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

C HAPTER 19
    Siena, Contrada della Giraffa, Palazzo Dei
    M ARCH 1574
    For the fourth time, Giacomo di Torreforte straightened the linen cloth veiling his painting.
    Father promised he would be here before pranzo . When Mother was alive, he would never dare to be late for our family meal.
    He caught a rank odor of sweat from his stiff brocade.
    I smell like a criminal awaiting sentence, awaiting the verdict of my father. Why do I suffer like this?
    He reached for the cloth one more time, then stopped himself. He heard the scuff of leather boots on the staircase.
    “Mi dispiace,” said his father. “I was making a visit to the orphans of Maria della Scala.”
    Di Torreforte noticed his father’s proud smile.
    He is not sorry at all!
    “Well, figlio mio,” said Signor di Torreforte. “Show me what pretty picture you have painted.”
    Di Torreforte swallowed.
    Pretty picture!
    “Ecco!” he said, plucking the cloth from the canvas. He watched his father’s face, hungry for his reaction.
    The scene was in Florence, the Arno River at sunset. The Ponte Vecchio was rendered in buttery tones, the river dark and moody, the stonework of the arched bridge a perfect replica of the ancient Roman foundation. Di Torreforte had a well-schooled technique.
    “Pretty colors,” his father said. “Although they could be brighter, my son. More cheerful.”
    Di Torreforte felt his chest collapse. He could barely draw a breath.
    “Pity you chose a Florentine image,” said his father. “There is such beauty to be found here in Siena.”
    “Father, we are Florentine! Look, I painted the corner of our palazzo here, at the edge. I crossed to the far side of the river to get the perspective to include both the Ponte Vecchio and our palazzo—”
    “Yes, I see,” said Signor di Torreforte. “Of course I was born and raised there, in Palazzo Tornabuoni. Your painting evokes those memories.”
    Giacomo di Torreforte held his breath. Was his father complimenting him?
    “My nursemaid would take my hand, walking the riverbanks each morning,” said Signor di Torreforte wistfully. “We would watch the boats. I remember . . . ” His voice trailed off into an almost tender silence.
    Di Torreforte began to breathe again. His father—did he find joy in his painting?
    “It seems so—distant now,” concluded Signor di Torreforte abruptly. “Like a dream or an old garment folded away in a cedar chest. I have no time or spirit for those Florentine memories.” He clapped his hands together. The subject was finished.
    “Come, son,” he said. “Let us descend to lunch. I hear the cuoca has prepared pici con la lepre . She marinated the hare an extra day in red wine. Ah, che appetito ho ! ”
    Di Torreforte thought of the thick strands of