The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (6 page)

As they boosted her up into the saddle, I saw blood seeping into the satin of her beautiful skirt.

Granduca Francesco broke the silence.

“What led you to commit such a foolish act? You could have broken your neck.”

Isabella turned in the saddle, as if to respond to her brother’s harsh words. Then she groaned, clutching her belly.

“Are you all right, sister?” asked Ferdinando. “Are you hurt?”

Isabella lifted her head only enough to regard him.

“I am afraid the fall may have injured the child, brother.”

“What child?” demanded Francesco. “Do you mean to tell me you are hunting while carrying Paolo Orsini’s child?”

“
My
child,” said Isabella through clenched teeth. “Get me back to the castle. I will hunt no more today.”

All three brothers stared in horror at the white pallor of her face.

C
HAPTER
10

Florence, Pitti Palace

J
ANUARY
1573

Whether carried by Isabella’s ladies in waiting, her laundress, the stable attendants, or the huntsman, the news spread to every corner of Florence. The butchers spoke tragically of a “lost prince” as they hacked a chop from a pig’s carcass. The herbmonger swore she could have prevented the loss had only the de’ Medici consulted her for a tonic. The silk traders whispered that a fortune of embroidered cloth was ruined with bloodstains.

Inevitably the news reached her father, the Granduca of Tuscany. Cosimo de’ Medici admonished her gently, for he loved his daughter more than anyone in the world.

“Cara, you have wrested a grandchild from my loving breast! You should not hunt, but be in confinement during these days—”

“Confinement!” said Isabella. “You sound like Francesco, fettered with caution. Not the man I know, Papa.”

Cosimo took his daughter’s hand, caressing it. “And what man is that?”

“The man whose father, astride a prancing horse, ordered a nurse to throw his baby son from the second-story window into his arms. The one who—as that tiny baby—smiled and cooed, without the slightest fear, when his father caught him.”

Old Cosimo smiled. The story was legendary, reflecting the courage he would show throughout his life.

“My father was proud of me that day.” His smile widened.

“
‘
This baby is indeed my son,
’
”
Isabella reminded him, mimicking the words of her grandfather, the great Giovanni dalle Bande Nere.
“
‘
And he shall be like me: afraid of nothing from birth! The grandson of the Tigress of Forli, Caterina Sforza—
’
”

Cosimo pressed his daughter’s hand to his cheek. “Ah, my Isabella.” His brown eyes softened. “What shall become of you when I die?”

Isabella blinked in confusion. She recognized the soft gaze of tragedy in his eyes. “What a strange thing to say, Papa!”

A shiver coursed through her spine. He squeezed her hand, sensing her fear.

“I fear I should not have turned the dukedom over to Francesco before my death. After ten years of apprenticeship, I hoped he would learn the feel of the reins in his hand. A good rider learns when to give the horse its head, to ride with the lightest touch.”

Isabella stared at a Bronzino portrait on the wall—Francesco as a child. She focused on the firm line of his lips.

“Francesco was not born with light hands, Papa.”

The granduca studied his favorite child, her eyes steady on his own.

“Ah, my daughter. You are most like me.”

“It is true, my father. I am like you in every way.”

“More the pity you are a girl, my Isabella.”

She snatched her hand away.

“Is it such a tragedy that I am not born with the de’ Medici palle, Papa?”

De’ Medici balls. Her father laughed.

“And let us be grateful to God for the two children I already have, Nora and Virgino,” Isabella said. “Have I not proved myself an adequate brood mare for the de’ Medici stable?”

“My treasures, those grandchildren. And of course you have courage,
figlia mia.
”

“Then why do you appear so sad?”

Cosimo sighed. “I do not want your husband to take you back to Rome.”

Isabella scoffed. “Rome? Rome could never be my home. And Paolo will never insist. Did you not pay a dowry of 50,000
scudi
expressly to keep me here in Florence? I shall remain in Tuscany with you always.”

“What will your husband say when he learns of your hunting accident?”

“I will tell him the blood came from a wound, and the scandalous gossip of a miscarriage is fantasy. He will know he could not have possibly fathered a child in the past few months. Besides, he is too busy with his mistresses in Rome.”

Cosimo studied his daughter’s face.

“You truly hate him.”

