Immaculate Read online

  IMMACULATE

  By

  Addison Cain

  ©2019 Addison Cain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Simply Defined Art

  *This book is intended for adults only and contains scenes featuring total power exchange which may make some readers uncomfortable.

  God rewards the pious, so I remain chaste.

  God loves the meek, so I strive for obedience.

  God forgives the repentant, so I atone for sins I have not committed.

  But my knees have been sullied in worship to a vacant altar.

  Everything I was taught is a lie.

  There is no God here.

  Chapter One

  Spiritually bared before God and his holy servants, I knelt. A womanchild bedecked in a gown paid for by my father—the Duke of Arermici—an Italian pure-blood, and devout defender of the Papal States in this time of war. Pinched by the stays which pushed my slight breasts high against an unforgiving collar, I knelt just as I had been trained to do from birth. I knelt and begged forgiveness as I had been ordered to.

  It was imperative my soul be cleansed in this, the chapel of the living god.

  The Holy See.

  And here, once refreshed of spirit, I was to meet my godfather, Pope Heptus the IV, where he would bless my coming marriage to his supporter, the Doge of Venice.

  Not once in my life had I laid eyes upon His Holiness. So I prayed all the harder to be worthy of his grace.

  I sinned like all mortals. Often I was silently impatient with my mother. Other times, I bore loneliness and knew resentment when I saw other females of my age and was denied their company. They were corrupted, my mother would say, and her singular duty in life was to keep me pure.

  These weaknesses of spirit had to be purged daily in private penance before sleep. Stripped to the waist, alone before god, silk cords would strike against my back—imparting a sting but leaving my soft skin beautiful so my future husband might be honored.

  Those moments of solitude, of self-inflicted pain, I felt closer to God than even here, bowing at the feet of a cardinal and pouring out my wretched soul.

  “It has been one day since my last confession.”

  He smelled of rosewater and old incense absorbed into the silk of his cassock, when his hand came to rest upon my bent head. “Tell me your sins, child.”

  The recounting was easy, unmentionable. My gravest sin that day was not dressing quickly enough or to my mother’s exacting standards.

  The only member of my family to accompany me to the Holy City, my mother had a great responsibility in assuring my success. She had chosen the gown I was to be presented in. Ordered my dressing. Directed the styling of my hair, and pressed a slight brush of starch against my nose. It was she who fixed the priceless hand-made lace to my curls, so I might be in a fitting state before our Lord.

  The final result was not to her liking.

  Two maids had earned a slap when Mama grew impatient. I had been forced to curtsey and hold position until my leg fell asleep. But when I’d toppled face down into the rug, Mama had forgiven me. A new maid had been fetched, one who acted quickly upon my mother’s chirped orders to remove every layer I was wearing and start again.

  Though all chosen females who came before our worldly king must be chaste, covered, their eyes downcast to the perfection of the Vatican’s marble floors, they must also be beautiful.

  The honor was beyond my explanation, and I, in part, was to give those men a chance to see the Virgin Mary reflected in the physical.

  After all, I was the pope’s own goddaughter.

  Once confession commenced and Eucharist was consumed, I would for the first time in my life kneel in supplication and kiss his ring. This moment could not even compare to my coming marriage. This was the moment I had been prepared for from birth.

  The nuns who undertook my education had reminded me daily that I had to be more. That I had to work hard to be deserving.

  I wanted to be, more than anything.

  There was little for a female in this world.

  Court was out of the question. Not with so devout a mother. I was raised amidst the olive trees of Chicari in the small stronghold of Berrice. The flagstones were cold. I know this, because for my earliest years I was denied socks and slippers. The pious learned to walk as Jesus walked to Calvary.

  To be plain in desires. That was a point of my upbringing I upheld.

  Yes, it was freezing some months of the year.

  Yes, blisters made my soles rough.

  But it was nothing to the burdens of my skeletal servants.

  ‘Twas not the nuns who brought me my daily victuals or bathed me. The nuns were not responsible for my chamber pot or the combing of my hair. Slight girls, of my age, scurried in and out. Many, over those years spent in constant prayer, I knew died when their bird-like bones could no longer survive on my leftovers.

  Wasted away like spent puffs of a dandelion.

  Life, I knew, was given by our one true God and taken away.

  My family was favored. I was gifted with great beauty.

