The Daughter of Siena (28 page)

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Authors: Marina Fiorato

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

BOOK: The Daughter of Siena
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She did not even have to consider. She did not think of the great house in Capri where she would never now be a servant, or the danger she was riding into. In her heart she now knew she had the excuse she needed to abandon her plan. It was her moral obligation, she reasoned, and she could save the city and perhaps the duchess’s life. But none of these motives was uppermost. She just wanted to see Signor Bruni again.
She tacked Guinevere up with practised shaking fingers, led her to the courtyard and mounted easily. She pulled her riding hood over her head and was away, the
winds in her face, turning Guinevere’s head to the hills and the abbey of San Galgano.
 
 
Pia reached the abbey just before sunset. She had ridden out of the castle and had taken the road south-west to Grosetto. But then she picked her way over the hill tracks, as the crow might fly, to beat the carriage. By sundown she had reached Montesiepi. As the great abbey loomed above her, any fears that she would miss the place were dismissed in a breath of relief. As she rode through the lush close forest, the sun through the green leaves dappled Guinevere’s flank, passing across her coat like a shoal of fishes.
The abbey itself was a vast place of stone, on a scale Pia had not expected. She began to feel disquiet. The church was as big as the duomo, and ruined too, with piles of stone and broken arches puncturing the blue sky. Pia vaulted from Guinevere’s back, lowered the reins to tie them, and the palfrey dipped her head and began to snatch gratefully at the grass. Her sides gleamed with sweat and her mouth was rimed with froth. Pia patted her gratefully; she’d been faithful, and fast, on this difficult journey.
Knowing that time was short Pia trod carefully through the ruined door and looked about her. The ancient abbey was open to the sky, a perfect rectangle of blue framed and captured in stone. At the apex of the cruciform nave a single roundel regarded her like an unwinking blue eye. North. The round church of the hermitage should be through this gaping door and a little up the hill.
Pia hurried though the cloisters, peopled now by ghosts, expecting the echo of a snatch of plainsong, or the tread of a long-dead monastic foot. But the huge and cavernous space was unnaturally silent. Faith had left this place long ago, and now it was the dominion of an older god. The forest was closing in on the abbey from all sides. Even this great monolith would soon be consumed. Through each gaping window – robbed of its treasure, those jewels of glass – now a mass of foliage was the only colour to be seen. Hardy shoots had begun to ease through the old stones, working them loose like aged teeth. Pia felt as if she was in the wrong century.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and her bones dissolved into water. She turned, expecting Nello or a hand stained from the scriptorium, a ghostly face shadowed by a cowl, fearing the latter less. A cloaked figure greeted her but the face within was that of Riccardo Bruni.
He kissed her a hundred, a thousand times, as the old abbey and the forest creatures looked on. He was so overcome to see her that he made no comment on the utter folly that had brought her here, to him, to danger. But when they at last broke apart, he gripped her shoulder urgently.
‘How did you come here?’
She smiled and said, ‘I rode. Far and fast, just as you taught me. Guinevere is tethered in the tree cover.’
‘And Nello?’
‘He follows with Faustino. They come by road, by carriage, so are slower – I left after and arrived before, by taking the fields and hills. But they will be following hard
upon. And we are not yet in the right place.’ She took his hand. ‘Come. I have much to tell you on the way.’
He took her hand and did not let it go as they walked through the vast abandoned place, the stones gilded with the dying light. Through the north transept they entered the world of the forest, and the cries of strange things huddled them together. Pia whispered what she had learned of Romulus and the grave danger the duchess was in. She told the tale almost with reluctance, because for just that moment she wanted Signor Bruni –
Riccardo
– to turn in his footsteps, bundle her on to Leocorno and take her away, now and for ever. But she was his bride only in this fantasy, in this forest. In her world, the laws of Siena bound her.
Pia quickened her footsteps and soon they came upon a little church at the crest of the hill, as small and round as the abbey was vast and square. They hesitated at the lip of the forest, mindful that they were about to leave their cover.
Raising one finger to his lips, Riccardo left Pia briefly to tread carefully all round the place, checking the terrain. When he returned, he took her shoulders.
‘You should go back,’ he said, ‘before you are discovered. ’
Pia said nothing, but slowly shook her head, her dark eyes never leaving his face. So he drew her with him out of the forest and into the little church. It was as round inside as the temple of a Roman or the chapel of a Templar. In the gloom of the lapida they could just make out a jagged piece of rock protruding from the tiled floor
with a black cross-shape above – the hilt of a sword thrust into the stone: the sword of San Galgano, or perhaps of Arthur himself. The sword of a disillusioned soldier or a man who would be king. Riccardo regarded it for a moment. On another day he would have laid a hand on the thing just to test the legend, but time was short.
‘Let us conceal ourselves here.’ He pointed to a series of dark wood pews. ‘They will have to proceed through here to reach the chapel beyond.’
