The Daughter of Siena (20 page)

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Authors: Marina Fiorato

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

BOOK: The Daughter of Siena
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She snatched her hand away, glancing up at the windows that were like eyes.
He dropped his hands to his sides. ‘Nello’s hair,’ he said, not a question, but a statement.
She did not need to nod. He was looking at her again, searchingly, kindly. She had a feeling that he had divined the tenor of their marriage, the terror: what he’d done to her hair, what she’d done to his. This strange grooming of coupled birds. She dropped her eyes and would not meet his. She thought if she endured his level green gaze for a moment longer she would not have the strength to go back in the house. She turned and walked back across the courtyard, faster than she’d meant.
‘Wait,’ he called after her. ‘There’s something you should know.’
She ran.
As she climbed her stair she heard a whisper. ‘Mistress.’
A little black-and-white figure materialized in her sun-blinded vision. Zebra.
‘Signor Bruni instructs me to tell you that your husband has gone into the Maremma to train. The servants tell me he will be there for a fortnight at least.’
He smiled at her, the second, lovely, uncomplicated smile she had received today.
‘He thought you would like to know.’
Pia nodded, dazed, and clumped up the stair. She was heavy with the riding robe and with tiredness. But her chamber seemed light and airy, and as she fell back on the bed, measuring her full length, she registered what the boy had said and felt herself lighten with relief.
Nello had gone, and Signor Bruni had wanted her to know it.
She no longer had to hide; she no longer had to bloody the bed. Nello wanted to win the Palio more than he wanted her. He wanted to claim her when he was a victor, just as Vicenzo had planned. He had only three weeks to prepare for the race but they were to be married for the rest of their lives. She could not even worry about this life sentence today. For fourteen blessed days she could sleep soundly at night, not fear the lift of the latch.
The thought brought home to her, suddenly, how tired she was, how the fear had wearied her, and the lifting of that fear had made her drowsy. She did not have the energy to get up and remove her mother’s riding garb. Let it be her coverlet: it only brought her closer. But as she drifted off to sleep the smell of the horse on the leather recalled not her mother, but
him
.
The Dragon
P
ia Tolomei, realizing that her life became more and more unhappy with each passing day, knew exactly what to blame for her situation: her beauty. Her beauty made others stare in the street. Her beauty made men desire her, women dislike her, and her husband hate her. Her beauty made her a bargaining chip in a marriage settlement she did not want. Her beauty made Nello hack off her hair for talking to a stranger at dinner.
From the age of ten, twelve, as the sunburst of her beauty was rising to its zenith, she was forbidden to take any but the gentlest exercise. The physicality of her life as a child, the vigour of playing with her friends and running through the shady arches and squares, all this was denied her. It dawned upon her one day that she had not felt the thumping of her own heart for years; she never felt short of breath, even after a vigorous measure, or a steep flight of stairs. She spent her life being still,
silent, decorous. She wondered if her heart had shrivelled within her and died.
She was encouraged instead to take up the pursuits of well-born young ladies, drawing, music, languages, and her only solace, reading. Because she was named after a tragic heroine, because she was living the life of a tragic heroine, she sought in books a mirror for her sadness. She was aware of the new thinking, the new sciences, the enlightenment of the world; but she devoured instead legends and tales of old, because she herself was preserved in the amber of a bygone age.
A particular tale came back to her now, from the
Morte d’Arthur
, of a lady who had a curse laid upon her for being too beautiful. Trapped night and day, suspended naked in the scalding breath of a dragon, she was finally saved by a knight called Lancelot who slew the dragon and set her free.
Pia Tolomei was a clever young woman and a brave one, but even she was given to flights of fancy. She had been planning her escape from the moment her father had given her Cleopatra’s coin, but sometimes she just wanted to be rescued by someone else.
And now she thought she might have found her Lancelot.
 