  Of course, we could not choose our fathers. We had no say in our education. Unless our mamas were kind, there was none to champion our future. Chattel. But I was beloved and grateful for the pains my parents had taken in my rearing.

  With my mother as my keeper, a staunch guard of my instruction, and the woman who ordained my days, I knew I should be grateful. Just as I knew guilt for every mistake, big or small.

  Like a good Catholic.

  Like an obedient daughter.

  Father was powerful, with male children younger than I, but he still gave me a kiss and smile each day those rare occasions I was summoned home. When he toyed with my nut brown curls, he told me I was lovely. When I recited Bible verses and knelt at his feet, he praised my piety and devotion.

  And yes, I was devoted to him.

  No woman could resist Arermici’s charms, his wealth, or his power. But I? I loved him for his smile. Rarely did a papa adore his daughter as my father loved me.

  This did not please my mother, though even she couldn’t chastise me for it. And only once had she ever barked her disgust with my failings before him. That had not ended well for her.

  I won’t recount the things he yelled at her, or the ferocity in which he’d slapped her face. Like all good fathers, he thought I could do no wrong. It also made my infrequent visits home much more pleasant.

  Do not misunderstand—my mother may have been harsh of word away from my father’s ear, but she loved me. And Papa, he adored me more than any other pushed from my mama’s loins. Brothers I had in spades, yet I was the only daughter of Arermici.

  It was why, of all my siblings, Pope Heptus called for me to be his goddaughter.

  It was why I was honored with an invitation to Rome.

  Even my future husband would receive renown when I was presented bearing the weighty blessing of the living God. Great pleasure this thought gave me, for marriage was something I had long desired. To be a wife, to be free of Mama, to be beholden to a man both my parents and the church condoned. It was my singular thought.

  Though I had never met my husband, I knew my place and r
ejoiced in my upcoming wifely duties. All the solitary years of study, how to manage a household, etiquette, penmanship, conversation… I could hardly wait to impress him.

  Of course, he would adore me as my father did.

  So, when summoned home from the nuns, I did not balk or cast my eyes to the dirt. I grinned at my loving papa and thanked him for arranging a future for me that would give us all joy.

  After all? Was that not a woman’s place?

  No expense was too much. My father, with great enthusiasm, kissed my cheeks and ordered gowns, chains, underthings… jewels.

  I was his doll.

  I won’t pretend I did not enjoy it. Especially with my dour-faced mama casting scowls at me from the door. He purchased anything that caught my eye. The dressmakers sang his praises. And Mama… she narrowed her eyes until I remembered to kill my smiles and shrink as a good woman should.

  Though Mama despised the praise, she never once raised objection to a single gown. Bedecked in silk from the Orient, in Venetian brocade gifted by my soon-to-be husband, in hand-darted lace painstakingly crafted by nuns, I was given a wardrobe any empress would envy.

  Thus were the gifts of the Duchy of Arermici.

  Unlike simple suppers with the nuns, back home I dined on rabbit, lamb, milking calf, dove; I was served the most tender of meats. Over my supper I recited the most sacred of biblical passages.

  Though I was home and my time was spent in pleasures, I was still unmarried. So in the evening, lying atop a soft mattress, my legs were bound together, my hands captured above my head. This was how the purest virgins slept.

  But the nuns and servants, not once did they realize I had learned to pick the knots with my teeth. Nor did they realize the knots they unbound each morning were fresh.

  Chapter Two

  “Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” A swish of red satin, and I lifted my eyes to look upon Cardinal Beluni.

  Young to be chosen for such an important position in God’s church, teeth white and straight, a noble chin balanced by a strong nose. He smiled at me as if looking for… something more than a sinner kneeling in supplication for mercy.

  Eyes that held a glint; an invitation

  I had seen my brother Bartolomeo look at my former chambermaid in such a way. That same night while sneaking off to find my father for our customary secret game of cards, I’d spied him in the halls. The maid’s skirts were raised, the round flesh of her bottom on display. Behind her, my brother shunted forward and back.

  Though he’d never laid eyes upon me in the halls that night, I had spied a great deal of him. And it had shocked me.

  By the time I’d found my father, I felt utterly unclean. Weeping, I’d confessed the whole thing. And you know what Papa said? He’d said I had committed no sin.

