The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (44 page)

Then silence.

“Silvia,” said the nightwatch, spotting me. “What are you doing out here?”

I bent over, pretending to vomit.

“The heavy smells of death from the donkey sickened me,” I said. “He is purging his last. I had to breathe fresh air.”

The suora’s face puckered in concern. She brought the lantern to my face.

“You look pale indeed. Shall I escort you to the dispensary?”

“No, no. Only a few minutes of fresh air. Then I shall return to my charge. Suor Loretta’s donkey will not live much longer, I fear.”

That night, a few hours before dawn, as Fedele’s legs buckled under him, I knelt beside him, stroking his neck.

I walked to the door of the little shed and stared out into the starry predawn sky.

Had I really been so close to freedom?

Nothing had changed. I was accompanying a dying donkey to the edge of his life. He would surely die before dawn.

I had tasted kisses for the first time, finding them irresistible. I ached for the touch of Riccardo.

But I would remain alone, a prisoner. Suor Loretta had left me, and with her death, I lost my protection from the abbess. The abbess hated me for my knowledge of her lie. I knew she had forsaken her promise to grant the earnest wish of the old nun.

I touched my lips, my tongue remembering the spicy warmth of Riccardo’s mouth closing over mine. I had felt a weakness in my legs as he pressed me against him. I recognized for the first time an urgency, a passion for something other than horses.

Would I ever feel that sensation, that desire again?

Fedele’s eyes lost their focus, clouding under his long lashes. He struggled to breathe, a hoarse gasp expanding his rib cage, then the guttural grunt of air expelled. My fingers stroked the cross on his back, tracing down his spine, gently finishing the black horizontal line across the top of his shoulders.

Fedele drew his last breath just before dawn. His body shuddered, a massive spasm, and lost control of all his muscles at once. Urine soaked the hem of my skirt as I pressed close to stroke his long ears.

Then he lay very still.

But I could still sense his spirit lingering there in the dim light of the shed. I cried quietly so as not to chase it away too quickly.

C
HAPTER
95

Ferrara, Castello
d’
Este

A
UGUST
1591

In the early evening, Alfonso, Duca di Ferrara, greeted a guest: the scion of the Monte dei Paschi banking family, Giacomo di Torreforte.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance finally, Signor di Torreforte.” The duca beckoned the visitor forward into the Lion’s Tower. With a gesture, he dismissed the manservant who accompanied the visitor.

Giacomo raised his eyes to the frescoes high above him.

“This is the Sala dell’Aurora,” said Duca Alfonso. “The winged goddess driving the chariot of three white horses carries the sun, the light of day. She follows Aurora, who runs ahead with two candles.”

“Magnificent,” murmured Giacomo. “The power of the horses, the strength and beauty of the goddess.”

When the doors of the apartment were closed, the duca stepped closer to his visitor. “I awaited your visit a decade ago
. . .
but you never appeared, Signor di Torreforte.”

Di Torreforte bowed his head. “Forgive me, Duca, for that great error in decorum. But many events have transpired since that first folly.”

“Indeed?” said the duke. “Pray tell me. In detail.”

“I obtained permission to visit the d’Este Court and Your Serenissimo
under false pretense, at the specific request of Granduca Francesco de’ Medici.”

Duca Alfonso arched an eyebrow.

“I appreciate your candor. I am aware of many transgressions of the de’ Medici. One more does not surprise me. Continue, Signor di Torreforte.”

“I shall confess all if you are willing to hear, Duca,” said Giacomo. “But I also require your favor to rectify my errors.”

Alfonso settled back in his chair.

“You surprise me, Signor di Torreforte. You admit to a lie—you entered Ferrara as an envoy from Florence, yet never appeared for an audience. And now you have the gall to ask me—no, to require—a favor?”

“If you would grant me the good grace to listen to my story, I will tell you how I have erred, committed unforgivable trespasses against man, woman, and God. Then I will beg you to help me right a grievous wrong committed here in your dukedom.”

Duca Alfonso nodded.

Who is this Tuscan who now betrays the de’ Medici?

“
Begin. I am curious to hear your tale.”

The oil burned low in the lamps. The duca listened in silence, his eyes occasionally blinking in astonishment.

When Giacomo di Torreforte finally concluded his story, there was silence in the room for many minutes. At last the duca nodded. “I must consider what you have told me,” he said, “and decide what course of action to take.”

As di Torreforte rose to take his leave, a messenger arrived from the convent with a letter from the abbess. With it was a folded parchment sealed with red wax bearing the imprint of a crowned eagle
. . .
the emblem of the d’Este family.

