispered.

Sandro sucked in his breath, considering. He expelled it, shaking his head. “I doubt it. Duca Alfonso knows to let Rome conduct its affairs without interference. He has yet to produce an heir, and Rome sits like a fat crow on the walls of Castello d’Este, waiting for the chance to swoop in and carry away Ferrara.” He looked at his sister and raised his hand to her forehead, smoothing away the furrows.

“But Riccardo De’ Luca, the Senese—what he will dare to risk for Virginia is another story.”

C
HAPTER
94

Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

A
UGUST
1591

The old donkey hung his head low, his soft muzzle touching the straw.

“He is dying,” I told the abbess.

The abbess, who knew nothing of livestock or even cats and dogs, bowed her head.

“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!”