Authors: Marina Fiorato

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

The Daughter of Siena (36 page)

BOOK: The Daughter of Siena

13.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

Riccardo, too, spent the night awake. He cradled Pia’s dear head at his lap, spent long, long moments looking down at her, her raven hair burnished by fire. He could have waked her and ravished her, claimed her. So that whoever else had her in the future, he’d had her first. But
he did not want to dishonour her, to destroy her peace. She was free, for one night, from Nello, from Faustino, from her father. She was in hiding, in harbour. He loved her completely, and if this was to be their last night together, his last night as Riccardo Bruni, he did not want to spend it in sin, no matter how much he wanted her. He touched her pearly wrist with one finger where it had been rubbed raw by the shackles of her prison, and then closed his fingers around it one by one like a jailer.

She stirred, and he let go. Suddenly he knew what to do. He smiled with a complete joy that suffused his chest and warmed him more than any fire. He would not accept his heritage. He would go with her, now, before the city woke. They would go far away, together, tonight. He threw his head back and laughed, enjoying the moment, the fraction of still time before he would wake her and the world would change.

Pia listened to him, smiling gently while her heart broke. Riccardo had told her an extraordinary tale of baby twins – one dead, one alive – a lost son and the heir to a dukedom. He might as well have been telling her a fairy tale by the fire, so incredible did it sound to her ears. Then he told her of the future, that they’d go now, tonight, and she’d put her hand in his as they walked through Siena at night and out of the Camollia gate, where they had oftimes ridden, this time never to return.

When he’d done she shook her head, not too much lest the tears fall from her eyes. Who knew better than she
that what he’d asked was impossible? Who but Pia, who’d lived her life bound by class and obligation, knew better that he had a duty not to her, but to his mother and his state? She knew her answer, but hardly knew how to express it.

‘When we rode from the Camollia gate on the day we were discovered by Nello, we saw a little pile of donkey bones. Do you recall?’

He nodded.

‘They were a sign that the city was going to fall. It is no good, Riccardo.’

The city would stand or fall by his actions alone, and when weighed in the scales with the wishes of two people, Siena, with her mass of history, outweighed them. They could not take hold of this future, this fantasy.

‘You must take your place in the palace, and … marry,’ she choked on the word, ‘suitably.’

‘
Suitably.
’ He was moved to anger. ‘
You
can say that? You who have suffered nameless cruelties under Nello, you would have me end my days with some royal miss, who …’

Her tears spilled then and he stopped, mortified.

‘None of this is what I wished,’ she whispered. ‘But I do know this. You have to go.’

She stepped forward and snapped Cleopatra’s coin pendant from his neck. He flinched, and she was glad; she did not have the strength to send him from her unless she used the force of his own anger. If he held her again she would be lost.

So she snatched it back, hard, hurting him, and he left the room. She turned to the fire so she would not hear him go, concentrating on something, anything, so that she should not hear the bang of the front door. She stood for a moment, numb, and stunned, the tears she had held back now flowing freely to fall and hiss on the hot stones of the hearth. The door creaked behind her and she turned. She thought he was coming back, and sprang to her feet, ready to cover him with kisses, to say she’d been wrong, to hold him and never let him go.

But it was Riccardo’s father. Domenico Bruni.

She looked at him, small, squat and kindly. She did not have to wonder, now, why father and son bore no resemblance. She and he, though, shared something now. Pain and loss. She held out her hand to him.

‘He’s gone?’ he said, a pitiful hope in his voice.

His accent:
that
was where the resemblance to his son lay. Somehow hearing it hurt the most of all.

‘He’s gone,’ she said, sorry to be the one to kill that hope.

By tacit consent they sat down on the settle and spent the rest of the night together next to the dying fire. Loss, thought Pia, loss for everyone and for Riccardo most of all. He had gained a dukedom, but he had lost everything else.

The next morning Violante had her heralds give it out around the city that she would be making a proclamation at noon. She had spent the morning in discussion with
Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici. She had sat with that redoubtable lady in the Hall of the Nine, and had caused two golden chairs to be set beneath the Lorenzetti fresco depicting good government. She hoped it was an omen.

She regarded her sister-in-law, seeing in her strong dark features echoes of Ferdinando, and Riccardo too. Anna Maria Luisa had not followed her father and brother into corpulence, but was thin almost to the point of asceticism. She regarded Violante with a guarded eye, but did not seem unfriendly. The truth was that too much time had passed, too many pains borne, for her to feel any further hostility towards her sister-in-law.

‘Well, Violante, we have not been friends, I think?’ began the Electress Palatine in her cultured Florentine accents. Violante inclined her head to acknowledge the honesty of this. ‘But we have shared so much, in the fate of our babes, and the fate of our husbands, that we have much to ally us. And in the spirit of openness between allies, suppose you set before me the events that led to my intervention yesterday.’

Violante told the Electress the story of the Palio, of the Nine. She did not, as yet, speak of Riccardo’s identity but merely included him as a player in this drama. She went on to talk of Francesco Maria Conti, and of the mysterious Romulus, who travelled in a carriage with crossed keys.

‘I now know, of course, that Romulus represented Rome itself.’

She could have said a great deal at this point on the symbolism of this alias, and the personal significance of
the boy twins to her own history, but she restricted herself to explanation.

‘Thus the pope himself, Innocent XIII, otherwise known as Michelangelo Conti, conspired with the Nine to destabilize the duchy, with the connivance of his cousin, my chief councillor Francesco Maria Conti. Conti fixed the horse draw by way of his scientific arts, and it was to be Nello Caprimulgo’s task to win the Palio for the syndicate on the horse Berio. The horse was dyed to appear black, so the Eagles could ride him to victory again in contravention of the rules. While the city was unguarded during the day of the Palio, the papal troops were to infiltrate the city in small groups by gathering at the statues of the She-Wolf, the statues of Romulus. Then, under the cover of the race when the city was deserted, they were to surround the square with all the citizens inside and take the palace, so that the Nine could be invested and I would be deposed.’