 
‘There – Siena.’ Signor Bruni spread his arms wide, like a showman, as if he had conjured the city, revealing the vista below.
Pia sat on her little palfrey, with Signor Bruni holding the leading rein. From her high seat she marvelled at the scene – in the morning sun she saw her city as she had
never seen it before. A silvery mist lay low in the valleys and far, far away the low red roofs and the tall towers were gilded with the morning sun. Starlings wheeled around the Torre del Mangia, and the squat striped duomo crouched above the city like a sleeping tiger. Pia’s mouth dropped open and she just gazed.
She’d had a dozen lessons, and fallen a dozen times. She’d made no fuss, she had not cried: she’d simply clambered back on. Pia was now accustomed to pain and the management of those sensations, and had driven herself onward. On the second morning her thigh muscles were screaming with every step, her fingers and forearms throbbing, her back aching, as her body woke up to the muscles it did not know it had. By the third morning she’d begun to show aptitude; she was beginning to sit easily, beginning to feel the horse through her hands. She knew she was a good pupil, but her only fault was that she wanted to go faster, learn more. Far and fast, was her litany. Far and fast.
For the first two days in the courtyard, Signor Bruni had taught her to ride without reins, to hold on with her knees and control the palfrey with the merest pressure of her legs. But soon she wanted to go further, faster, swifter. She was driven by the clandestine agenda that she would not yet share with him. He’d bent to her will; she could now trot a little, he’d taught her to rise and fall with the exacting rhythm of the horse’s steps, yet by sheer determination she’d mastered the basics of this most difficult of speeds in one session. And, since the courtyard of the Eagles’ palace was a little small to canter,
Signor Bruni had taken Pia out into the hills where he used to ride as a boy, to show her his favourite western aspect of the city.
His stallion, ever at his shoulder, trotted behind them, seemingly quite happy to be in Signor Bruni’s company. But Pia wondered why he never mounted the horse, and wondered too at the relationship between Signor Bruni and his benefactor. Ever mindful of propriety, Pia knew that Signor Bruni had asked Faustino’s permission to take his tuition outside the city walls and that Faustino had given his consent. If she was right about her father-in-law’s motive to give his son a spur to beat the Tower horseman in the Palio, Faustino would give them any licence to become as close and as free as they liked.
They’d made their way through Siena, Pia riding and Signor Bruni leading his horse, the shadows still cool in the early morning. As they left the Eagle
contrada
Pia began to feel much more at her ease. It was good to ride through the streets of her city on horseback – the pastime and the place seemed as one. As they went down the hill into the close overhanging palaces of the Forest
contrada
, Signor Bruni corrected her seat. In the winding alleyways between the dye shops of the Goose
contrada
he reminded her to keep her heels down, and through the archways of the Dragon
contrada
he told her to relax her hands on the reins.
At last, on the outskirts of the Porcupine
contrada
, they reached the Camollia gate. There they passed the place where the bones and skin of a dead donkey had been cast
over the walls a week ago by a person unknown. The Porcupine citizens had left it to rot where it fell, too afraid of the omen that the city would fall to lay their hands on the corpse. Pia and Signor Bruni both crossed themselves against the omen, but they travelled through the gates untroubled by such portents on this golden day. Once the shadow of the architrave had passed over Pia’s dusky head, she began to smile.
Signor Bruni was to teach Pia to canter, and she listened carefully to his instruction as he assured her that the smooth gait of the horse when cantering was much easier to sit than the trot. Pia gathered her reins with a new confidence. She could already see fine muscles begin to appear in her slim arms, muscles that would tell a trained eye that someone could ride. She knew her legs were changing shape too, and that she had new strength in her limbs. The muscles she was developing were riders’ muscles – Sienese muscles.
Her new attire formed a large part of Pia’s happiness. She had spent every day since she was twelve being laced into heavy chemises and gowns and corsets, forcing her tiny waist into smaller and smaller breathless circles. Her clothes had suppressed her as much as her position, as much as her menfolk. Now, in her mother’s riding dress, she was beginning to breathe. Her mother had taken her outside the circle of her stays and Signor Bruni had taken her outside the circle of Siena’s walls. Under these benign influences she could feel, just for a day, that she was free.
‘You should name her.’ Signor Bruni broke in on her thoughts.
She turned and looked down, regal, questioning.