“Paolo Orsini is a brute,” she said, looking away. Her eyes rested on the portrait of her brother.

“Will you ever forgive me for forcing you to marry him?” asked Cosimo.

“Never, Papa,” she said, still turned away from him.
“Mai!”

She felt her face quiver. She took a deep breath, composing herself, then turned back to her father, offering him a smile.

“Perhaps forgiveness might be found if we go hunting again. Quite soon. Just the two of us. And perhaps Leonora. She needs to escape Pietro’s ill humor. He really is quite unbearable.”

Cosimo’s face creased in pleasure. Youth flashed in his eyes.

“Ah! My two favorite companions. I will have the huntsman make arrangements for the coming week. I shall ride with the most beautiful women in all Tuscany. No, in all the world!”

Isabella smiled. “And the three of us will inspire the most delicious gossip!”

Cosimo loved to spend time in the company of his daughter and daughter-in-law. The fact that half of Florence thought Leonora’s child was fathered by the granduca made no difference to Cosimo.

Isabella turned her back on Bronzino’s portrait of her brother.

The artist depicted his cold eyes too skillfully.

“Papa,” said Isabella, as her father escorted her into the dining hall, “I forgot to tell you about the shepherdess I met in the Siena Hills. A mere child, but quite remarkable. Stubborn as I was as a little girl—”

“As you? Ha! Quite impossible.”

“Davvero
,
Papa. Really. She had the most determined little chin.”

“A Senese shepherdess! Of all people to make an impression on a de’ Medici princess,” marveled Cosimo. “I look forward to hearing more.”

C
HAPTER
11

Florence, Pitti Palace

F
EBRUARY
1573

The de’ Medici family waited, their hands on either side of their plates, observing an ancient custom: the showing of hands in peace and respect as they waited for the granduca to proceed.

Cosimo speared the tender venison with his fork and popped the meat into his puckered mouth, chewing carefully with the remaining teeth. Despite his advanced age, the abscesses in his jawbone, and painful gout, the granduca had a good appetite for both food and sex.

After Cosimo had swallowed and taken a sip of Montalcino, the rest of the family began their repast. It was a rare occasion these days to have all the de’ Medici siblings at the table. Pietro’s wife, Leonora, was not there, nor was Camilla, the granduca’s second wife. Isabella was relieved that Camilla, a commoner, had not joined them. Isabella found her flighty and unable to follow any conversation that did not involve fashion and costly fabrics. And of course, Duchessa Giovanna, Francesco’s wife, would never accept a commoner in Court. Cosimo respected his daughter-in-law’s wishes, as she was the sister of Emperor Maximilian of the Holy Roman Empire.

Isabella glared at Pietro, who still insisted on eating only with his knife, like a soldier on the battlefield.

“It is not as if we are hunting, little brother,” said Isabella. “Why do you insist on eating in such a primitive way?”

Pietro sucked at a piece of meat lodged in his teeth.

“I am a military man, sister.” He shrugged, spearing another piece of venison with his knife and shoving it whole into his mouth.

Isabella glared, and he returned her look in kind. Finally, their father broke the angry silence.

“Isabella. Please tell us about the Senese shepherdess you encountered.”

“Isabella fell from her horse,” sneered Francesco, “and the flea-bitten, knobby-kneed villana came to her rescue!”

“How dreadful,” said Giovanna, who had a terror of commoners, especially Italians. She surrounded herself with German-speaking ladies-in-waiting from the Imperial Court of Vienna.

“It was not dreadful at all, Giovanna,” said Isabella. “Quite fortunate, actually.”

“A perfect stranger—a peasant—came to your aid?” continued Giovanna. “How truly astounding! Where were your attendants? Your ladies-in-waiting?”

“My ladies could not possibly keep up with me on a horse. And the perfect stranger was a charming little girl. Full of fire and spirit, a true Senese.”

“Even more intriguing,” said Cosimo, running his tongue over his front teeth.

Isabella turned to her father.

“This little scrap of a child has never been on the back of the horse. But she insists she will ride the Palio one day!”

Her brothers laughed. Giovanna joined in. Only Cosimo remained silent.