Violante felt a cold finger of dread touch her heart at what could have been.

‘It was this, sister, which your Palatinate army prevented, in answer to your brother’s letter. I thank you with all my heart.’

The Electress inclined her noble head but said nothing.

Violante, hesitantly, went on. ‘May I assume, then, that the papal troops are the prisoners of your army – their horses sequestered, their weapons taken?’

Anna Maria Luisa leaned forward a little in her chair. ‘You may assume that if you like, sister. But the bald truth is that I let them go.’

Violante sat forward abruptly. ‘You let them go?’

‘Yes.’

‘But …
why
?’

‘Diplomacy, my dear sister,’ came the reply. ‘I cannot move against the pope, or his troops. Nor would I, for I do not wish to accede the advantage I now hold.’

Violante was reminded of the chess game of her daydream, when she had sent the black-and-white Palio banner to Faustino.

‘In the War of Succession the papal states lost this part of Tuscany to the Farnese family. The Conti papacy will do anything to regain control of Siena, even through their puppet government of the Nine, rather than see a Farnese ruler here.’ Violante could have sworn the Electress smiled a little. ‘As you know, my dear sister-in-law, because you and I and Gian Gastone have no issue, the kingdom will most likely pass to Don Carlos of Spain, son of Elizabeth Farnese. If I censure the papacy, or even reveal this plot, we will hand the balance of power to Don Carlos as my heir apparent. It is a conclusion the Conti will do anything to prevent. I must admit, I am not too keen on it myself, but as the three of my father’s children have been so remiss at providing heirs, it is one that will very likely come to pass.’

Violante smiled at the secret knowledge that she was about to reveal.

‘You spoke before of our similarities,’ went on the Electress. ‘There is one more point in which we are even more in accord. I will not cede one inch of the duchy to
renegade nobles, nor to robber popes.’ She sniffed disapprovingly.

‘I was hoping you would say that,’ said Violante, clapping her hands to dismiss their attendants. ‘And I ask you to consider this, before I tell you what I must. You say we have not been friends. Perhaps, for this at least, it is not too late?’

A brace of hours later Violante emerged from the chamber, well pleased with their conference, concluding what she had only suspected before: that a world run by women might be a world well run. Gian Gastone kept to his room, but his servants had promised to ready him to be in place for midday. Violante could not bring herself to care about his fate. He had taken from her the thing that was most precious to her. Now she would do the same to him. The dukedom had been everything to him for so long now, and it was about to vanish from his life.

She was shaking, but not for fear that Riccardo would not come. He had been in the palace since eight of the clock, and had spent the morning with servants to bathe and shave him, and outfitters to give him a suit of clothes. When she saw him, dressed and ready, tall and immaculate in a green velvet frock coat, she knew that his transformation from Riccardo Bruni to Cosimo Ferdinando IV de’ Medici was complete.

The time came. Here she was again, on the balcony. Here was Gian Gastone to her left, blubbering on his couch, saying Dami’s name over and over in his particular faithless litany. There on her right, Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici, sitting as far away from her hated brother as
she could, tall and aquiline and resplendent in blue. And behind, in the shadows, the new duke of Tuscany leaned on the doorframe, looking, she knew, for Pia Tolomei in the crowd.

Violante cleared her throat.

‘Good people,’ she called, as the crowd nudged and shushed one another. ‘I have something of great import to tell you. It is this.’

Something shone in her face, distracting her. She raised her palm to shade her brow and hesitated. She looked down and by some trick of the light the sun struck the golden coin of Pia’s pendant, slicing through the air and shining directly in her eyes.

Pia of the Tolomei was reflecting on the dreadful irony of getting what she wanted.

Nello was dead and she was free; Faustino, beset by his creditors, no longer had an interest in his daughter-in-law. Her own father, Salvatore, struggling with similar problems, apparently took the same position. And so, on the day of the proclamations of Violante Beatrix de’ Medici, Pia of the Tolomei found herself standing in a crowd of Torre citizens, still cock-a-hoop from their victory of the Palio, and holding the arm of Domenico Bruni. It was not clear from the position of their linked arms whether the old man supported the girl, or the girl supported the old man.

Pia strained her eyes, looking for Riccardo in the shadow of the palace balcony, knowing he was there,
wondering if he could see her, and turned the pendant, that hung once more at her neck, to catch the sun.

Violante looked down at Pia, standing by Riccardo’s father Domenico, both mute and pale, both faces ruined. She turned to Riccardo and on his noble face saw the same loss writ there. And to her right, Gian Gastone, huge, pitiful, ruined by greatness.

Ruined by greatness.

Why should she foist such a life on her son? Why should she fulfil the imperative of heritage at the cost to his personal happiness, and to Pia’s? And Domenico Bruni, that poor good man, whose crime was no more than to raise an orphan with years of care and unspoken love. She who had lost a son once, would she wish this most hideous of fates upon him? Would she, thus, force Riccardo into princeship, and from thence to a marriage he did not want? So many Medicis had been made unhappy by their loveless marriages: Anna Maria Luisa, Gian Gastone, herself and Ferdinando. And Gian Gastone had been destroyed further by ambition and excess.

Suddenly Violante of Bavaria knew what she must do. After all, she had thought it herself:
a world run by women would be a world well run.

She turned back to the assembly. ‘Good people,’ she said again. ‘We have lately seen two Palios, just weeks apart. Both have ended in tragedy.’

BOOK: The Daughter of Siena

13.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads