The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (18 page)

Isabella had already stood up by the time Morgante entered the room.

“Let us help you!” said Madonna Lorenza.

“Grazie. I believe I am all right.” Isabella took a wobbly step.

Morgante seized her arm. “The trip from Florence has tired you, my lady,” he said. “Far more than you realize.”

“Morgante. I want to ride. I must ride,” she pleaded.

Morgante pressed her hand in his. “I understand, my princess. No one understands better than I! You need fresh air to clear your mind and your heart. But perhaps it would be better to wait a day, and walk about the gardens to regain your strength and equilibrium.”

Isabella drew a deep breath.

“If I could only ride. I know I could recover my heart.”

Morgante nodded.

“I, too, want you to leave this house. But you do not want to fall from your horse. Let us walk and inspect the estate. We can pay a visit to the stables now, before dinner. You can see your horses and give the grooms your orders for the morning.”

“But—I must ride!”

“I understand,” said Morgante. “A horse will cure you, the wind in your face. But it is almost time for the midday meal. After you eat, I will escort you to the stables.”

Isabella refused to descend for the midday meal. She sent a letter to her husband, begging him to forgive her absence at the dining table and apologizing to their guest, Signor Massimo.

Isabella’s note was answered in person only a short time later. Paolo Orsini’s heavy footfall on the stairs heralded his approach. He saw the small cluster of Duchessa Isabella’s entourage gathered in the hall outside her bedroom.

“Out of the way!” growled Paolo. “Should you not be attending your mistress within her bedroom?”

“She is sleeping, my lord,” said Madonna Lorenza. “She tried to rise to ride her horse but was too fatigued after the journey from Florence.”

“Horses!” he spat. “Always horses! She and her cousin.”

Morgante kept his eyes lowered to the floor.

“Tell her she must visit my chambers at once. I do not care if she is tired. I have a gift for her to raise her spirit. A halter for her favorite horse.”

A deep drumming began in Morgante’s ears. He felt as if he were swimming underwater.

When no one moved, Paolo’s jaw tightened. “Bid my wife come to my room!”

Morgante’s eyes widened, his nostrils flared. No one moved. Lorenza and Elicona turned pale, frozen in place like statues.

“Are you deaf?” said Paolo. “Send her at once!” He turned his back on the stunned servants, slamming the door.

“But my duca—she is sleeping,” said Madonna Lorenza to the closed door.

“Let us all go together,” said Elicona. “Is she only in her chemise?”

“Yes.”

“We will wrap her in her robe,” said Lorenza. “Then the three of us will walk in—surely nothing could—”

The trio could hear stirrings in Paolo Orsini’s chamber.

“I must fetch her,” said Madonna Lorenza. “If I do not, it will make Master Orsini even angrier.”

She and Elicona slipped into Isabella’s bedchamber, leaving Morgante shocked with despair.

Morgante could hear the slip of leather soles approaching the door.

I must think. I must protect her. I must—

The door creaked open, and Isabella appeared, refusing the support of her female servants.

“I will go alone,” the Duchessa di Bracciano said, shrugging her shoulders, as if she had resigned herself to what lay beyond the door.

Morgante stood paralyzed. “No” was all he whispered.

Madonna Lorenza and Elicona joined arms, standing behind Isabella as she walked through the door. Morgante shook his head, still dazed, and pushed in with them.

“I asked for my wife!” shouted Paolo. “Not a traveling circus. Out, all of you!”

The women lingered. Morgante stood firm, his hands clenched in fists at his waist. But with one push from the big man, angry and rough, the three fell out of the doorway like bowling pins.

A double click of the lock secured the door.

They heard a muffled cry from across the hall, behind the closed door.

Morgante sank to his knees.

Half an hour later, Paolo threw open the door.

“Come quickly!” he shouted. “Your lady has had a fainting spell. Bring vinegar.”

Madonna Lorenza did not search for vinegar but rushed into the room, falling to the floor beside her mistress, who lay on the stones, her mouth agape, tongue protruding.

“The vinegar!” shouted Paolo.

Morgante pushed into the room. He fell to his knees, cradling Isabella’s head. Under his fingers he saw the blue marks of strangulation. Her eyes bulged hideously from their sockets.

“I ordered vinegar!” shouted Paolo. “Can you not see my wife is ailing? Witness her condition!”

