The last time I’d ridden a horse I’d been eleven years old, in a tiny stable on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Ben had given me riding lessons for my birthday. The teacher put me on a massive, placid bay with a back like a table, and my short legs could barely grip his sides. My teacher was a no-nonsense equestrian with no patience for weakness. It was the height of pollen season and as I made the fourth turn around the ring I started to sneeze and couldn’t stop. By the time I got home my eyes were red and streaming and my hands were shaking. That was the end of my equestrian career until the moment I got on the big gray Lugani provided for me. I was told her name—Margherita—and had to figure everything else out for myself. I managed to get on her back without hurting myself, and she acquiesced to my presence grudgingly, flicking her ears with impatience as I struggled to adjust to riding sidesaddle. Clara rode beside me on her own mount, looking perfectly comfortable.
Our party left through the Porta Camollia, leaving the paved city behind. The rolling green and brown hills spread around us as we rode out onto the Via Francigena. I looked back at the inscription over the Porta: Wider than this gate, Siena opens her heart to you—but we were leaving the protective circle of her arms now.
Outside the gates we passed several small villages that enjoyed the commune’s protection and oversight, but as we traveled and the sun rose over the tops of the trees, homes became sparse. We went through an olive orchard, leaves glinting silver-green in the early light. I saw peasants working a large outdoor press, and the fresh green scent of bruised olives made my mouth water.
As we went beyond the city limits the land became more wooded, and the road turned into a stony path bordered by vegetation. Trees blocked the sun, and I pulled my shawl out of my bag, managing to drape it over me without falling off Margherita. Two of Lugani’s armed guards led our party, followed by Lugani himself. I could see the red of his cap and gown from our place in line, and the straight arrogance of his back. He rode a spirited black stallion with a powerful neck and flowing black mane. Two guards remained at the rear of the group, making sure no one lagged behind. I peered into the dense woods along the path, wondering what we were being protected from.
A sharp crackle of twigs made me look up. A horned deer ran out suddenly in front of us, making Margherita rear. I slid off Margherita’s back, landing hard on the ground. The stag wheeled briefly in his flight to stare at us with huge dark eyes under pale, branched antlers, then abruptly turned and fled, a flash of brown and white disappearing into the woods.
I was still recovering when Lugani’s accountant Cane pulled up alongside me on his horse.
“I hope the stag did not frighten you, Monna Trovato.”
It had, but I didn’t tell him that. I mounted again, sore but fortunately not badly hurt. “It startled Margherita.”
Cane smiled thinly. “A stag’s bolting may suggest other dangers nearby,” he said ominously. I didn’t like the sound of “other dangers.” “In what company did you travel from Lucca, Monna Trovato?”
“Company?”
“I cannot imagine you undertook the journey alone.”
Think, Beatrice, think. “I came with three other pilgrims on their way to Roma.”
“And where are your companions now?”
I hid my hesitation in an adjustment of Margherita’s bridle. One of the nice things about lying is that you can make things up. “When I stopped in Siena, they continued on the road to Roma.”
“Why did you not follow them?”
“Siena made me feel at home.” My explanation unwound itself into the air between us; the first words I’d spoken with the clear ring of truth.
“And your journey from—Lucca, did you say—was it uneventful?”
“Fortunately, yes.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Cane said, smiling thinly. “I do so dislike eventful journeys.” Cane nodded to me to signal the end of our conversation in the same way Lugani had in our interview. It was a technique I found irritating, but I kept my eyes straight ahead on the road as he dropped back in line.
“What did he say?” Clara said, as she drew her horse alongside mine. She did not appear to be accustomed to the invisible maidservant role, and had no qualms declaring her interest in my conversations.
“It’s possible that he was just trying to be friendly,” I said, doubtfully.
Clara nodded happily, not hearing the sarcasm. “It is good to have friends on a long journey.” She was right, but Cane, though he wasn’t clearly an enemy, didn’t strike me as a friend either.
The road began to wind upward along the side of a wooded hill; the land rose steeply to our right and fell dizzyingly down to the left of the narrow path. As we headed up the slope, I could see the front of our party, where Lugani’s scout, Antonio, headed the line. His sweet face was still boyishly plump with an irregular spray of whiskers that looked more like fragments of straw than a real beard.
Suddenly, there was a cracking of twigs and branches, and a band of six men emerged from the gaps between the trees ahead, flashes of metal in their hands. They went first for Antonio’s horse, which let out an ear-splitting cry. The horse’s legs buckled and the animal dropped to the ground, throwing Antonio and pinning him under its heaving flank. There was no room for the other horses to turn, and no room to pass on either side to escape. Margherita came to a sudden stop, rearing and pawing the air with her hooves. This time, I managed to stay on her back. The outlaws swarmed over us, leaping from above onto the guards at the front of the line; to the left was the cliff edge. The only route of escape was back down the one-horse-wide track behind us.