‘The horse. You’ve had her for a week. What should she be called?’
She considered. She felt like a queen sitting on her palfrey. For that moment, they were there as one, woman and horse, and for that moment the city was perfect: beautiful, ideal and distant, suspended in the mist like Camelot. For that moment, she belonged in that kingdom; she and her horse both fitted.
‘Guinevere,’ she said, and watched Signor Bruni shiver as if their thoughts had marched together and they were both in the world of Arthur. ‘What is it? Does my choice not please you?’
He sighed, shook his head. ‘No, it is a good name. But it reminds me of what I have to tell.’
Pia’s eyes widened as she listened to the incredible account. The duchess and horseman had deciphered the clue that she had dropped at shrift, and Signor Bruni had been there at the duomo to hear the first colloquy of the Nine.
‘They are planning for Nello to be the victor, and for the Nine to be enriched through betting syndicates. Time is marching, the Palio approaches, and before that, the next meeting of the Nine, wherever that may be, is due to take place in two days’ time, at the church of the Once and Future King – Arthur. So now you can see why his queen’s name made me jump. And then,
then
, Romulus, whoever he is, will come to be the puppet master of the whole affair.’ He looked at Pia, his eyes narrowed against the rising sun. ‘Have you seen Nello ride?’
Pia shook her head, her rook-black hair swinging about her ears. ‘Never. His brother’s skill was well known, but as you know Nello rides in secret, far out in the salt marshes of the Maremma. I know, though, that he spent his life in Vicenzo’s shadow.’
She could see that a piece of the puzzle had suddenly found its right place in Signor Bruni’s mind. ‘Is that why he had you dye his hair? Your hands … Is he …’ He could clearly not easily articulate the strange perversity that had occurred to him. ‘
Becoming
Vicenzo?’
‘Perhaps.’ Pia did not want to remember that night of the dyeing, even at this distance. ‘He once told me they shared everything.’ She thought of the little heiress on the ham-hook and shivered. ‘He wants to live his life in Vicenzo’s hue. He wants Vicenzo’s pigments, his riding skills, his wife,’ she looked down, ‘and his victory. Vicenzo won the Palio, even after death: Berio came in
scosso
without a rider. Now Nello must win it, too.’ She looked directly at him with her olive-dark gaze. ‘It is not a commonplace rivalry. It is more that he loved his brother too much, wanted to consume him, to
be
him. He is driven by love of a dead rival – and now,’ she hesitated, ‘and now …’
‘The hatred of a living one.’
She was silent.
‘That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it? That’s why Faustino gives us these freedoms? He’s fostering Nello’s hatred, nurturing it like an incubus, to ensure his son’s victory.’
Pia had not known he saw so much. Her silence was all the confirmation he needed.
‘And yet, you are here. You agreed to the lessons.’ He was almost accusing, almost as if she were a true Eagle after all, one of them.
Pia turned her near-black Tolomei eyes on him. ‘Agreed to them? I
wanted
them.’
‘Why?’
Now, with this ally and with her city laid out behind her, she could tell what she had to tell. ‘I needed to learn to ride.’ She breathed out the relief of admission. ‘I need to ride away from Nello.’
‘Far and fast?’
She smiled the ghost of a smile. ‘Far and fast.’
‘Even though Nello’s hatred of me might help him to win?’
She did not answer him directly. ‘It is a little risky,’ said Pia. ‘To bet a city on a horse race.’
Signor Bruni shrugged. ‘They are fixing the runners. I am considered, rightly or wrongly, to be the only rival to Nello’s skill. And so I have been given a horse that cannot win. I have not ridden him yet, let alone trained him, and now the Palio is only a week away.’
He sat down and began to pitch stones into the valley, where the morning mist swallowed them. The black curls ruffled across his face in the breeze, obscuring his profile. It was hard to see his eyes.
‘But there is something else too. There has to be. You are right, no one would bet a city on a horse race. This Romulus that they spoke of has some part to play. The Palio is but one part of the design, a distraction.’ He turned to her, appealing. ‘Do you know where they
will meet? Do you know the whereabouts of Arthur’s church?’
Pia slid from her mount with a new confidence. ‘I have read the
Morte d’Arthur
, the very book of which the duchess spoke. I have a well-thumbed copy in my father’s library. There are many, many churches and chapels throughout, and hermitages, and shrines. Mostly in ancient Britain. But without the book in front of me …’ She shook her head. ‘Neither Faustino nor Nello say anything to me. I heard of their first meeting through a chance remark made to the cook. But in the house of Aquila, all is secret. They hush their tongues when I am in the room.’
Signor Bruni cast another stone into the valley. ‘Well, listen when you can. They may drop something else.’

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