“She is dead,” said Morgante.

“You have brought her to her death, signore!” cried Madonna Lorenza. “What do you need with vinegar or anything else?”

Elicona stood staring from the doorway, unable to move. Her eyes played over the bulging eyes of her dead mistress. Under the bed, she saw the moss green sleeve of a man hidden from sight.

Paolo yanked the poetess into the chamber along with the others and locked the door. His brow was beaded with sweat, his hair matted and tangled.

“Listen well, you servants. If any of you dare to utter any suspicions, I will have you killed. Worse yet, thrown into a de’ Medici dungeon in Firenze,” he snarled. “Do you understand?”

They nodded.

“You will simply say she died,” Orsini said, pointing a stout finger at all three. “Because
. . .
well, you all are witnesses to her delicate condition. She has been sick for months! Sì, you are witnesses and will bear testimony to her frail health. She drank cool liquid on this hot day. A grave mistake for one so ill.”

The ladies-in-waiting and the poet blinked.

Is that the best he can do?

The dwarf’s foot struck something just at the edge under the bed. He looked down.

A leather horse halter.

When Morgante looked up again, his eyes met Paolo’s. Morgante puckered his mouth, despising the murderer who stood before him. But he was not even worth the dwarf’s spit.

“Now go!” roared Paolo. “You are all dismissed. I must write to the granduca immediately. He will want to make the appropriate funeral arrangements at once.”

The granduca!

Morgante swallowed hard. Paolo shot a look at him.

Now the dwarf was sure.

Granduca Francesco’s hand was behind this murder. This murder and Leonora’s.

C
HAPTER
44

Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano

J
ULY
1576

As I entered the stable, leading a three-year-old colt from the morning’s training, I heard a snatch of conversation.

“
. . .
the devil’s own ill-born litter,” said the cobbler.

“And that fat Orsini?” said the baker. “I curse the dirty sow who gave him birth.”

“A disgrace,” said the cooper. “But he would never have dared if the granduca had not given approval.”

“
Certo.
The deed stinks worse than the tanner’s vats. Surely the King of Spain
. . .
”

The men looked up, hearing the colt’s iron shoes on the cobblestone.

“Buongiorno, Virginia,” they said. They looked down at their feet sheepishly.

I noticed they were not gambling, but sharing a jug of wine and a loaf of bread. The cobbler swallowed his mouthful, swabbing his lips with the back of his hand.

“Are you not throwing your dice this morning?” I asked, tying up the colt for a rubdown.

The men looked at the ground, studying the bits of straw and dry shreds of manure.

“What is the matter?” I asked them, picking up a rag to rub the colt’s back. “Has the cat snatched all your tongues? I would think her too busy with all the barn mice.”

Brunelli entered the barn, limping because a mare in heat had kicked him the day before. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and turned to me.

“How did Principe run this morning?”

“Bene,” I said. “Though I had to rein him in quite a bit in the fields.”

Brunelli noticed the men were still, with no dice in their hands. “No gambling?” he said.

“Something troubles them,” I said. “And they will not tell me.”

“It is not a topic for young ladies such as yourself,” said the baker, wringing his cap in his hand.

“Ha!” I said, rubbing hard at the salt and sweat. “Training colts is not appropriate for girls either. But here I am, signori.”

Padrino Brunelli glanced at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Go ahead, tell her. She will learn anyway from the gossips in the village—or worse, from her zia Claudia.”

The men nodded solemnly.

They looked at the cobbler, signaling him to be their spokesman.

“The two de’ Medici princesses were murdered. Leonora and Isabella de’ Medici.”

The rag hung tight in my fist, poised above the horse. I noticed how the sunlight entered the stable door, catching the spinning motes of dust. I heard the throbbing of my heart in my ears, like it did the time Giorgio held my head underwater in the horse trough as a joke, and I thought I would drown.

I felt I was looking at the world from underwater and would never reach the bright surface again.

“Isabella?” I whispered. “Murdered?”

“La Princessa Isabella and Donna Leonora de’ Medici. Both.”

I could hardly will my lips to move.

“How?
Why?
But when—”

“Leonora’s death was said to be an accident, but her Spanish servants have let the truth spread. Her husband strangled her with a dog leash. She bit and fought, leaving the marks of her teeth on his hand, scratches on his neck—”

“And she would have broken free, but Pietro had henchmen from Romagna in the bedchamber to help him finish the job.”

