The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (45 page)

C
HAPTER
99

Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio

A
UGUST
1591

I stabbed my finger at di Torreforte, who brushed the flies from his velvet sleeves.

“I will not trust my life to this villain!” I said. “He is source of all the misfortune that has ever befallen me.”

Giacomo looked at me, having the gall to lower his face as if he felt shame.

As if he could.

“I am well aware of his treachery,” said Duca Alfonso. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of the decaying donkey. He took a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket and applied it to his nose.

“Che puzza!”
he said. “Virginia Tacci, we do not have time to sort out grudges and mortal enemies at this point. Your countryman, Signor di Torreforte, has a plan.”

“He is not my countryman,” I said. “He is a de’ Medici spy!”

“Basta!” snapped the duca. “You can either follow his instructions faithfully or spend the rest of your days in this convent. Though I would suggest you take the orders if you do—a postulant of your advanced age does not speak well for the convent.”

Several nuns, including Suor Adriana, were stationed just outside the chapel doors, making sure none of the young postulants or younger suoras grew too curious to see the great duca.

“Fetch Suor Anna Rosa at once!” called the abbess, her black habit flapping as she strode across the lawn.

“She is in chapel,” answered Suor Adriana. “I will call her at once.”

Suor Anna Rosa appeared immediately and followed the abbess across the courtyard. She adjusted her brass-framed glasses, focusing on the agitated face of the mother superior.

“You must report every question posed to the postulant Silvia,” said the abbess. “If anything is untoward, you must evoke God’s name and force a halt to the impropriety.”

“But Madre,” said Suor Anna Rosa. “This is Duca Alfonso d’Este. You know I cannot contradict him.”

“See that you intervene in some way,” said the abbess, ushering the suora toward the tiny stable. “It seems the duca suspects foul play in the death of the beast. What unholy interest could he possibly have in a lowly donkey?”

Suor Anna Rosa said nothing, but she saw the abbess’s lips pinched so tight they turned the white of marble.

The abbess pulled at the stable door. “What treachery! They have slid the bolt!” The abbess rapped hard on the splintered wood.

The horsemaster opened the door only enough to admit the young suora.

“We will question the postulant only a few minutes as the surgeon inspects the donkey’s body. Then the duca will keep his word and move to the chapel, where you can observe the interview personally.”

The abbess thrust the suora forward, pushing her finger into the small of her back.

The horsemaster bowed deeply to the duca’s young cousin.

“Suor Anna Rosa, it is indeed an honor to see you again,” he said. “It has been many years since I have had the pleasure.”

Anna Rosa blushed. She had always adored the d’Este horsemaster. One glance at him brought back a rush of childhood memories.

What is he doing here in Convento Sant’Antonio?

Once the shed door was closed, the horsemaster took Suor Anna Rosa aside. I watched how he held her elbow, making her face him.

“You must listen closely,” he said. “We brought you here not to witness Virginia Tacci’s questioning but to aid us in her escape.”

“Escape?” said Anna Rosa, barely breathing. She looked up at her cousin, the duca. “You will help her?”

The duca did not answer right away. When he spoke, he spoke to all of us.

“The word ‘escape’ has not been mentioned in my presence, Cousin. I leave these matters entirely in the hands of the Senese visitor. I will have nothing to do with any arrangements whatsoever. I do not understand the matter to which you refer. I hope this is clear.”

“Sì, Serenissimo,” she answered.

I could barely look at Giacomo di Torreforte. His hazel eyes bore into me. I turned away, unable to stand the sight of his face. But I listened.

“I beg your forgiveness, Virginia Tacci,” di Torreforte said. “But you must look at me. I want to know you understand the risks involved.”

“I cannot look at you, you villain!” I hissed. “You snatched my life, my horses, away from me—how can I ever forgive you? What a pointless word is forgiveness, when I have lost so much.”

“But if you will hear my plan, you may find freedom again,” pleaded Giacomo di Torreforte. “And peace between us!”

I shook my head. I wanted to spit in his face.

“How can hatred ever find peace?” I hissed. “How could I possibly trust you?”

“Because you have no choice. And neither do I,” di Torreforte said quietly.

Anna Rosa sought my hand.

“Raise your eyes, Virginia,” she said. “Look at him. Hear what he has to say. My cousin the duca would never risk so much if the cause were not just.”

My eyes slowly climbed up to meet di Torreforte’s. I saw the face I had hated for years. In my memory. In my nightmares. Even in my prayers. But now there was a light in his eyes that had never been there before. It was that light I focused on as he told me what to do.

“How can I help?” asked Anna Rosa when he was finished. “How is there a part for me?”

