The Daughter of Siena (38 page)
‘Your wife soon, a mother one day if God grants it; but whatever He brings henceforth I’m just
me
.’ She leaned forward and kissed him. ‘
La Pia
. Just Pia.’
me
.’ She leaned forward and kissed him. ‘
La Pia
. Just Pia.’
Riccardo nodded then, and put his arm about her, and they walked back to the horse.
They left the grave as the sun was lowering, but
Riccardo pointed Berio’s head easterly, away from the city. They rode on, seemingly for hours, racing the sun as it ran ahead of them over the hills and valleys, buttered with gold. By the time they stopped on a high dune there was still just enough light for him to show her what he wanted to before they turned for home. A blue, calm line on the horizon, glittering with dying sunlight.
Riccardo pointed Berio’s head easterly, away from the city. They rode on, seemingly for hours, racing the sun as it ran ahead of them over the hills and valleys, buttered with gold. By the time they stopped on a high dune there was still just enough light for him to show her what he wanted to before they turned for home. A blue, calm line on the horizon, glittering with dying sunlight.
The sea.
The Sixteenth Day of August 1724
R
iccardo gazed into the waters of the Arno from the Ponte Vecchio. It was one year later and once again the day of the Palio dell’Assunta. He did not want to be in Siena on this day, so he had come to Florence on a pilgrimage, leaving Pia in the care of his father. He had wed Pia in the Torre church, handfasting her in the incensed dark, with Domenico as their witness. He’d noticed, as he repeated the vows of the priest, two figures slipping into the church: a lady of middle years wearing a dress of deep red, and a boy who used to wear black and white every day, but now wore the velvets of a little princeling. The boy had his small hand in the lady’s, and they looked, to the casual observer, like mother and son.
iccardo gazed into the waters of the Arno from the Ponte Vecchio. It was one year later and once again the day of the Palio dell’Assunta. He did not want to be in Siena on this day, so he had come to Florence on a pilgrimage, leaving Pia in the care of his father. He had wed Pia in the Torre church, handfasting her in the incensed dark, with Domenico as their witness. He’d noticed, as he repeated the vows of the priest, two figures slipping into the church: a lady of middle years wearing a dress of deep red, and a boy who used to wear black and white every day, but now wore the velvets of a little princeling. The boy had his small hand in the lady’s, and they looked, to the casual observer, like mother and son.
Riccardo looked down, deep, deep into the water, as if he could part the current and see the river bed, burn with his gaze through the silt and sacking to see the tiny bleached bones of his twin, his brother, the other half of his own heart. If he was grand duke of Tuscany he could have dragged the river with cannon and found that pathetic sack with three stones and a skeleton of a child;
now he would never meet his twin. But as he looked, intently, at his own reflection, another face transposed itself upon his own. A face just like his, but with eyes a little wiser, hair a little blonder. His heart thumped, his flesh chilled, and then he smiled at his own fear, the half-smile he had always thought unique until now. His twin smiled back at him, until a passing grain barge broke the image and his brother returned to the deep.
now he would never meet his twin. But as he looked, intently, at his own reflection, another face transposed itself upon his own. A face just like his, but with eyes a little wiser, hair a little blonder. His heart thumped, his flesh chilled, and then he smiled at his own fear, the half-smile he had always thought unique until now. His twin smiled back at him, until a passing grain barge broke the image and his brother returned to the deep.
Riccardo lifted his hand to his throat and pulled off the kerchief of the Torre colours, burgundy and sky-blue, with the blazon of the elephant and castle. Dropping it into the water, he watched it darken, then be pulled beneath, in the same way that a weighted sack had sunk over twenty years before.
He mounted Berio and trotted into the Piazza della Signoria. He tethered the horse to a great iron ring bored into the wall of the palace where he had been born. He did not come to visit Gian Gastone, for the duke had already followed his brother to the Medici mausoleum. Gian Gastone had had little time to enjoy the dukedom he had always craved, and had died in his bed, watching the moon set over Florence, an end far more serene and poetic than his life had been.
But there was someone left. Riccardo had come to see the Last Medici. The inscription on the palace door announced that the grand duchess was holding a public audience. He had Violante to thank for improving his letters, but he no longer read the books in her library, nor sat while she read to him. He stayed away because he knew that she had another to perform this service for.
Zebra, or Pietro, adopted as her ducal ward, was growing up with all the education and privileges Riccardo had missed.
Faustino Caprimulgo had not been so lucky. Shorn of both his heirs, ruined by his betting syndicate, he might have lived a long and bitter life in his shell of a palace. But one day a gift came to the house – a new whip, wrapped in silk, with no direction or note. He left it, for some weeks, on the side table in his empty hall. Then one day, seeking diversion, he took the one broken-down nag left in his rotting stables for a trot in the hills. He sought diversion from his troubles, and no longer had his fine carriage. But the horse was dull and lazy and when the beast hesitated at a narrow gate, he thrashed it furiously and repeatedly with the new whip. The poison that had been soaked into the leather made great ugly, burning weals in the stallion’s flank. Maddened with pain, the horse fled down the hillside and threw his rider. Faustino was found with his neck broken in the same place as Vicenzo’s.