“What of Isabella?” I asked. “What happened to her?”

“Strangled with a horse halter. Never could I imagine a collo di cavallo—”

“A halter?” I said. I marveled at the word, as if I had never heard it before in my life.

“By that brute Orsini husband of hers.”

“Oh!”

I dropped to my knees in the filth, my kneecaps striking hard on the stones. My godfather limped to my side.

“Virginia, Virginia,” he said, sliding his arms around me. “These are the cruelties of the nobili of Florence,” he whispered. “They have nothing to do with the Senese, with us. The de’ Medici are our enemies! Forget them, ciccia!”

“I will never forget her,” I said. “Isabella. Her horse leaping over the olive tree—”

“They are Florentines! De’ Medici! Our sworn enemies—”

“No! You do not understand.
She
—she was not my enemy!”

I pulled the halter off the young horse and, standing on my tiptoes, slipped on his bridle again.

“Ciccia! Where are you going?”

I swung up on his back and galloped out of the stables without another word.

I headed the colt straight to the Porta dei Pispini of Siena. The muddy road changed to stone as I rode through the Contradas del Nicchio, del Leocorno, della Civetta, to della Selva—straight to the heart of town.

Women and men alike stared at me, their mouths dropped open.

“Una ragazza!” they shouted. “Look at the ragazza!”

I had never ridden the city streets before, and my horse—accustomed only to the paddocks and fields around Vignano—shied at every creaking wheelbarrow, every hawking street peddler, every braying donkey. He jumped at the flapping laundry and the colorful banners of the contradas.

I held tight, reaching my legs down deep as Brunelli had taught me.

Melt your body over the horse until you become one.

The sound of hooves clattering on pietra serena echoed through the streets: Via di Pantaneto, Banchi di Sotto, and Via di Città, until I reined in my horse in front of Palazzo d’Elci.

“Per favore!” I screamed to the guards. “I must see the duchessa at once! Tell her it is Virginia Tacci.”

“La duchessa knows you?” said the guard, doubt scrawled across his face.

“Sì! It is of the utmost importance—”

By this time, a small crowd had gathered.

Among them were the artists, coming out of the hall from their morning lesson in the palazzo.

My horse danced and reared, not accustomed to the bustling crowd.

“Virginia!” shouted a voice I recognized.

Giorgio had his paints in a leather satchel under his arm. Beside him was a black-haired youth with the most startling blue eyes I had ever seen.

“What are you doing riding Principe in the city?” said Giorgio. He handed his satchel to the blue-eyed companion, who stared at me, wide-mouthed.

“How dare you gallop that colt over the cobblestones! Did you not think of his tender feet, the stone bruises? He may be lame—”

I swung off the horse, burying my head in Giorgio’s chest.

“Isabella de’ Medici was murdered!”

A d’Elci servant took the reins from my hand. He recognized Giorgio from the art classes held in the d’Elci Palazzo. “Shall I take this horse to the stables?”

“Per favore,” Giorgio answered. He held me tight in his arms.

“I know, I know,” he said, comforting me.

He whispered in my ear, his breath warm.

“But careful what you say, Virginia. She was a de’ Medici, and you are surrounded by Senese.”

“But the granduca had her murdered!” I whispered back. “He murdered her—”

“Careful,” he murmured. “There are also Florentines in the street. Your words could be treason.”

“Treason!” I said, pulling back to look at his face. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Treason?” I shouted. “She was a woman! She rode like an angel. I do not care if she was a de’ Medici! She was brave—”

At that moment, I felt a soft touch on my shoulder blade.

“The duchessa has asked me to escort you,” said a gentlewoman dressed in blue.

I raised my eyes. Looking high above, I saw a figure standing by the window. A pale hand beckoned me.

I nodded and kissed Giorgio on the cheek.

“I am sorry I galloped Principe over the stones,” I said. “I was not thinking—I pray I did not lame him. Forgive me.”

“Do not worry. I will care for his feet,” said Giorgio. “We will not ride him for a week. Now, go! Give my best regards to the duchessa.”

The lady-in-waiting took my arm, leading me through the crowd.

Giorgio’s blue-eyed companion stared at me, unblinking. I felt his eyes follow me through the wrought-iron gates of the palazzo and up the polished marble staircase.