The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (8 page)

C
HAPTER
16

Siena, Pugna Hills

A
PRIL
1573

Giorgio stepped out of the shadows, his leather boots creaking, a wool hood pulled over his head. Stella shied away, snorting. I held on tight to the rope.

“Madonna!” I gasped. Stella took two more quick steps sideways and I spilled off her, hitting the ground hard.

I tasted salty blood from my lip and earth in my teeth. But it was my shoulder that hurt the most. I struggled to my feet, screaming at him. “What are you doing, spying on me?
Bastardo! Divoratore di stronzi
!
”

Bastard! Shit eater!

“You curse like a Brindisi sailor, shepherdess,” he said, laughing. “I knew you would come here. I am certain the duchessa told you that Stella would be pastured here just to tempt you. Sending you that collo—”

“It is none of your business,” I shot back. “You just wanted to see me make a fool of myself. To see me fall, to see—”

“
Basta!
You have no idea—”

“You hate me. Admit it! I see you stare at me in the stables. You think a girl cannot ride—”

“Virginia Tacci. Never have you been so wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “Why should a girl not ride?”

Giorgio caught me off guard. I struggled to compose my thoughts. “Then why are you here, spying on me?”

He remained silent.

“Why? Answer me!” I shouted.

He shrugged and looked up at the stars.

“And you just happened to come here to our lambing sheds and the horse pastures?”

He looked at Orione, nuzzling against my arm. “Yes, I am often here. I paint.”

I looked at him in the moonlight. He carried a leather satchel that I supposed could contain his paints.

“I paint because I cannot sleep. I have not been able to sleep since I returned from art school in Florence.”

He turned his gaze from Orione to me.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked him. “What do you want?”

“I can help you, Virginia. Let me.”

I brushed the dirt from my skirts. “How can you help me?”

“Riding a horse is a skill that must be mastered. It would take you years to learn by yourself. And at the rate you are going, you will probably break a few bones—or your neck.”

I glared at him. The moonlight caught his eyes, reflecting back at me. He approached, coming within striking distance. I winced, tightening my fist.

“I think I shall call you
Rompicollo
,” he said. Breakneck. “It suits you.”

My shoulder hurt where I had landed on it hard.

“The mare will not stand still,” I spat.

“Why should she?” he said. “You have given her no command to do so.”

“I have told her,
‘Fermati, fermati!’
Instead she trots off.”

“Don’t be foolish. Horses don’t speak Italian, or they would be at the taverna drinking
vino rosso
and laughing with the village drunks.”

“She trusts me, I know—”

“Do not lose her trust. First you must learn to ride properly, how to talk to her in a language she understands. Then you will not insult her by rolling off her back like a circus clown.”

I wiped angry tears from my eyes. The moon shone bright enough that I noticed his stare. His eyes studied me, taking in every feature of my face.

“I want to ride,” I said, sniffling.

“And you shall,” he said, the trancelike stare broken. “But you are not ready to ride a Palio horse. Let us choose a different mount to begin with.”

Giorgio whispered soothing words to Stella and caught her lead rope. He unbuckled the Palio halter, patting her on the neck. “What a mess you made of this halter, Rompicollo!”

I glared at him. His eyes glittered, full of mirth.

“It is an honor to touch such an impressive mare,” he murmured as he quickly sorted out the halter. He handed it to me, and we walked deeper into the pasture where we could see the horses all awakened now, grazing on the spring grass.

“That one,” he said. “The bay gelding. I have seen him under saddle for many years. He is gentle to a fault.”

He took the halter from me, walking toward the horse. I snatched it back. “No,” I said. “I want to halter the horse. Let me!”

Giorgio threw up his hands. “Fine,” he said. “Do as you like.”

I clucked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, calling to the gelding. I stretched out my hand with a remaining chunk of apple from my apron pocket. The other horses trotted away, but he stood, curious.

His soft muzzle brushed against my outstretched hand.

“Ouch!” I screamed as the gelding caught my thumb in his teeth. I stuck my smarting thumb in my mouth. The old gelding contemplated me, still chewing the apple.

Giorgio laughed. I was glad for the darkness—he could not see my color rise, burning my cheeks.

“Don’t you know enough to tuck your thumb under your fingers when feeding a horse?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I love horses, but I tend sheep. How would I know such things?”

Giorgio sighed, rolling his eyes.

“There is so much you do not know,” I heard him whisper.

I struggled to slide the halter over the horse’s ears. The old gelding withstood my fumbling hands as I stood on tiptoe.

“Do you want me to show you?” he asked. “You can learn a hundred times more quickly, you know. Otherwise you will be an old woman, wizened and gray, before you can even trot a horse.”

I chewed the inside of my mouth. My thumb stung, my shoulder ached, and I wasn’t one step closer to learning to ride.

“I put it on the mare mysel
f
,
” I said. “Did you see that?”

“Yes. I thought it would take you all night. And you got it all wrong, twisted.”

“I only know the rope halters used in the stables that slip over the nose. I have watched your father—”

“Let me show you the right way. Just once.”

“All right,” I said finally. “But then take it off again, so I can do it myself.”