“She shall have to compete against our horses,” said Cosimo, making a temple with his hands. He rested his lips against his fingertips. “And the Borgia
s
’
.
”

“I do not think the Borgias race anymore in Siena, Papa,” said Isabella, patting her father’s hand. As of late, he remembered occurrences from yesteryear while forgetting the recent past. It had been many years since the Borgias had contested the Palio.

“Not since they annulled Cesare Borgia’s win,” she said softly.

Isabella squeezed her father’s hand. She darted a look at her brother, Cardinal Ferdinando. He met her eyes, saddened at his father’s decline.

“Ah, yes,” said Cosimo, nodding his head. “I remember. A false start. Borgia’s jockey was disqualified.”

“I have heard rumor that Siena wants to stage more Palios.”

“It would be good for their spirit,” said her father, shrugging his shoulders.

“I find the very suggestion ominous, Papa,” said Francesco, setting down his glass. “The Senese have too much spirit as it is. It cost us many soldiers’ lives in the siege, did it not?”

“They are a defeated people,” said Cosimo, dismissing his son’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “Let them recover their heart with sport. They are Tuscans, just as we are. Let them race their horses.”

He turned away from his son, his attention riveted on his daughter.

“Tell me more about your shepherdess, my dear.”

Isabella smiled, content that her father paid her such rapt attention. She saw Francesco glowering at her.

“Her name is Virginia—Rucci? No, Tacci,” said Isabella. “She saw me jump a fallen tree and was mad with admiration.”

“Jumping!” said Francesco. “With child!”

“She said that she had recently met the Contessa d’Elci,” continued Isabella, her voice rising to cut off her brother and any mention of her pregnancy.

“Duchessa Lucrezia? Davvero?” said the old granduca, his eyes sparkling.

Isabella and Francesco glared at one another, while the granduca—perhaps noticing the tension and anger, perhaps not—went on with an eager smile.

“Now, Isabella. Tell me more about the charming Duchessa d’Elci.”

C
HAPTER
12

Siena, Pugna Hills

F
EBRUARY
1573

From the day Orione was born, I wanted to be at his side.

The first night he returned to the pastures, I packed my sheepskin coat and coarse wool blanket to sleep in the lambing shed, where I was so often sent to care for the aging ewes.

“You seem eager to sleep away from our roof,” said Zia Claudia. “Perhaps there is a boy you meet in secret.”

I stared at her, incredulous.

A boy? What boy could have the charm of Orione?

“The field ewes’ pens border the horse pasture, Claudia,” said Zio. “Leave the girl alone. She is crazy for the new colt, nothing more.”

“A colt?” said Zia Claudia, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Huh! She may be turning sly in her womanly ways at an early age. I do not want her ruined. She and the tanner’s son—”

“I want to be with Orione,” I said, glaring at her. “He is more important than any stupid boy.”

Zio Giovanni smiled, stroking my matted hair.

“It is an innocent love, Claudia. The love of a girl and a horse. I will have her cousin Lorenzo camp with the sheep on the hill above. She can eat a warm supper with the boys, then sleep in the lambing sheds. I will make it clear to Lorenzo that his duties include caring for her, as a matter of family honor.”

Although I am certain that Claudia hated losing this argument, I suspect she was relieved to have me out from underfoot. She had long begrudged me space in the tiny cottage, pushing my straw pallet under the window where the winter draughts chilled my bones.

I thought of what Zio Giovanni said.
It is an innocent love, Claudia. The love of a girl and a horse.

Innocent, yes. But ardent—the love I had for Orione burned as bright and fierce as any emotion that had ever seized my heart.

I ate greasy mutton stew and shepherd’s bread for dinner with my two cousins. Their filthy hands pulled at the bread, stuffing it into their mouths with their muddy knuckles. They chewed with their mouths open, swilling down the food with sour red wine that stank like the vinegar Brunelli used to clean horse wounds.

Shepherds lived a rough life, rarely bathing or sleeping. The cold ground, the coarsest wool blankets, and meager rations were all my cousins knew.

“You helped Cesare Brunelli save the Oca colt,” said Lorenzo. I watched the white dough and cheese tumble about in his open mouth, his tongue pushing the food over his uneven teeth.

“I helped the foal to breathe,” I said.

“There’s they who say you are a witch,” said Franco, Lorenzo’s younger brother. He narrowed his eyes to slits, staring at me. “That you delivered the devil’s horse that night, that by all rights he should have died.”

