The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany by Linda Lafferty

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