“Watch me. Slide it up like this. Everything buckles or ties on the left side, remember that. That is the side you mount and dismount on. It has been a tradition for centuries, warriors carrying their lances in their right hand—”

“Wouldn’t it be more convenient to use both sides?”

He shook his head.

“Do not argue. Just listen.”

“It just seems easier—”

“You are very stubborn, Virginia Tacci. Look at how you thrust out your chin—it is quite muddy, by the way.”

“Sì, sì! I understand now,” I said, seizing the halter. “Let me do it.”

The gelding, patient and gentle as he was, dipped his head into the halter. After I had put it on and taken it off half a dozen times, I said, “I want to get on now. I have to start riding, or I will never be able to win the Palio.”

“Ah, is it
win
the Palio now?”

I threw my hands in the air, exasperated. “What is the point of riding the Palio if you do not win?”

“The point, my little Virginia, is that it is a great honor even to ride. Not everyone rides the Palio, only a chosen few. Anyone who rides the Palio has accomplished much.”

“Never mind that. I mean to win. Now help me up,” I said, bending my leg as I had seen other riders do at my padrino’s stables.

Giorgio approached me, bending down to grab my leg.

“Do not dare look at my underclothes, Brunelli.”

He laughed, dropping my leg. He doubled over laughing.

“Ha!”

“What is so funny?”

“Virginia Tacci, I do not have any desire to see the underclothes of a skinny little girl.”

“Do not insult me,
etrusco
!”

“So now it’s Etruscan?” he said. “Grazie for the compliment, shepherdess.”

He slipped his hand under my foot, boosting me atop the horse and holding the halter in his other hand.

“Now sit up straight. Do not hold on to his mane, it will only pull you forward. Sit straight and tall, as if you are trying to reach the ground with your spine, your legs. Pull back slightly with the reins.”

“Rope,” I said. “This is only a rope.”

“In your hand, they become reins. Pull back, sit up straight.”

He let go of the rope. The gelding stood motionless.

“
Va bene
. Now squeeze ever so slightly, urging him to take a step. Then sit up straight again.”

The gelding walked forward. I could feel him considering a trot. I pitched forward, clutching his mane.

“No! No!” shouted Giorgio. “Sit up straight. With dignity. Sit up like a queen, a centaur.”

“What is a centaur?”

He shook his head. “Direct your backbone into him.”

“My backbone?”

“Like a roman column, erect and solid. That is where your energy is. Speak to him through your body. Make him feel your command, your will.”

The horse forgot about trotting. He was content to walk.

“See? If you give false signals to a horse as sensitive as Stella, she will gallop the Palio course around this pasture. You will never stay on.”

I smiled so broadly, I knew my teeth were reflecting the moonlight.

I did not care.

“Teach me more,” I said. “Per favore
,
Giorgio. Teach me more. Teach me everything.”

C
HAPTER
17

Siena, Palazzo
d’
Elci

J
UNE
1573

“Have you given up sleep?” admonished the maestro, watching Giorgio’s mouth stretch wide in a yawn.

Giorgio clamped his jaw shut, blushing. He looked around at the other students, who were grinning at him.

“Forgive me, maestro,” he said.

“You are sucking all the air from the room
,
villano,” said di Torreforte, his brush poised in midair.

“Open a window,” added the young noble peevishly. He frowned at the last few brushstrokes on his canvas. “The villano’s stink of garlic and peasant wine suffocates me.” A smirk twisted his face as he tossed a casual glance in Giorgio’s direction.

A servant opened the windows. A burst of fresh air blew in, carrying with it the vendors’ calls, the commotion and bickering in the open market below.

Di Torreforte wrinkled his nose. The sounds of Il Campo displeased him, but he was struggling even more to finish his rendering of the Beccafumi. The maestro had told the students to repeat the lesson to see how much they had improved over the past months.

Insults being easier than painting, di Torreforte turned to Giorgio again.

“Your body reeks of the barnyard. Perhaps you have encountered an ignorant milkmaid to throw down in the hayloft for a quick roll. Peasants rut like goats in the spring, do they not?”

“Florentines prefer mud to girls, I hear,” Riccardo De’ Luca said before Giorgio could respond to di Torreforte. “Or a handful of sculpting clay in a pinch.”

Giorgio covered his mouth, stifling his laugh. A hot beam of admiration filled his chest for his good friend.

“Basta!” shouted the Maestro. “This is a school of art. Art is divine grace, not a dirty brothel. You will speak as gentlemen, or you will be dismissed!”

Enraged, the maestro moved around the room. He leaned close to the canvases, inspecting his pupils’ work.

“Federico! What graceless shoulders you have given Clelia—did you mean to cripple her in your depiction?”

“No, maestro—”

“Then cure the poor girl.”

He moved to the next canvas.

“Bartolomeo
. . .
the Tiber River does not have the cross-stream current you have painted—”

“I was enhancing the light with spots of white—”

“—and if it did, Clelia and the virgins would have been carried downstream from Rome all the way to Ostia’s shipyards. Calm the waters!”

The artists bowed their heads, too ashamed to lift their eyes.

