This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Linda Lafferty
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781477822074
ISBN-10: 1477822070
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951482
This novel is dedicated to the good people of Siena
Il Palio e’ Vita
(The Palio Is Life)
CONTENTS
PART I A Medici Princess and the Little Shepherdess
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
PART II The Death of Cosimo de’ Medici
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
PART III Murder in Tuscany
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
PART IV The Heroine of Siena
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
PART V Ferrara
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
PART VI The Art of Death
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
PART VII The Reign of Granduca Ferdinando
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR NOTES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART I
A Medici Princess and the Little Shepherdess
ANNI 1569–1574
CHAPTER 1
Siena, Contrada del Drago
AUGUST 1569
One of my treasured memories—one of the few I have of my parents—is riding on my father’s shoulders through the streets of Siena, my mother walking by our side. On sunny days, when there was little work or none at all, my father would close up his tiny leather workshop. His eyes would sparkle with a light of conspiracy as he lifted me up and set me behind his head. I could not have been much more than two.
As he locked the door behind us, the fresh air chased away the scent of oiled leather: saddles, bridles, halters, sturdy bags for travelers. If my father could not afford to have horses, at least he could create the tack to put on their glorious backs.
He pointed across the deep ravine that cut into the heart of the city, between two hills. We gazed at the black-and-white marble walls of Il Duomo, the great cathedral. The view from our neighborhood, the Drago contrada, across Siena, and up to Il Duomo was the most magnificent vista in our beloved city. A great swath of green farmland edged the yellow and deep red flanks of brick buildings and ocher stucco. Beyond the city, set on three hills, lay a patchwork of green and gold, the rolling lands of Tuscany.
“We will go visit your horses,” my father said.
My horses.
“But first we must cross the Contrada dell’Oca, the Goose. Are you ready, my brave little girl?”
I nodded solemnly. I knew one day a Goose contradiolo would ambush us. In Drago, we were taught from the cradle to distrust our neighboring contradas. As they distrusted us.
“We must be careful of the goose,” whispered my father. “I can smell perfidy in the flap of its feathers. It is a most foul bird.”
My mother rolled her eyes.
“Why do you teach her this foolishness? Do not listen to your babbo’s silly stories.”
My father paid her no mind.
“Keep watch, Virginia. Be vigilant,” he warned.
For all the suspicion and anger, the Geese of Oca were our neighbors. If my father threw a rock from his shop, it would land in Oca territory. And we shared more than cobblestones. Although we of Drago had the basilica—which enshrined the preserved head of St. Catherine—Oca was the saint’s birthplace. (Her body remained in Rome, but no one spoke of that in Siena.)
My mother did not join in when we spoke of Oca. Her best friend lived in Oca, and she knew not all Geese were treacherous.
“Stop filling her head with these alliances and enemies!”
“I want her to grow up as a proud dragaiola. She needs to know her heritage.”
At this, my mother’s lips tightened. I was too young to know it, but it cost us dearly to live within the city walls. My father’s leather-goods shop did not bring in enough money for us to survive there.
But my parents desperately wanted me to be born here, in the city, in the Contrada del Drago, whether they could really afford it or not. It was my heritage, they told me. My Tacci grandfather had been born here.
“Here we go!” said my father, joggling me atop his shoulders. “Into Gooseland!”
My head twisted and I scowled, keeping a sharp lookout as we descended, then climbed up the steep hill of Oca and toward the Contrada della Selva.
“I will spit on them, Babbo!” I said, proud that I had learned to spit quite accurately through the gap in my two front teeth. “No G
oose—”
“You will do nothing of the kind!” snapped my mother.
So, no spitting, but I would not let those Ocas pinch my cheek, no matter how friendly they seemed. I kept a wary eye, glaring at my foes.
“Virginia! Stop that behavior, subito!” my mother would cry, and I was forced to let an occasional Goose pet me or kiss my cheek.
A plump, wattle-necked Goose Lady laughed, her dimpled chin wiggling. “Oh, Virginia! We are not truly adversaries! Drago and Oca have lived side by side peacefully for centuries.”