Pia lay down close behind the darkest pews and without a moment of awkwardness or hesitation Riccardo lay down beside her, opened his arms and she huddled into the curve of his chest. Feeling the length of her body pressed against his for the first time, she had to remind himself of the sanctity of the place. She raised her thoughts and eyes to heaven and in the dimness she could just make out the perfect dome of the rotunda, decorated in one long, perfectly described spiral, like the shell of a snail, turning ever inwards, constructed of white stone alternating with red brick. As the horseman held Pia close to him she followed the snail-spiral with narrowed eyes. Time crawled slowly, and she would have had it crawl slower still. It was enough to have him hold her and look at the spiral. She knew that if she met his eyes she would be lost.
It seemed hours later when the glow of torches lit the gloom. Pia’s heart beat fast and painfully. Riccardo held a finger to his lips and beckoned as they edged silently to the end of the pew. Nine torches processed forth and became a circle, each illuminating the cowled figure that
held it. Once again Pia felt the echo of a monastic past, but here the echoes were not of sacred music and the footfall of a sandal, but the dark devilry of a black mass. For a moment she feared that the cowls held nothing within, just the gaping blackness of a demonic form.
As ever, Faustino was the first to speak.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘The hour has come, and Romulus will be with us presently to plan the attack. But first, our own civic business. Is all in place for the Palio?’
‘Yes. I have constructed the mechanism to determine the horse draw, aided by Romulus himself. Once that has proceeded successfully, the horses will be allotted as planned,’ said another voice.
‘And our syndicates?’
‘The betting will take place in blocks. We have formed syndicates in each of our
contrade
, and each merchant and noble, down to the humblest baker and water-carrier, has given me their tithe.’
‘And then?’
‘They trust us, as their captains, to lay the money on their own
fantino
. But I shall lay the money on Nello as agreed, and our
contrada
will be the winners too even though he will triumph.’
‘The losses shall be met by the other
contrade
who are unaware of our enterprise.’
‘Thus the Nine will be enriched and exalted, and the others impoverished, soon to disappear.’
Pia met Riccardo’s eyes. The betting would beggar half of the city.
‘And what of Romulus?’
‘His part in the bargain will be told soon enough. He will join us here shortly,’ said the voice of the one who had spoken of the horse draw. ‘In essentials he will move during the race, while the entire city is crammed into the piazza.’
‘I hear a carriage … it must be him!’ A younger, more nasal voice now; Pia’s body stiffened involuntarily. Nello – not among the Nine’s number, but lurking in the shadows outside the circle.
Pia lifted her head a fraction. There was indeed a rumble of carriage wheels. A carriage great and noble and heavy, of such bearing that Pia felt the vibration deep within her chest.
The Nine stood silently as they awaited the arrival of their master conspirator. Pia edged forward and craned around the pew. Each man in the church was still, their torches guttering and wavering slightly, breaking the circle. Pia held Riccardo tight, waiting too.
Outside, there was the sound of a horse whinnying and then the creak of someone descending from the carriage and moving on slow, shuffling footsteps across the stone flags of the lapida. The company turned as one as an enormous figure shuffled into the circle of torchlight. Pia heard Riccardo give a tiny gasp.
‘Who is it?’ she breathed.
‘Gian Gastone de’ Medici.’
Pia frowned. Could she have been mistaken in what she’d overhead in the castle stable? Was the duchess’s brother-in-law somehow embroiled in this plot? Faustino had seemed to fear him, had placed safeguards against his interference.
An elderly voice spoke up uncertainly. ‘Romulus?’
Swift as a knife-strike, Faustino spoke. ‘Shut your stupid mouth, Orsa. You are mistaken. This is the old duke’s heir, the fat sot from Florence.’
‘Careful, signor,’ Gian Gastone’s voice was dangerous. ‘You speak to the Medici.’
Pia watched the Nine carefully. She could see that they knew not whether to stay or make a run for it. Faustino had no such fears. He raised his head half an inch and prepared to face the situation, tempering the contempt in his tone just a fraction.
‘My lord, how may we help you?’
‘I’m here to help
you
.’
‘How did you know we would be here?’
Gian Gastone waved a massive paw, his shadow cutting through the torchlight. ‘We know all of your secrets. Moreover, there is one here who listens to all your council, wherever you meet, and who is loyal to me. This might surprise you, but you are labouring, I’m afraid, under a serious misapprehension.’
Pia’s flesh crawled. She knew Gian Gastone spoke of Riccardo, that he knew he was hidden somewhere in the church, that he was enjoying this cat-and-mouse game. She prayed he would not utter the horseman’s name, that he would take the opportunity to imply to Faustino that one of the Nine themselves was a turncoat.
‘That is not possible,’ Faustino said decidedly, then after a pause his tone changed. ‘What leads you to think this? Perhaps you could share your wisdom with your faithful subjects.’
Pia registered Faustino’s change of tone. He was keeping Gian Gastone talking, keeping him inside the church. There was something outside that Faustino did not wish the heir of Tuscany to see. She put her mouth to Riccardo’s ear.
‘Time wasting.’
He nodded and breathed, ‘
Stay here.
’ She felt the chill of his body leaving her, the chill of being alone.
The chill of foreboding.
 
