The Daughter of Siena (25 page)
‘Madam, I was given orders to bring them here as a gift for you. I was told you was in need of them.’ He screwed up his face, remembering. ‘For the reason that you was cleaning up the city.’
Violante’s heart speeded up as her skin chilled. ‘Who told you this?’ Faustino? Would he have the gall? ‘Begin at the beginning.’
‘Well, I was going up the hill to Montepulciano to take the brooms to market. They are the finest, madam, besom and gorse, with a olive-wood handle, you won’t get better this side of Florence.’
Mistress and servant exchanged a look. ‘Never mind your merchandise,’ snapped Gretchen. ‘Get to the burden of the tale.’
‘Anyway I was whipping the mule up the hill, and this great gold coach near on run us down. The driver stopped and a great fat fellow leaned out and chucked me a purse. He bought the whole lot of the brooms and told me to turn around and bring ’em to you, miss. Er, madam.’ The
carter flicked his eyes to Violante, then dropped his gaze to the ground.
carter flicked his eyes to Violante, then dropped his gaze to the ground.
Violante was puzzled. She knew no portly gentleman, nor one who would send such a gift. She tired, abruptly, of the whole business.
‘Then take them away again,’ she said testily. ‘You have your coin. Remove your brooms and take them to market. Sell them again, I give you leave.’
The carter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but did not move.
‘Well … that’s tricky, madam.’
Violante assumed her best air of
froideur
. ‘Why? I am governess here. My word is the law.’
froideur
. ‘Why? I am governess here. My word is the law.’
The carter did not quite meet her eyes. ‘Yes, madam. ’Tis just that—’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, he said to bring them here ahead of him, he said he was coming here himself. He said he was the heir to the dukedom.’
Violante and Gretchen exchanged another glance.
‘Gian Gastone,’ they said, as one.
The Vale of the Ram
G
ian Gastone de’ Medici, only surviving son of Grand Duke Cosimo de’ Medici and heir to the grand duchy of Tuscany, was more than a little surprised to receive a letter from his sister-in-law Violante, the only woman he had ever liked.
ian Gastone de’ Medici, only surviving son of Grand Duke Cosimo de’ Medici and heir to the grand duchy of Tuscany, was more than a little surprised to receive a letter from his sister-in-law Violante, the only woman he had ever liked.
Gian Gastone’s dislike of the female sex did not proceed from a single event but from years of neglect. A lonely boy in a great palace, ignored by his family as the second son of the house, he began to develop what was to become a lifelong preference for the company of those below stairs – to be blunt, the lowlife. So it was the servants who told Gian Gastone that when his mother Marguerite was pregnant with him, she had tried to starve herself in the hope she would miscarry, and that when Gian Gastone was born against all odds, Marguerite had refused to nurse him, convincing everyone at court that she was dying of cancer of the breast. They told him, too, that when
Gian Gastone was four, and just beginning to register that he did, in fact, have a mother, she had disappeared to France, never to return. Abandoned by Marguerite, Gian Gastone took a great liking to his personal squire, a boy of his own age called Giuliano Dami: a tall, pale, beautiful youth with strange purple eyes the colour of grapes. From Dami he learned the major lesson of his life. The squire took his young master’s virginity and taught him what pleasures could be due to men without recourse to the female form. Dami quickly identified his lover’s appetite for idle talk and accordingly honed his natural ability to fish for gossip, trawling the great household for the silvery flitting fishes of scandal, filleting them and serving them to his master. It suited Dami to separate Gian Gastone even further from his family, to isolate him, to bring him closer under his own influence. Dami was a young man of great ambition, who had no intention of remaining a body squire to a minor Medici for the rest of his days.
Gian Gastone was four, and just beginning to register that he did, in fact, have a mother, she had disappeared to France, never to return. Abandoned by Marguerite, Gian Gastone took a great liking to his personal squire, a boy of his own age called Giuliano Dami: a tall, pale, beautiful youth with strange purple eyes the colour of grapes. From Dami he learned the major lesson of his life. The squire took his young master’s virginity and taught him what pleasures could be due to men without recourse to the female form. Dami quickly identified his lover’s appetite for idle talk and accordingly honed his natural ability to fish for gossip, trawling the great household for the silvery flitting fishes of scandal, filleting them and serving them to his master. It suited Dami to separate Gian Gastone even further from his family, to isolate him, to bring him closer under his own influence. Dami was a young man of great ambition, who had no intention of remaining a body squire to a minor Medici for the rest of his days.
Gian Gastone’s sister Anna Maria Luisa was the second woman to fail him. Anna Maria Luisa mistook haughteur for noblesse and Gian Gastone could not, however hard he racked his considerable brains, ever remember having seen his sister smile. After years of indifference to him, it was she who had delivered Gian Gastone the harshest blow of all and had precipitated the event that would allow her brother’s hatred of women to blossom into full-blown bloom. For it was his sister who had persuaded their father that Gian Gastone should take a wife and had in fact proposed the very woman who now tortured his existence: Franziska of Saxe-Lauenburg, the wealthy widow of Count Palatine Philip of Neuberg. Franziska’s chief accomplishment seemed to be that her overbearing behaviour
had driven her husband to drink himself to death in three short years.
had driven her husband to drink himself to death in three short years.