I pulled my scratchy blanket around my shoulders, feeling a chill trace my spine. I had never liked Franco. He was sixteen and stank of sheep dung and meanness. His eyes were set so close together that they looked crossed.

“Shut up, Franco,” said Lorenzo. “Do not mind him, Cousin Virginia. He is always seeing the evil instead of the grace of God.”

Franco’s mouth twisted, the light in his eyes flat. “That colt is sired by Tempesta, the black devil. He has killed two men who tried to break him.”

“Orione is also the foal of the gentlest, fairest mare in all Tuscany,” I countered.

“That cannot wash clean the blood of Tempesta,” said Franco. “That horse is cursed. The colt never should have been born. You interfered with the will of God!”

I shrugged. “If God really wanted that colt, he would have taken him, despite all I could do.”

“You breathed life into a corpse. He will grow up to be just like his father. They say Tempesta eats human flesh, ripped right off the bodies of his victims—”

“Shut up, brother! You are a cross-eyed simpleton,” said Lorenzo, clearing away his words with a slash of his hand.

“If Tempesta ever jumps the wall to join his mares, he will tear our cousin here—or us!—to bloody shreds,” warned Franco, shaking his greasy finger at me.

“The Contrada dell’Oca has built a wall so tall he cannot even see over it. He would break a leg before he could ever clear it,” I said. “That is ridiculous.”

“I have seen his nostrils flared and red, raised above the wall,” said Franco. “Snorting his fury. You cannot confine the devil—or his curse.”

“A curse?” scoffed Lorenzo. “Brother, I do not think it is a curse to have the Duchessa d’Elci beholden to you. Is that not right, Cousin Virginia?”

“The duchessa is not beholden to anybody,” I said, irritated with both my cousins. I pulled up the muddied hem of my dress enough to stand.

“Are you leaving so soon?” said Lorenzo, the corner of his eyes drooping with disappointment.

“Thank you for the meal, cousins. I must return to the ewes. It will be dark soon.”

“We’ll be watching out for you down there,” called Lorenzo. “Call out if you need us. And keep the fire burning through the night to chase away the wolves.”

Franco said nothing. He turned to spit on the ground, and his dirt-caked hand made the sign of the cross.

Orione sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring as they took in my scent. I could make out his eyes, gleaming with curiosity. He nickered a high-pitched call, shaking his head.

As I approached the stone wall, he ran toward me at a full gallop. At first I thought the long legs churning under him would never stop, that he would crash into the stones and break a bone. But he pulled up just before the wall, darting off bucking and kicking at phantom challengers.

I tied my ragged skirts in a knot and climbed the white stones. By this time, Stella had approached at a trot, whinnying.

She seemed to be apologizing for her rude baby, dipping her head for me to stroke her neck.

“Beautiful mare,” I murmured.
“Bellissima.”

She closed her eyes, delighting in the caress. I wondered if the duchessa petted her the way I did now. She tilted her head and let my fingers move up to scratch between her ears.

I felt a warm puff of air on my back, then a nip.

“Ow!” I said, whirling around. I slapped the colt’s nose and he reared back, snorting. Then he ran off, his tiny hooves churning up the loose earth.

The milk teeth of the foal did not tear my dress, but I could feel a welt blossoming beneath the cloth. It stung and ached deeply, like my finger once did when it got pinched in the chain as I drew water from the well.

Stella nuzzled against me, unconcerned that I had just smacked her foal.

“You will have to teach him some manners,” I confided to her. After sulking for a few minutes, the black colt came back around.

“What? Are you going to bite me again, just to show me how alive you are—thanks to me?”

Orione shook his head, snorting.

“Yes, you see how your mother likes to be petted,” I said, looking at the chestnut mare.

Orione pushed against me, plucking at my hand with his lips.

“If you bite me again, I will pummel you.” Tentatively I moved my hand from the mare’s neck to Orione’s. His skin prickled and fidgeted under my fingers. “Ticklish? You will get used to it.”

He stared up into my eyes, his brown eyes wet. I stroked the curly stock of mane between his ears—all spongy fuzz, not at all like an adult horse’s hair. He tried to nip me again, but I pulled my arm away just in time, giving him another smack on the nose.

“Maybe you aren’t the devil,” I said. “But you are my little demon.”