The shepherd who saw it all, the shepherd who had once given a little boy a jackdaw, the shepherd from the Panther
contrada
who came to tell his captain Raffaello Albani that his plan had worked, said he could have sworn that he heard an eagle crying far above Faustino’s body. Raffaello Albani of the Panther
contrada
, apothecary, maker of poisons and father to Egidio Albani, merely nodded.
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who came to tell his captain Raffaello Albani that his plan had worked, said he could have sworn that he heard an eagle crying far above Faustino’s body. Raffaello Albani of the Panther
contrada
, apothecary, maker of poisons and father to Egidio Albani, merely nodded.
Today, Riccardo Bruni filed into the Palazzo Vecchio with the good citizens of Florence, noting as he did so
that they were numerous, respectful and manifested a sort of muted excitement. He divined that the incumbent was well loved and respected, that her stance of repelling the foreign pretenders to the dukedom, and protecting the treasure trove of the city’s art, had endeared her to the public.
that they were numerous, respectful and manifested a sort of muted excitement. He divined that the incumbent was well loved and respected, that her stance of repelling the foreign pretenders to the dukedom, and protecting the treasure trove of the city’s art, had endeared her to the public.
In the roped-off gloom of the presence rooms he expected to be able to see her face, but as he filed into the presence chamber all he could see was silver. Everything in the chamber was of that metal or hue, from the duchess’s chair to the silver awning above her head: her gown, her looking-glasses, her ornaments. If it were true that this princess of Florence protected all the artworks that her profligate father had sold for relics and her brother for pleasure, then above half of them must be in this room.
He bent to kiss a hand encased in a silver filigree glove and for a moment he met the eyes of Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici, his aunt. She nodded to him, and something, maybe the resemblance to her long-dead, much beloved brother Ferdinando, lifted the corners of her thin mouth in what Riccardo could tell was an unaccustomed smile. He felt in that tiny gesture a fraction of warmth, as if she had bestowed a little grace upon him. As he passed along the line he wished he could give her something, but then, as he descended the stone steps and walked out into the light, he chided himself. He had already given her everything – he had given her the duchy.
Riccardo untethered Berio and walked him round, stepping up on the mounting block worn by generations
of Medici princes, by his father Ferdinando as he pursued his princely pastimes, and by his true father Domenico as he set off for Siena with his precious foundling.
of Medici princes, by his father Ferdinando as he pursued his princely pastimes, and by his true father Domenico as he set off for Siena with his precious foundling.
As he vaulted on to the saddle his heart was light. Riccardo Bruni turned Berio’s head and the Last of the Medici rode out into the west.
La Pia waited for him, as she said she would, under the merciful shadow of the Camollia gate. The sun was setting but was still fierce, and she had to rest a little by leaning against the buttress of the gate, for she was getting heavier by the month. She was not wearing the red and white of the Civetta, nor the yellow and black of the Eagles, nor even the burgundy and blue of her new
contrada
, the Tower. She had chosen a sprigged muslin shift from her mother’s wardrobe, tiny flowers on pale cloth, all colours and none. She had chosen the gown because it was loose and flowing, and when she tried it on she saw a panel of extra cloth had been let into the waist. She smoothed the panel down over her great belly, enjoying its significance. Her mother had worn the dress when she carried Pia.
contrada
, the Tower. She had chosen a sprigged muslin shift from her mother’s wardrobe, tiny flowers on pale cloth, all colours and none. She had chosen the gown because it was loose and flowing, and when she tried it on she saw a panel of extra cloth had been let into the waist. She smoothed the panel down over her great belly, enjoying its significance. Her mother had worn the dress when she carried Pia.
Pia huffed and puffed a little as she straddled her legs to take the weight of her distended womb. She recalled, almost with a pang, how she would never have leaned on a wall a year ago, and smiled a small smile of valediction for her dignity. She had no need of it now.
Besides there was no one about to mark her. There was a hum in the distance, like a great hive of bees, and
she lifted her head as the great bell Sunto struck seven. Then a cloud of frighted starlings inked the sky as a great roar of cheering almost lifted the tops off the towers. The Palio had begun.
she lifted her head as the great bell Sunto struck seven. Then a cloud of frighted starlings inked the sky as a great roar of cheering almost lifted the tops off the towers. The Palio had begun.
Pia linked her hands around her stomach to cradle the weight of her enormous, precious burden. She puffed a strand of hair out of her eyes so she could better see; her hair was longer now, curlier. She scanned the horizon under the great red sun for Riccardo, anxious for his return, for she had something to tell him, a delicious secret known only to her and Sister Concetta of the hospital-church of Santa Maria Maddalena, who had visited her this morning. The nun had edged her fingers around Pia’s distended belly, then cocked her ear to the bump with a little wooden trumpet, listening in one place, and then another. Listening, listening. Now, Pia pushed her fingers into the swollen bumpy flesh, trying to feel what the sister had felt. Miraculously, the bumps pushed back.