The maestro moved toward Giorgio and stood still behind the young artist’s canvas.

He said nothing. His jaw relaxed. He drew deep breaths, audible in the still room.

Di Torreforte grew restless in the silence. He recognized that the maestro’s lack of comment was the highest compliment.

The Florentine strode over to Giorgio’s easel, scowling.

“Maestro!” he said, his hand gesturing dismissively. “Look how he has painted the horses! Not the slightest likeness to Beccafumi’s!”

The old maestro was shaken from his reverie.

Giorgio watched a resigned bitterness cross his teacher’s face where deep satisfaction had shined only an eyeblink before.

“See there!” di Torreforte insisted. “An insult to your Senese master. See what he has done to the horses. Look! There is nothing of Beccafumi’s style whatsoever.”

The color drained from the maestro’s face, but he did not look at di Torreforte or Giorgio.

“It cannot be fixed. Start—start over,” said the maestro, turning away from his pupil.

“But maestro,” pleaded Giorgio. He had worked for months painting studies in secret, knowing they would repeat the lesson. Today he had hoped the maestro would praise his work, for it was his best yet.

Di Torreforte’s face lit up with boyish pleasure.

“Are you deaf as well as incompetent?” he demanded. “The maestro said, ‘Start over!
’
”

Giorgio tasted bitterness in his mouth. He carefully removed the canvas, laying it on the marble floor to dry.

He drew a new canvas from his supply bag and began to tack it down. His mouth soured as he thought of the many hours ahead of him sketching the stuffed, stiff horses of Beccafumi.

The maestro looked down wistfully at the unfinished painting. He turned and walked silently to the windows overlooking Il Campo. His old eyes gazed down blindly at the busy marketplace, where the Senese carried on with their lives as they had for centuries.

C
HAPTER
18

Siena, Pugna Hills

M
ARCH
1574

There were riding lessons a few nights every week. I quickly learned to communicate with my horses, working my way up from the fat old gelding to gentle ladies-in-waiting mounts, and finally to the retired hunting horses of the nobili.

All the while, Orione trotted beside us, occasionally wheeling around and kicking the air inches from my face. He would not leave my side.

“Va via!”
I would shout, waving the tree branch I used as a crop. “Get out of here, you pest!”

I stole sleep while watching the sheep, dozing in the grass or high in the branches of olive trees. When the sheep were pastured among the horses, I took my naps near the lambing shed.

Often Stella would walk to stand near me. One day, I heard the clip-clop of tiny hooves.

I opened my eyes in time to see Orione’s knobby knees buckle as he lay down next to me in the straw. He, too, was exhausted. For children and colts alike, it was unnatural to run and play in the hours after midnight. We napped side by side, nestled in the straw. Flies buzzed around us, lazy in the heat. I watched his skin twitch when they lighted on him, even though he was deeply asleep.

My hand reached out to him, entwining my fingers in his nubby mane. For once, he did not nip me. I drew in his warm horse smell, the heady scent of manure and fermented hay, young and pure.

Giorgio worked hard with me. My thirst to learn conquered my need to question.

“Talk to them,” Giorgio urged. “It doesn’t matter what words you use. Speak from the heart. Speak from your strong will.”

“What do you mean?”

“Horses feel your strength, your fears, your love. Words are gibberish to them. The strength of your will—
volontà
—that is what they feel. They are herd animals. They long for a clear leader, a confident leader, one they can trust.”

Each lesson took me deeper into Giorgio’s world of intuition. If I was afraid, my horse would sense it and take advantage. If I was sure and clear, the authority of my movements was respected immediately.

“Move steadily, firmly,” he instructed. “If you don’t doubt yourself, the horse will not doubt your judgment. She’s ten times your size, but she welcomes a steady hand. This was sanctioned by God—otherwise why would a beast so mighty succumb to being ridden by a creature so inferior in weight and strength?”

I loved to hear Giorgio talk of horses. Sometimes when I was riding, he would take out parchment from his satchel and draw.

“Why do you not aspire to ride the Palio, Giorgio?” I called down to him one night from a new mare, Adela. She was a gray dapple. Her trot was easy, with a long stride.

I used my leg—my bare calf—to turn her around, facing Giorgio. She pranced under me, feeling my leg. I released the pressure, calming her. I sighed, wanting to canter, but Giorgio would not permit it yet.

“That is all for tonight. We will not ride tomorrow or for the next week. The moon has waned.”

“I can ride in the pitch-black,” I argued. “I do not have to see. I feel the horse under me, so—”

“No! Riding blind, you will betray its trust. He will stumble against a tree root or fall into a hole. And a horse will never forget.”

I bent over my mare’s neck, stroking her long mane.

“I will not betray you, Adela,” I said to my new favorite. Orione, sensing I had abandoned him for the moment, nipped hard at my bare legs.

“Ouch!”

I swatted him away. He snorted, rearing beside me.

“If I had ridden you in the Palio, you would have won,” I whispered to Adela. “We would have won together.”

I saw Giorgio’s white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. He chuckled to himself.

“Come along, Rompicollo. It is time you return to your bed. You are dreaming aloud to the stars and the night sky.”