“Wait!” commanded the duca, lifting his hand. “This news may concern you, Signor di Torreforte.”

Alfonso scanned both letters, then walked to the fireplace, tossed the parchments into the flames, and watched them burn.

Stirring the ashes, he turned his head and said, “You may have a chance to atone for your sins more quickly than one might have thought, Signor di Torreforte.”

C
HAPTER
96

Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

A
UGUST
1591

When the royal horsemaster arrived at the convent, the mother superior’s hand reached for her rosary beads.

Why would the horsemaster come here? This is only an old ass that finally died.

The abbess met the horsemaster at the door of the convent. Besides Ercole Cortile, ambassador to the court of Francesco de’ Medici, there was no man more trusted and esteemed by the duca in all Ferrara.

His face showed no love for the abbess, his eyes glinting cold blue. He stood in the doorway, reluctant to cross the threshold.

“Please, come sit close to the fire,” said the abbess. “We keep it burning in my apartment for visitors, thanks be to God and the generosity of Duca—”

“Spare me, Madre Superiore,” said the horsemaster, refusing the offered chair. “I happen to know how much the duca gives annually to this convent. You could have a bonfire every day of the week.”

“And we pray fervently, several times a day, for the souls of all the d’Este family, as the convent has for centuries—”

“Do you pray as fervently for all the good women housed within these walls?”

The abbess rubbed her rosary beads hard between finger and thumb. Her skin began to burn with the friction. “What do you mean, signore?”

“Never mind,” said the horsemaster. “I will get to the heart of the business at hand. The duca wishes to have me interview the suora who took care of the donkey.”

“What?” said the abbess.

“Duca Alfonso d’Este wishes to know the nature and trajectory of the animal’s disease. He died only days after the death of the duke’s well-loved aunt.”

“I—no, that is impossible. The suoras here—as you well know—are entirely cloistered. You may not speak with her. It is forbidden.”

The horsemaster rose, his lips set in a grim line.

“Then I shall return with the duca himself. And I promise you he will not arrive in a generous mood.”

“The duca?” said the abbess, her hand flying to her throat. “Here, at the convent?”

“When he hears that you have refused his request, I can only imagine what might become of your fine wines, steady fire, and comfortable fare.”

The abbess’s hand slid off her rosary beads, fluttering to her face.

“Good signore! I follow the rules of Rome and our holy order. This is the only reason I would dare decline to fulfill the duca’s wish. We are a cloistered order. I could be excommunicated!”

“So be it.”

“I do not understand the nature of the request,” she said. “The donkey died of natural causes. He was quite old.”

“So you say, Madre Superiore. The duca wonders at the astonishing coincidence of the ass’s death following so closely after that of the great suora Loretta d’Este.”

The abbess pressed her lips together, bleaching them of color.

“It is the duca’s express wish to interview Postulant Silvia?”

“No, Madre,” said the horsemaster. “It is his command.”

He nodded stiffly, preparing to leave.

“I would be present, of course,” said the abbess.

“No. You shall not be present. The duca requests the honest word of the suora in charge of the donkey’s care. There can be no other witnesses who might interfere with the truth.”

“How dare you!” said the abbess. “You imply that my honesty is not beyond reproach? I, the mother superior of this convent?”

“You waste your holy breath with me, Madre. The duca will be here tomorrow an hour before Vespers to speak with the young woman in question. And he will come with a wagon to transport the donkey carcass. If you have any complaints, reserve them for Duca Alfonso himself.”

The horsemaster turned at the door. He saw the abbess’s fingers clinging to her rosary beads.

“And do not think those church trinkets will save your soul when you finally meet your maker, Madre.”

He left the door open as he strode down the convent hall, scattering the suoras like frightened crows.

C
HAPTER
97

Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano

A
UGUST
1591

Giorgio’s three brothers had never shown any interest in horses or the farm in Vignano, despite their father’s urging. Each had sought his fortunes elsewhere. Alvise, the eldest, was a prosperous cloth merchant selling bolts of fine fabric dyed in L’Oca at Fonte Branda. Michele was a clerk at Monte dei Paschi, swiftly climbing through the ranks under the watchful and encouraging eye of the di Torreforte brothers. Dario was a partner in a vineyard in Chianti, just north of Siena’s walls.

The three sent money to subsidize the horse farm after their father’s death. Their one sister, Delia, a spinster of thirty-two, cared for Giorgio, whose condition worsened steadily. And one by one, the great stock of brood mares dwindled as Giorgio’s health failed. He could no longer train horses. Only the stud fees for Orione kept the stables in hay and barley.