 
Riccardo crept from his hiding place into the darkness, clinging to the shadow in the chapel. Once outside, he stole past the Medici coach, which loomed out of the dark in the glimmering greeny half-light of the forest. There seemed nothing amiss. He stilled the horses with a trailing hand and crept down the path on silent feet. He climbed an overhanging tree and settled in the leaves, controlling his breathing, prepared to wait.
His wait was not a long one. A covered carriage pulled quietly up the hill, a rival in size to the Medici carriage, drawn by six matchless bays. The driver halted the horses at the sight of the Medici coach. He jumped down to examine the Medici arms on the door, then walked back to the carriage and spent some little time in conference with its occupant. The coachman’s tricorne obscured the face of the passenger, but a white glove bearing two rings grasped the carriage door agitatedly. The driver mounted his box again and clicked his tongue to turn the horses around on the wide path, away and down the hill again in
the moonlight, their hooves dulled by leaf mould. The carriage turning to a child’s toy, a speck, then nothing.
The meeting may have been aborted, but Riccardo was wiser than before. He had seen the insignia on the coach, a design that matched the ring that lay upon the glove. The crossed keys of Saint Peter.
 
 
Inside the round church, Pia sensed that Gian Gastone really did not know what to do. Having made his dramatic entrance, he seemed to have run out of bluster.
‘Count yourselves warned,’ he said, ‘by the Medici. Now I could,’ he went on, ‘have my regiments, who are even now hard by, take your names and your lands and your balls. But I’ll be clement, this time, so long as you undertake to disperse and make no more mention of this Nine nonsense.’

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