The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (31 page)

The abbess gripped the edge of her desk. Like Adriana, she refused to raise her voice. But the low monotone of her utterance carried a lethal venom.

“We were warned of the demons that possess you, Postulant Silvia.”

I stood up, kicking the chair over.

“My name is Virginia Tacci. You will release me at once!”

The abbess sat back, a smile tugging at her bloodless lips.

“That certainly will not be the case. I am the only one in this convent who has a key to the doors, Postulant Silvia. And they shall not be open to you. Ever again. May God forgive you your sins. Sorella Adriana, please escort our new postulant to her cell. See that she prays for forgiveness.”

Suor Adriana put a hand on my arm. I slapped her away.

“Get away from me!”

The abbess rang a little bell with a fierce shake of her wrist. Adriana stepped outside, returning with four other nuns much larger than she. At once, they seized my arms.

“Leave me alone! Let go of me!” I screamed. I kicked, connecting with one, who buckled over in pain.

The others seized me even tighter, digging their short nails into my flesh. They dragged me from the abbess’s office.

“I am a fantino! I rode the Palio—I will never,
ever
be a nun!”

Conversa Margherita was cleaning her mistress’s cell while the young novice had her first meeting with the abbess. The servant shook out the dusty linen shift and overskirt, smoothing its folds with her hand. It was a coarse weave, not much different than Margherita’s own.

How strange for the niece of such a wealthy patroness to wear simple linen verge! Especially on the day of her internment
. . .

A scent, earthy and animal, rose up, greeting her nose. Margherita bent closer to inspect the cloth in the dim light of the cell, pulling the cloth tight to her face.

The scent was strong in the folds of the linen. She sniffed it, then rubbed her fingernail across the pale yellow-brown stains, encrusted with coarse animal hair.

“Santo cielo,” she whispered. She scraped some of the bits of sticky hair into her palm to inspect it.

What is this?

She touched her tongue lightly to the cloth.

Salt.

The screams of her mistress, Silvia, being dragged across the convent courtyard made Margherita jump. She quickly pulled up the corner of her apron and brushed some of the hairs onto the fold of the cloth. She tied a knot in the hem, pulling the material tight with her teeth.

The nuns brought the girl into the cell, screaming and flailing.

“Get out of here, conversa!” Adriana commanded. “Take the clothes she wore last night and burn them at once. She will never need them again.”

Margherita cast a look at the struggling girl, her face red with rage. She bundled up the clothes and leather boots.

“Now! Go and throw them in the kitchen’s hearth!”

Margherita hurried out of the room just as the nuns pushed the young girl in, sending her sprawling to the stone floor.

“You will forever regret your behavior today!” said Adriana, heaving. Her hair, mousy brown and stringy, had been pulled out from beneath the wimple. The sister turned, pulling closed the door with a slam.

Margherita heard the key turn twice in the lock. With the scraping of metal, it seemed the new novice’s fate was forever sealed.

As part of my penitence, I was forced to lie across the threshold to the refectory. The nuns walked upon my body as if I were a mat. The nuns who dragged me to my cell after the rebellious audience with the abbess trod on me the hardest. Suor Adriana ground her heel into the place where my neck met my spine, her full weight lingering there.

The floor smelt of vinegar and old women. As I contemplated the odors of the convent, the lingering stench of nightly chamber pots was not masked by the incense of the adjacent chapel. The conversas scrubbed the tiles and stones, but the stale odor of enclosure still clung to the air. It seemed as if the old nuns died and disintegrated, clinging desperately to the air and stone and brick of the convent, refusing freedom even in death.

The young novices chattered like excited starlings as they entered the refectory, for a few seconds chasing away the moldering spirits that haunted the convent.

“Silence!” snapped Suor Adriana. “You enter the refectory to nourish your body in order to sustain your spirit. Enter with reverence.”

“Sì, Sorella Adriana,” they murmured. “Forgive us.”

Most stepped lightly over my prostrate body, barely the weight of a bird. They had heard my screams of pain.

“Brava,” whispered a novice above me. “You disobeyed.” I made a mental note of the lovely young voice above me.

I would find her, this kindred soul.

Suor Maria had charge of all novices’ education. She eyed me warily at our first audience, having heard of my rebellious nature.

“I trust the conversa has instructed you on the schedule of prayer. You must listen for the bell and not arrive late for the service, or you will pay penitence.”

No, I will not be late. Until the day I find a way to escape.

As if she were reading my thoughts, Suor Maria said softly, “Do not try to escape, Postulant Silvia. Dozens of others have tried; there is no way out. The walls are too high to scale, and there is a watch night and day. I tell you this so that you will not harm yourself in a failed attempt to flee.

“Receive our holy savior Jesus here in our abbey. Only then shall you receive peace.”

No, Sorella Maria. There will be no peace until I regain my freedom.

The little gray donkey was shaggy and docile. I buried my nose in his neck. Not quite the smell of horse, but an equine, a cousin at least. My eyes welled with tears as I breathed in his scent.

He turned to nuzzle me. My fingertips touched his velvety softness, felt the warm puff of his hay-sweet breath.

“His name is Fedele,” said the old suora, sitting in the shade of a fruit tree. “Mine is Suor Loretta. He likes you, I think.”

She raised her body slowly from the iron stool. I heard the creak and snap of her joints.