Stella, who had shown initial improvement under Giorgio’s dedicated care, relapsed into a pathetic state of health.

Giorgio, carried now in a litter to the stables, saw the change in the mare. Her coat had grown wavy and thick. She was losing muscle tone, though Giorgio blamed himself for not being fit enough to ride her.

But the mare’s thirst was the telltale sign. The grooms were ordered to stable her for observation, counting the number of buckets the horse drained in a day.

“Twenty buckets, Master Brunelli,” said the head groom. “My back aches from carrying water. Her thirst is unquenchable.”

That same evening, as Stella yanked hay greedily from the manger, Giorgio noticed a bulge filling the natural depression above the mare’s eyes. He ran his thumb across the horse’s skull. He felt the fat beneath the skin.

He knew the fate of the mare. He knew his own.

“You and I are looking at the end of our lives, old girl,” he said. “And quite a life it has been.”

Giorgio knew the progression of the disease. Within weeks, the mare would lose all remaining muscle tone; the slight swayback she had developed would become more pronounced until her body resembled a fleshy washtub. She would become lame, and finally her legs would buckle underneath her. As had Giorgio’s own.

The summer solstice was long past. Autumn approached, and now, as the days shortened, so would the remaining fragment of Stella’s life.

She would not survive the winter.

Giorgio listened to the grinding of the mare’s teeth working over the hay. He heard the nicker of a horse stabled farther down the line. It was Orione, calling to him. He sighed, shaking his head as he left the ailing mare to her feed.

Orione pressed hard against the door of his stall, his big head emerging over the door, shaking his mane at Giorgio.

How docile Orione has become—was it the time we have spent together forging a friendship? Waiting for Virginia. Like two old men in love with the same girl. We have a mutual understanding.

He watched the spinning motes of hay dust linger in the twilight. Giorgio reached through the golden air, his hand resting on Orione’s blaze.

“I will not let all Siena see what has become of your good mother,” he promised the stallion, running his fingers through the horse’s forelock.

“We must preserve her legend. And you, my friend. I will send you back to the Maremma hills to run wild with the mares.”

C
HAPTER
98

Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio

A
UGUST
1591

The abbess pulled the heavy velvet drape away from her apartment window. She watched as the gatekeepers bowed deeply to the duca’s entourage. In the windows below, she could see her nuns’ wimpled faces peeking through the gaps in the curtains.

The wagon approached first. It was no ordinary knacker’s cart, but a lacquered flatbed in gold and red, the d’Este colors, with two liveried grooms driving a matched set of gray mares. They pulled up to the interior gate of the courtyard. Riding behind was the horsemaster. He flicked his eyes up at the abbess’s windows, scowling.

“Madre,” said Suor Adriana, rushing in with only a perfunctory knock. “The gatemen say Duca Alfonso is coming!”

The abbess swallowed hard. She had hoped that the horsemaster’s threat was only a bluff. Would the duca really concern himself with the carcass of a very old donkey?

“I will descend with you at once,” said the abbess. She made a hasty sign of the cross, lowering her eyes to the stone floor. By the time she had reached the ground floor, the horsemaster was questioning the timid Suor Petra, assigned to deal with visitors to the abbey.

“What can you tell me about the donkey’s death?” he demanded.

Suor Petra squirmed, her eyes beseeching the mother superior.

“Horsemaster, please! The suora does not know anything about the matter. Only one postulant knows the answers to your questions.”

“Then the duca and I will question her at once. Open the doors to the chapel as well. The duca wishes to visit the frescoes while he interviews the postulant. He has given his permission for you to watch through the grille.”

What little color the abbess had in her lips faded to white.

The horsemaster smiled, savoring his words. What a delicious reversal. Every Sunday and all holy days, the public of Ferrara stood behind the grille to watch the nuns singing the mass, accompanied by the organ and harpsichord. Now it would be the abbess herself who would watch from behind the grille as the duca questioned the girl.

Before the abbess had time to answer, the clatter of hooves rang across the first courtyard. Duca Alfonso rode up to the chapel doors. A groom accompanied him, dismounting at once to hold the reins of Alfonso’s mount.

The abbess curtsied deeply before her most generous benefactor.

“Good day, Madre,” said the duke. “And the postulant?”

“I shall send for her at once,” said the abbess. “May I welcome you to our humble convent, and may God’s blessings be bestowed—”

“I will wait inside the chapel for the girl. Instruct the gatekeepers to unlock the inner courtyard.”

“My duca, I must first accompany them to the donkey’s shed. The girl waits there, guarding the carcass as you requested—”

“Open the gates at once, Madre.”