Meek, as he was, under his father’s eye, Gian Gastone obediently married and headed into dreary exile in Bavaria through the same Bohemian forests that had been such a comfort to Violante. His spirits sank permanently on his arrival at Franziska’s ramshackle wooden castle of Ploskovice, where his new wife proceeded to torture him with her peevish moods.
Mother, sister, wife: all had played their part in turning Gian Gastone against the female sex. And that is how Violante Beatrix de’ Medici, his brother’s wife and widow, had – fairly easily, it must be said – climbed to the top of his order of women. He had met her only three times, but her kindness and sweet nature recommended her; and besides, he owed her more than she could ever know. Gian Gastone called for Dami, his constant companion, and waved Violante’s letter at him.
Giuliano Dami was his salvation. In Dami he had found the companion, brother and soulmate he had never had. Dami understood the extent of his gluttony and helped Gian Gastone to understand the seemingly limitless depths of his own sexual depravity. Dami was not stupid enough to be jealous or to expect Gian Gastone to be his exclusive lover; he quickly saw the advantages of being a pander – of boys, of food, of alcohol, of whatever his master desired. This proceeded not just from a healthy slice of self-interest but also from a genuine affection for his handsome and increasingly rotund young master. With his soft sibilant voice, Dami would whisper in his master’s ears a constant stream of almost hypnotic reassurance: that one day Gian Gastone would be the grand duke, a fate that became more and more likely with each misfortune that befell his master’s
siblings. And now that the duchy was threatened with insurrection in Tuscany, Gian Gastone realized that his sister-in-law’s letter was a document of passage. Even his bullying wife could not gainsay an expedition at such a time.
siblings. And now that the duchy was threatened with insurrection in Tuscany, Gian Gastone realized that his sister-in-law’s letter was a document of passage. Even his bullying wife could not gainsay an expedition at such a time.
‘Dami,’ he said, ‘pack my trunks. We’re going to Siena.’
Dami bowed, smoothly and obediently, and just quickly enough to hide the look of horror in his strange purple eyes.
Gian Gastone’s golden carriage, with the Medici cognizance on the doors, sped through Siena’s Piazza del Campo. Pigeons and starlings rose before the wheels, dodging certain death, and women and children fled from the carriage’s path. Violante and Gretchen stood back as the great gold coach crammed through the gateway of the Palazzo Popolo. The team of six bays, frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling, dug in their hooves, slipping on the greasy pavings, sending the ridiculous bonfire of brooms flying. The carter’s unfortunate mule, which in one day had been to Montepulciano and back, now seemed doomed to die beneath the hooves of his more exalted brethren. Riccardo calmed the cowering creature, then caught the reins of the bolting team, stopping the coach and speaking softly into the ears of one, then another, till all half-dozen stood still as stone.
Violante, Gretchen, Riccardo and the carter watched, spellbound, as four young fellows swarmed down from the roof and racks of the coach, wrenched open the door with its insignia and began, in a practised way, to prise the
occupant of the carriage loose from his confines. Giuliano Dami, whom Violante recalled as Gian Gastone’s constant shadow, sprang down from the other door of the carriage, bowed to her most correctly and went to help his master retain as much dignity in his descent as he could. Violante felt a chill pass through her. She had never liked Dami, and the glance of his purple eyes, and the sibilance of his speech, awakened a painful memory in her.
occupant of the carriage loose from his confines. Giuliano Dami, whom Violante recalled as Gian Gastone’s constant shadow, sprang down from the other door of the carriage, bowed to her most correctly and went to help his master retain as much dignity in his descent as he could. Violante felt a chill pass through her. She had never liked Dami, and the glance of his purple eyes, and the sibilance of his speech, awakened a painful memory in her.
In little under a minute, dishevelled, jugbitten and enormously obese, the heir of Tuscany stood before his open-mouthed sister-in-law. As if waking from a dream, Violante stepped forward and kissed Gian Gastone on both his sweating cheeks. She could not believe that this was the same person as the handsome slim scholar who had helped her most kindly when she had suffered her shattering loss, who had arranged for her twins to be laid to rest when she had been crippled by grief. This service he had rendered her had bound her forever in his debt, and for this reason she proceeded, as she had done all her life, to take refuge in etiquette and good form. She did not, in manner or look, rebuke her brother-in-law for descending upon her without notice. Instead she reminded herself that she had written to him, she had bidden him come.
She said, as warmly as she could, ‘Greetings, my lord. I rejoice to see you here. Your father and sister are well? And your lady wife?’
Gian Gastone found this question slightly awkward. The truth was that he had broken his journey in Florence with the express intention of killing his father. During his
overnight stay he had contrived to behave so badly that his father had had a severe seizure from which he was not expected to recover.
overnight stay he had contrived to behave so badly that his father had had a severe seizure from which he was not expected to recover.