“I heard of your tale. You profess to love horses. As did I in my younger days, before I was interned in the convent. Nothing else existed for me.”

“
Davvero?” I said.

“Yes, but I had to forget all that,” she said, looking at the donkey. “And so will you. You are here, Silvia, because I requested your assistance.”

“I know nothing of donkeys,” I said stubbornly. “I ride horses, large and beautiful. Not asses.”

She looked at me as if I had slapped her. “Do not dare insult Fedele! He is a handsome fellow and earns his keep. So shall you, postulant.”

“But I—”

“Come. I shall show you how to harness my donkey,” she said, as if she did not hear me. “My arms have become too weak to lift the heavy yoke. I shall be grateful for your help. I will teach you what you need to know about the donkey and its care.”

I nodded my head. A donkey was hardly a Palio horse, but I said nothing.

Suor Loretta was devoted to her four-legged charge, running her fingers through his scraggly mane as I had Orione’s. She whispered in his long ears and kissed his donkey cheeks. I watched her harness and unharness the donkey. Her arms trembled with the weight. I stepped in and took that weight from her.

“Let me, Sorella Loretta. I am a quick learner.”

“I can see that,” she said, trying to recover her breath. She put a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. “Silvia, thank you.”

I did not correct her. I wanted no confrontation here. The sweet hay and smell of golden oats in the tiny stable made me feel at home.

“I procure the best oats in Ferrara for Fedele,” she said, pointing to string sacks.

I dipped my hands in the oats, letting them spill through my fingers. They rattled down like gold coins into the sack. I bit into one grain. Its sweet and plump meat had chewy goodness.

“They are indeed fine,” I said. “Finer than any grain we fed our horses in Siena.”

How can a simple suora procure such fine-grade oats for a mere donkey?

The suora looked at me, her old head nodding. But she said nothing.

C
HAPTER
68

Florence, Pitti Palace

S
EPTEMBER
1581

The dwarf Morgante had hoped he would be dismissed after the death of Isabella. The granduca would remember he was present at Isabella’s death. Surely he would be banished from the de’ Medici Court.

But he was wrong. A dwarf was a valuable commodity, and the de’ Medici prided themselves on the few dwarves they could procure.

Morgante was assigned to the care and entertainment of Antonio, born to Bianca Cappello and Granduca Francesco.

Born to the granduchessa?
Morgante knew better. Rumors had spread like wildfire throughout Florence that Bianca was barren and Antonio was a changeling.

Ha! Born to a scullery maid and passed off as a de’ Medici heir.

There was nothing remotely de’ Medici—or for that matter, Cappello—about the strange-looking boy. But he was not as unkind as the de’ Medici girls and enjoyed the company of the little dwarf. Morgante took a reluctant liking to him.

One day, when Prince Antonio took a tumble from his pony, Morgante raced to the apartments of the granduca to inform him of the accident.

Being a member of the Court, the dwarf—shouting that there was an emergency—was admitted at once, though there was another visitor finishing his conversation with the granduca. Knowing better than to interrupt, despite his urgent news, Morgante listened outside the door to Francesco’s interior study.

“I have followed your orders precisely, Granduca. She is safely interned. She is forbidden to see anyone from outside the convent.”

“You have assurance of this?”

“I do.”

“A hundred ducats a year! A small fortune. My original plan would have cost me nothing.”

“Your magnanimous gesture ensures
. . .
God’s blessing.”

Morgante noticed the man’s hesitation. He was searching for words.

“She has been assigned the duty of caring for a donkey, the abbess writes me.”

“An ass?”

“A little donkey that is hitched to a cart to carry the convent’s vegetables to the storeroom. The girl curries its coat, feeds the beast, and mucks its stall.”

The granduca’s hearty laugh spilled out into the hall. Morgante noted the malevolent tone.

“What a fine result!” said the granduca. “We rid Siena of her heroine, and we reduce her to caring for a donkey.”

Again, the granduca laughed. The visitor kept silent.

What heroine is this?

Morgante rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He knew nothing of Siena, only that it was one of Florence’s greatest conquests under Granduca Cosimo.

“My lord
. . .
shall she be freed? In a few years, perhaps? When the danger of a Senese rebellion has passed?”

“What? No, never!” snapped the granduca. “The Senesi will always remember her. She poses too much danger to Florence. Let Ferrara have her!”

The private secretary Serguidi emerged from the antechamber.

“Morgante! Why are you here?”

“The little prince has had a tumble from his pony. I have notified the physicians, but I come to give the news to the granduca.”

“Subito!” said Serguidi, ushering in Morgante.

The stranger was preparing to leave. He was dressed with a black scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

Granduca Francesco frowned, his brow folding in angry puckers.

“I have a private audience with Signor di Torreforte, Secretary Serguidi,” he said, staring viciously at the dwarf.

“Excuse me, Granduca,” stammered Morgante. “But your son Antonio has had an accident—”

“What?” gasped Francesco, rising. “Take me to him at once.”

Morgante pressed himself against the frescoed wall as the granduca hurried out of his office. In Francesco’s wake, the dwarf saw a wistful sadness in the visitor’s face.

The visitor glared at Morgante. “Do not stare at me, little man.”

He turned on his heel and left, the black scarf trailing behind his shoulder.