The abbess did not hesitate. “Yes, my duca.”

She gathered her robes high enough on her ankles to hurry across the gatekeeper’s station. In her rush, she glanced at the two men on the bench of the wagon. One quickly turned his head away from her.

Is there indeed holy shame among the duca’s men, as there should be, for this foul invasion?

But just as the bright fire of self-righteous anger rose in her heart, a strange flicker of uneasiness grew beside it.

Who is that man? Have I seen his face before?

Despite her hurry, she paused, her fingers fumbling in her pocket for her bone-rimmed glasses. When she brought the spectacles up to her eyes, the man had disappeared.

The interior gates of the convent creaked on their hinges. The gatekeepers were obliged to keep a guarding hand on the wood so it would not disintegrate. The wagon entered the inner courtyard, the abbess walking behind in its wake. All the nuns and postulants had been secured with the walls of the convent hours before. Except one.

“I will notify her that you have arrived. Be aware, she may be overcome with emotion. The two deaths—Suor Loretta and now the donkey—have affected her most profoundly. She is an odd girl. I think that it would be best if I were by her side to give her spiritual support.”

“I think I have made it abundantly clear that I wish to interview the postulant in private,” said the duca, his voice betraying impatience. “I want to know of the last hours of my dear aunt’s life. I want to know that the donkey was not poisoned.”

The abbess’s mouth dropped open. She raised her hand at once to cover it. “My duca! Poisoned? Who would poison Suor Loretta’s donkey?”

“Questions are mine to ask, not yours. Introduce me to this postulant at once, Madre. Stand beyond the door while my horsemaster inspects the donkey’s body. We have brought along a respected horse surgeon.”

The man who had turned his head away from her only minutes before descended from the flatbed wagon. As the abbess turned to take a closer look at him, he again turned his face from hers.

“Madre, bring the postulant to us at once!” repeated the duca, furious.

The abbess lowered her head in respect, pushing open the shed doors.

An overpowering smell of decay greeted the visitors. A thin girl knelt beside the dead donkey, her simple verge dress soiled. The cloak on her back was matted with straw, her hair tied back in a dirty white kerchief.

She made the sign of the cross and rose to her feet.

“My lord Duca Alfonso, this is postulant Silvia. Postulant Silvia, show your proper respects to Duca di Ferrara, Serenissimo Alfonso II,” said the abbess.

Virginia curtsied deeply, bowing her head. When she rose, she looked at the duca.

“Duca Alfonso,” she said. Her eyes caught a glance of the man standing just behind the duke’s shoulder.

It was him! The face she had seen in her nightmares—

The postulant’s face froze, her mouth partially opened to scream.

The duca made an almost imperceptible shake of his head, his eyes holding steady on her face. She dipped her head, saying nothing.

“Postulant Silvia,” he said. “I know this is a shock to you—first the death of my beloved aunt Suor Loretta, then the donkey whom you cared for with such devotion. My aunt wrote of you often. Especially in her last days.”

The abbess’s eyes flashed open in astonishment.

“And I thank you for your loving care. I would like you to answer a few questions the horse surgeon has for you.”

With a wave of his hand, the duke indicated the man at his shoulder. Giacomo di Torreforte. Di Torreforte took a step forward, bowing.

Virginia took a step back, her heel wedged against the dead donkey.

“This examination of the donkey’s remains will be most indelicate. We will certainly excuse the abbess from the few minutes these procedures are carried out,” said the duca.

The abbess looked at him, preparing to speak. He held up his hand for her to keep her silence. “Then the rest of our interview will be conducted in the sanctity of the convent’s chapel, in full view of the abbess. Though I will insist you sit behind the grille.”

“But
. . .
my duty—” sputtered the abbess.

“Abbess,” said the duca. “You will excuse us.”

“My good duca, hear my plea!” the abbess protested. “I cannot let the girl be unchaperoned for an instant. I have a duty to God, to our Holy Order—”

“I understand, Madre,” said the duca. “Send at once for Suor Anna Rosa, my cousin. I am, of course, permitted to visit with members of my family. Suor Anna Rosa shall be present throughout our questioning, thus assuaging your concerns for
. . .
God’s protocol.”

The abbess bowed.

“Yes, Serenissimo. I will send for her at once.” As she turned to leave, she tried in vain to take a better look at the horse surgeon. But he had already moved next to the donkey, throwing back the blanket.

A swarm of flies buzzed up angrily from the decaying carcass.

“Go! Subito!” ordered the duca, his hand flapping away the flies and stench.

The abbess hurried out of the shed toward the convent.