Di Torreforte nodded, his eyes shifting from mine at last.

“The abbess will be watching closely. When we have completed our interview in the chapel, she will expect to see Virginia emerge from the shed after we load the donkey on the cart. That is where you will play your part.”

We sat under the great fresco in the convent chapel: Suor Loretta’s favorite,
Gesù Sale alle Croce
. Duca Alfonso’s eyes gazed up at the gilded halo of Jesus as he mounted the cross.

“Our savior looks so certain, so assured,” he said, nodding up at the fresco. “What a gift to know that what you do is absolutely the right thing. No matter how you will suffer.”

“It is the gift of faith,” said the abbess from her position behind the ornate grill. Her voice resonated in the small chapel, reminding me that she could hear every word uttered.

As her words faded away into silence, I waited for di Torreforte to speak. His eyes were riveted on the painting. I turned in my pew, the ancient wood creaking. I feared he had forgotten all about me, the plan.

Di Torreforte said nothing for far too long. His mouth moved soundlessly. I doubted he was praying.

What does he see in that painting?

I began to sweat, cold rivulets meandering down the small of my back.

Finally I spoke, trying to shake di Torreforte from his trance.

“Suor Loretta always said that our fresco is the only depiction of Christ showing his volition, Duca. He climbs the cross voluntarily, knowing his destiny.”

The duca nodded. “She was a wise woman and my favorite aunt.” Then he shook his head as if dismissing an idea. He turned to see the abbess watching intently through the grille.

“I want to question you, Postulant Silvia, on your knowledge of this donkey,” the duca said. “I shall ask the horse surgeon to pose a few questions.”

Di Torreforte snapped out of his reverie. He looked my way.

I avoided his eyes. “Sì, Serenissimo.”

Di Torreforte cleared his throat. “You have told us that the beast became seriously ill the day of the suora’s death?”

“Sì,” I answered. “He was old but not unhealthy. A day or so before she died, his head drooped and he would not take his feed. When the bell tolled for her death, he dropped to his knees.”

“And he sickened precipitously after that?”

“Yes. Quite suddenly.”

I heard the bench scrape the floor as the abbess moved closer to the grille.

“Do you think there was any coincidence in Suor Loretta’s death and that of her beloved pet?” asked di Torreforte.

I did not answer. I glanced at the abbess.

The duca said, “Please answer the question, Postulant Silvia.”

“I think it is uncanny how quickly Fedele died. The earth still freshly mounded on his mistress’s grave. But I have heard tell that donkeys are faithful. I do not know donkeys,” I said, looking again toward the abbess. “Only horses.”

“Ah yes! I have heard your fantasy. You think you rode the Palio in Siena. Yes, all Ferrara will have a good laugh at that!” said di Torreforte.

I could not help but clench my jaw, sticking it out at him in defiance.

“I did—”

“Answer my question, Postulant!” di Torreforte snapped. “Do you think it a strange coincidence for a donkey—or a horse—to die at the same time as his master or mistress?”

“Not so faithful that they roll over dead on the spot,” I answered quickly. I glanced at the duca, trying to gauge my response. “That seems too much of a coincidence.”

“Serenissimo. I have inspected the tongue,” said di Torreforte. “And noticed some telling characteristics. First, Postulant Silvia. Was his tongue swollen before death?”

“Yes, sir. Fedele could not manage to eat for several days, as I have mentioned.”

“My duca. In the donkey’s stool, I found remnants of oak leaves and acorns.”

“That is very strange,” I said. “We do not have any oak trees on the grounds. I fed him only sweet grass and dried hay. Occasionally, he had a ration of good oats.”

“But never oak or acorns?” asked di Torreforte.

“Never.”

Di Torreforte turned toward the duca. He paused, stroking his beard.

“Serenissimo, it is my opinion that this donkey was poisoned intentionally by someone within these convent walls.”

“No!”
cried the abbess from the grille. “That is impossible!”

“Silence!” shouted the duca. His voice resonated against the vaulted walls of the chapel ceiling. “Outrageous! What villainy is this?”

“I request a full inspection of the donkey’s remains in my dear aunt Loretta’s name,” said the duca, anger edging his words. He turned to look at the grille. “Madre Superiore, I will require a private audience with you at once.”

The abbess could barely speak. She took a few seconds to compose herself.

“Madre Superiore? Do you hear me?”

“Sì, Serenissimo. Please join me in my apartments. We can speak privately there.”

“Go,” whispered di Torreforte to me. “Remember what I told you.”

As I turned to leave the chapel, I took one glance back. I saw di Torreforte’s gaze riveted on the painting, his finger reaching up to trace the rungs of the ladder.