The Goose Lady gave me a sweetmeat, patting my chubby leg. “Do not listen to your babbo. He makes up wicked stories about the noble Goose simply because he is so proud you were born a Drago, like your grandfather.”
“Ah,” said the Goose Lady. “I think I have not convinced you, sweet Virginia. All seventeen contradas have their rivalries. Tartuca and Ciocchiola—how those two carry on!”
My mother rolled her eyes in agreement, and we moved on.
“Do not hate the Goose, ciccia. We are all Senesi,” called the woman.
Still savoring my sweet, I nonetheless heaved a sigh of relief when we crossed the boundary into Selva, for the jungle beasts were our allies.
I kicked my heels against my father’s chest.
“Go faster, my pony! Gallop to the Duomo.”
My father’s ears served as reins. I pulled them on either side, directing him left and right. “Faster, Babbo, faster. We are almost there.”
Panting in the heat of the day, my father made a valiant effort to run up the steep hill to the Duomo.
As we emerged from the shade of the little vicolo, I shielded my eyes.
“There they are!”
My favorite part of the city sparkled white in the Tuscan sun.
“The horses!” I shouted.
Our magnificent Duomo has a façade as white and thick as cream frosting. Its marble was fashioned into every kind of creature, both fantastic and real. Lions, bulls, winged griffins, saints, and angels emerge from the polished stone.
But my favorites are the horses—my horses—supporting the corners of the façade, lashing out of the stone in full stride.
Perhaps I learned to love horses with such passion from those few precious memories of my mother and father.
They left me nothing but memories when they died just a few months later.
CHAPTER 2
Siena, Pugna Hills
NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1573
The young painter stood shivering at his easel, gazing over the sheep-studded hills. A towered castle loomed above him, and beyond that rose the dust-colored walls of Siena.
Dawn cast a rosy wash over the city’s walls, and a flash glittered from the distant silver cross atop the Torre del Mangia, which soared above the Piazza del Campo at the heart of the city. A coating of hoarfrost clung to Siena, roof tiles sparkled in the sun.
The artist’s hands ached, his freckled skin chapped raw. The scratchy wool wrap around his palms could not compete with the cold of the Tuscan winter.
He had risen in the dark to walk with his paints and easel through the lonely hills to this spot, this clump of oak trees in the shadow of Quattro Torra, a castle abandoned since the siege of Siena nearly two decades before.
He stood, brush in hand. Waiting for the dawn. Waiting for her.
He had painted her from a distance for a year now, the pastorella—the shepherdess—and her woolly charges. Virginia Tacci intrigued him, this skinny girl of six years.
His father, Cesare Brunelli, who knew everything there was to know about horses, said he recalled the day his best friend brought newborn Virginia to the stables.
He said all the horses stopped shuffling, eating, snorting. They lifted their heads, listening. “The silence was eerie,” Cesare said, “like before a great storm.”
That silence held until it was finally broken by the baby’s laugh.
“She has a gift. The horses are never wrong,” Cesare Brunelli said. “They recognize her spirit—a wild spirit like their own.”
It made the young artist feel an emotion akin to jealousy. A burning itch to capture her. He felt the urge to dig in his nails, bright with color, to scratch her form on canvas.
But she’s a girl. And a shepherdess. What good will it do her, this wild spirit?
His father’s words resonated in the artist’s mind. The young man would paint her, over and over, from every angle.
The sound of baying hounds broke into his thoughts. His eyes searched the rolling hills, blinking back tears against the cold wind.
Four velvet-cloaked riders paused on the crest of the hill, its grass bleached to straw by the Tuscan sun. Three brothers and a sister, their horses liveried with the red ball of the de’ Medici, emblazoned on the cheekpieces and browbands of their bridles.
A cold-throated gust tore at the cloaks of the riders. The woman’s billowing skirts filled like sails in the wind.
Her chestnut horse spooked, taking a sidestep leap as swift as a thunderclap. Hooves smashed the frosted grass as the gelding spun around.
“Easy, cavallo,” the rider cooed as she gathered her skirts, tucking them tight between her leg and the saddle. She sat deep in the saddle, her heels stretching low into the stirrup irons. The horse snorted, his nostrils flared. White puffs lingered in the winter air.
Her lips curved into a smile at the horse’s excitement.