Another great cheer, and the distant race was over for another year. And as if that cheer had brought him into being, she saw a horseman resolve on to the horizon, riding far and fast towards Siena and her arms. She came out of the shadow and into the light. For the last furlong he slid from the saddle and ran to her, enfolding her in his arms. They embraced under the sun. All four of them.
The man, the woman and the twins inside her.
After a long and stable governorship in Siena, VIOLANTE DE’ MEDICI retired to the Palazzo Madama in Rome where she lived peacefully for the rest of her life. Her series of proclamations to regulate the Palio are observed to this day and form the rules by which the race is still run in July and August every year.
GIAN GASTONE DE’ MEDICI returned to Florence and died there. His tombstone reads ‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’: ‘Here pass all the glories of this world’.
His sister ANNA MARIA LUISA, the Last Medici, made a provision in her will to state that all of Florence’s great paintings and sculptures would remain in Florence. She is remembered today as the duchess who kept the Medici’s greatest legacy safe.
FRANCESCO MARIA CONTI fled to Rome and the protection of his cousin the pope, to offer his services at the court of James Francis Edward Stuart, Old Pretender to the throne of England. Thus Conti embroiled himself in another unsuccessful coup.
The DUKE OF BOURBON was made Gian Gastone’s heir to the grand duchy of Tuscany by statute. After all the trials and tribulations of the Medici inheritance, Gian Gastone commented that he had ‘got his heir by the stroke of a pen’.
In 2009, the year in which this book was written, the Palio dell’Assunta of 16 August was won by the Civetta, the Owlet
contrada
of Pia of the Tolomei.
contrada
of Pia of the Tolomei.
I very much enjoyed entering the world of horses for this book and talking to those who ride them, own them or just love them.
First, I must mention my sister Veronica and her husband Richard Brown (the real-life Riccardo Bruni!) who own various bits of racehorses through a syndicate and were very helpful in their insights into the world of racing. For the same reason, I’m grateful to Mark Kershaw, one-time MD of both Newbury and Sandown racecourses. I’d like to thank experienced horsewoman and friend Amy Shortt for reading the manuscript for horsey errors, and her father, trainer and breeder Joe McElroy, for pointing me towards the right places for my research. I’m also indebted to Lance Bombardier Dan Richards of the King’s Troop in St John’s Wood for allowing me access to their barracks and stables, and for giving me invaluable information on the life of an army horse. Thanks too to the farriers of the Troop who kindly allowed me to watch a horseshoe being made. I was lucky enough to visit the stud farm of the Lipizzaners at Lipica, which celebrated its 430th anniversary in 2010. There I was very privileged to see these wonderful horses performing an unforgettable riding display. Thanks must also go to my late grandfather William Donald Hoggarth
who first got me interested in horses by letting me watch the racing and placing bets for me on Grand National day!
who first got me interested in horses by letting me watch the racing and placing bets for me on Grand National day!
In other arenas, thanks to Hayley Nebauer, expert film costumier, who was most helpful on the matter of corsets, riding habits and the other accoutrements that had to be tolerated by the poor daughters of Siena in the eighteenth century, and also to hair and make-up artist Lorraine Hill who filled me in on the matter of wigs and early hair dyes.
Happily my research took me to Siena, and I would like to thank both the Comune of Siena and the separate
contrade
who were most welcoming and helpful, both to me personally on my visits there and through their excellent archives and related websites, which are mines of information. My apologies to the Eagle
contrada
who never had a family as evil as the Caprimulgi to darken their history, and my apologies, too, to the true victors of the 1723 Palio, who had to be nudged into second place for the purposes of this story.
contrade
who were most welcoming and helpful, both to me personally on my visits there and through their excellent archives and related websites, which are mines of information. My apologies to the Eagle
contrada
who never had a family as evil as the Caprimulgi to darken their history, and my apologies, too, to the true victors of the 1723 Palio, who had to be nudged into second place for the purposes of this story.
It’s not often that I find myself acknowledging a film in the course of writing a novel, but the award-winning documentary
The Last Victory
(2004), directed by John Appel, which follows the residents of the Civetta
contrada
in the days before the 2003 Palio, offered me the greatest single insight into the power and the passion of this legendary race.
The Last Victory
(2004), directed by John Appel, which follows the residents of the Civetta
contrada
in the days before the 2003 Palio, offered me the greatest single insight into the power and the passion of this legendary race.
As always I must thank my brilliant agent Teresa Chris, and also the wonderful team at my new home John Murray, especially Kate Parkin for her editing skills, Celia Levett for helping me clamber out of a number of plot
holes, and Caroline Westmore for managing the whole project so ably.
holes, and Caroline Westmore for managing the whole project so ably.
Most of all my thanks go, as ever, to Sacha for his constant support and advice, and to Conrad and Ruby who had more than a little to contribute to the character of Zebra.
And last, but not least, I would like to thank Sienna Sewell, a very inspirational little girl, whose name once gave me an idea.
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