Gian Gastone and Dami had arranged an orgy in his father’s chamber in the Palazzo Vecchio, and contrived that his father would walk in from evensong in time to catch his son and heir being importuned by his constant coterie of pretty Tuscan boys, the
ruspanti
. The acts taking place there, played out in Cosimo’s own bed for greater effect, were debauched enough to give Cosimo – who was as overweight as his son but considerably more advanced in years – a major stroke on the spot.
ruspanti
. The acts taking place there, played out in Cosimo’s own bed for greater effect, were debauched enough to give Cosimo – who was as overweight as his son but considerably more advanced in years – a major stroke on the spot.
Gian Gastone had left his father babbling and dribbling on the very same four-poster he’d sullied with his antics, and after a solicitous word with the doctor, who had assured him that his father could not live much longer, he allowed himself a little smile. His sister Anna Maria Luisa, passing him in the doorway of their father’s death chamber, caught him at it, but nevertheless extended to her estranged brother a long white hand of friendship. Gian Gastone not only refused her hand but cemented his schism with his one remaining sibling by hissing at her, once, like a cat.
Now, Gian Gastone looked at his sister-in-law, his hooded Medici eyes almost closed against the Sienese light. He was surprised to discover what Riccardo Bruni could already have told him: that there was a certain balm to Violante’s presence. But however sympathetic she was, he could not, in all conscience, tell her what had really passed in Florence.
He contented himself with saying: ‘My father is knocking at death’s door; would that my wife were too.’
Violante exchanged another glance with Gretchen and saw from the corner of her eye Riccardo tuck down his chin to hide a smile. The slight movement of his head was his undoing; although, in fairness, a man of his physical charms would never have enjoyed many moments’ grace before he caught the eye of Gian Gastone de’ Medici.
‘Did that amuse you, my pretty popelot?’ Gian Gastone called across his sister-in-law with ringing, friendly tones.
Riccardo, fully intending to remain in the background until he could quietly slope away, unwarily lifted his eyes to the velvet-clad mastodon before him.
Gian Gastone was shot through with green fire and Cupid’s bolt all at once. He did not really understand why his sister-in-law had dragged him to Siena, although he appreciated it. It would not be politic to be standing over his father at the very moment he expired, but neither would it be prudent to be far away in his Bohemian sinkhole of a castle when Cosimo died, lest there be a vacuum of power to be filled by a greedy neighbour or, worse, his sister Anna Maria Luisa.
Siena was a wise choice, just near and far enough. Gian Gastone could trespass on the hospitality of his favourite kin, help his sister-in-law with her little local difficulties and protect his Tuscan dominions. And the compensations, as he could see as his greedy eyes raked over her young ostler, were stupendous. If he had had the energy
Gian Gastone would have walked all the way around Riccardo. But he contented himself to gawp where he stood.
Gian Gastone would have walked all the way around Riccardo. But he contented himself to gawp where he stood.
Violante, filled with a familiar foreboding, stepped forward. ‘Thank you, Riccardo, you may go now.’
With a speed that belied his great weight Gian Gastone shot out a flabby hand and grabbed Riccardo’s arm.
‘No, no,
Riccardo
, you may not. Stay a while.’
Riccardo
, you may not. Stay a while.’
The hand beringed with jewels dug into the flesh, then rose and hovered upon Riccardo’s cheek. Riccardo jerked away as if stung, contempt in his eyes. Violante held her breath, but Gian Gastone merely laughed.
‘Spirit. I like him. Well, well, Violante, you sly old mare. And they say there is nothing to do in the country. I can see the local colour is amazing.’
For a moment everyone was still and silent. Even the horses stood, heads down in the heat, waiting. Above the courtyard the starlings slashed across the high blue, and screeched to break the spell.
Gian Gastone looked around him, gratified by the discomfort he had wrought, and rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s go in,’ he said with dispatch.
In that short moment the balance of power had transferred to him, and he was enjoying the sensation of outranking Violante, however benignly he felt towards her. He felt as though he were already grand duke.
‘Sister, call your cooks and minstrels. Let’s celebrate our reunion. And you,
Riccardo
,’ he caressed the name, ‘will be our guest of honour.’
Riccardo
,’ he caressed the name, ‘will be our guest of honour.’
Riccardo and Violante exchanged horrified glances.
‘
Ruspanti
,’ Gian Gastone called to his boys, ‘bring my litter. Why are you all roosting around like woodcocks? Let’s be inside, let’s feast – I’m so famished my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’
Ruspanti
,’ Gian Gastone called to his boys, ‘bring my litter. Why are you all roosting around like woodcocks? Let’s be inside, let’s feast – I’m so famished my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’
There was nothing for it but to follow.
An hour later, Violante was in the Hall of the Nine, beneath those extraordinary frescoes of good and bad government, in her best violet silk. She was sitting at the right hand of her brother-in-law who, as heir to the dukedom, had taken her place at the head of the table. To his left, in the place normally taken by Giuliano Dami, sat Riccardo Bruni, looking as if he wished he were anywhere else in the world.
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