“This is why women should not hunt,” said her eldest brother, dismounting. He flung back his cloak angrily, his fingers counting the holes in his stirrup leathers. He adjusted his left stirrup slightly shorter.
“Where are the grooms?” he grumbled. The well-oiled leather snapped as he yanked down the stirrup. “The Granduca of Tuscany should never have to dismount except for the kill.”
“I commanded them to leave us in peace,” said his sister, Isabella. “How often can we speak without witnesses? I do not trust the stable servants. They are paid to carry our secrets to other courts.”
Granduca Francesco grunted as he finished with the stirrup. He straightened up and drew a silver flask from his riding jacket.
“That, unfortunately, is the truth.” He took a long draught of grappa, his eyes scanning the Senese countryside. “With Ercole Cortile’s spying and his wagging tongue, I’d wager the Duca di Ferrara knows the precise lacework of my mistress’s chemise.”
He offered the flask to his sister, his mouth twisted in a lascivious smirk.
Isabella shook her head, declining the grappa.
“Bianca Cappello’s chemise is silk,” she retorted, “studded with seed pearls. Everyone knows that, even in the streets of Florence.”
Francesco’s face darkened. But Isabella straightened her elegant back in the saddle and continued.
“Your Venetian mistress is fanatic about underclothes, Francesco. I wager she will ask to inherit my camisoles and underskirts when I die! And you are wrong about women and hunting, fratello mio. The lesson is that a woman should dress herself in breeches when riding, as men do. The horse is terrified of Florence’s fashions.”
The other two brothers laughed, their horses prancing in place.
The Granduca of Tuscany scowled up at his sister from the ground.
“Oh? Do you not agree, Francesco?” she said, casting an innocent look down at her eldest brother.
His dark eyes, inherited from their Spanish mother, Eleonora di Toledo, smoldered with rage.
“Give me the flask, Francesco. Mine is empty,” said Pietro, the youngest brother. As always, he seemed incapable of reading the emotions of others. He did not sense the growing fury of the grand duke.
“You drink too much,” snarled Francesco, gesturing at his brother with the flask, his fingers tightening. “Is this the way you comport yourself in Madrid? King Felipe and the Spanish Court must think our family drunkards.”
“And worse,” he almost added, for Pietro had strange ways about him. His brother’s hooded eyes and cruelty chilled Franc
esco’s blood. The witches of Fiesole had pronounced Pietro cursed by the devil himself.
“You may be the granduca,” said Isabella, turning her horse toward her brother, “but that does not give you the right to insult your own family!”
Francesco grabbed her horse’s bridle in his free hand. The horse jumped back, but he held tight. “If I am insulting my family, you, my dear sorella, come to mind first and foremost.”
“Davvero, dear brother?”
“Your immoral ways make tongues in Rome flicker like snakes’, threatening our alliances. A princess who rides like a man. A de’ Medici princess espoused to an Orsini and keeping intimate company with his cousin—”
“Paolo himself asked Troilo Orsini to watch over me in his absence—”
“How convenient!” called Pietro, from his horse. “A husband to name his own replacement in the marriage bed.”
“Shut up, Pietro!” said Isabella, turning in her saddle. “You are indeed a fool!”
She knew Pietro had suspicions about his own wife, their first cousin Leonora—concerns about his wife’s fidelity while he bedded the most common whores in Florence.
Isabella was glad he would be leaving early the next day. She could not bear the sight of him.
“You should live at your husband’s side as a good wife and mother,” snapped Francesco, still focused on his sister. “Not linger year after year in Florence.”
“I married the bastard,” snapped Isabella. “Is that not enough? De’ Medici blood is mixed with Orsini. Your Highness seizes my husband’s land to pay off his debts—my land, my children’s!”
“I never said he was not a fool. My concern is with the de’ Medici name, the de’ Medici fortunes.”
His hands loosened their grip on the bridle. Isabella’s horse backed away, rearing. She whispered comforting words, steadying the gelding.
Francesco turned, tipping the flask to his mouth. The grappa stung his wind-chapped lips. He winced, rubbing them with his gloved fingers.
“You ride like a puttana, sister, straddling the horse.”
“Francesco!” said Isabella.