  Nor did he seem particularly angry with Bartolomeo.

  With a pat on my head, Papa ordered me to put it out of my mind and never speak of it again. He slipped me a sweet and doled out the cards. Still unsettled, I’d lost the first round.

  Sighing, he collected the cards and shared the secret of the bridal night. I would be expected to do as the maid had done. Wifely duties. And they were not to be feared in their newness or strangeness, but embraced. But only with my husband. And only after vows of marriage before God.

  Satan’s whores tempted men to ease their lusts outside of wedlock and rank. Bartolomeo had been a victim, he’d been used, my father said. All would be set right when the temptress was set from the house in the morning.

  But I had seen the way my brother had held the maid’s arms behind her back. I had seen the tears on her cheeks.

  Her little pained grunts had not been pretend.

  Confused all the more, I asked if my husband would hold me down. Would I cry?

  This stumped the man I adored, and after a lengthy pause he offered a halfhearted murmur of, “You might.”

  I felt the flaws in this exchange. I knew the topic alone bordered on sin, but I could not help but feel as if my beloved papa anticipated that I’d cry a great deal on my wedding night. Eager to impress him, I swore, “I won’t cry.”

  “The Doge of Venice will prefer that. Pleasing your husband in the early days is key to contentment in marriage.” The bitterness in his response told a story of my mother’s failure in that regard.

  With a loving smile, Papa recited, “Honor thy husband.”

  Giggling, I responded with, “And honor thy Father and Mother.”

  That earned me a pat on the head. “You will not speak of this to your mama. Do you understand?”

  Nodding, only too happy to please him, I took up the cards and let the unease slip from my shoulders. We played until daybreak. The following morning, I may have looked tired, but I was perfectly happy to go through my day under the light burden of exhaustion.

  As Papa had claimed, my chambermaid was cast out of the house. The excuse given was theft, but I knew the real reason. Bartolomeo pouted for a day or two, and then I noticed he had begun making eyes at the new girl.

  She lasted a month.

  “Are you forgetting something, Lady Agnese?” A strong Roman accent overpowered the softer lilt that made Italian the most exquisite of all languages. It clashed with the holy man’s beauty, but matched the hungry look in the Cardinal’s eyes.

  I had been staring at him, rudely unsmiling as if he’d given me cause to be suspicious. Absolved one minute to be tainted again in the next; perfect fodder for tomorrow’s confession.

  Clearing my expression with an embarrassed jerk, I fell into the deepest of curtseys, and set my lips to his ring. I kissed the gold, not wanting to think of maids, or lifted skirts, or tears, or pleas at the door for mercy. “Forgive me, Your Eminence. I am overwhelmed by the power of this place.”

  “Perhaps confession was not comfort enough. You look troubled.” Raising me, he took my chin as my father would have, turning my face up so he might see behind the veil. “Do you seek my favor, lady? Some private study, perhaps? I can think up soft penance to soothe a maiden’s troubled soul. Ask any renowned beauty from court. There are many paths to heaven.”

  The lilt… was he teasing?

  Cheeks heated for reasons beyond my comprehension, I muttered, “I have never been to court, Your Eminence.”

  Changeful, that was the only way I could describe Cardinal Beluni’s expression. One moment dark eyes glowed like set to flame, and now they were mild and warm. Now they were the eyes of God’s disciple. The eyes of a calf, of innocence and purity, set in an angel’s face. “That is as your mother swore to us. But from your lips, child, tell me of the company you’ve kept. Who are your friends? Their names, at once.”

  Friends? Ladies kept in convents were not permitted friends. “Sister Mary and Sister Giovanna have been kind to me. I was not permitted to speak with my servants.”

  “And did you obey this rule?”

  “To obey is to be close to God.” And there was honest truth in that. I might have been young, but I knew holiness came from simplicity. If something felt wrong, that was the Holy Spirit whispering its warning. And I had learned young that the strap and cane would correct what the Spirit could not.

  “And what do you know of men?”

  At this, a smile bloomed on my lips. “I love my papa very much.”

  That was not the answer anticipated, and I earned a firmer pinch on my chin as the Cardinal led me to speak on a different male. “And the Doge of Venice, what are your thoughts of your future husband?”

  This line of questioning was so unusual. No one had ever asked my opinion on… anything of consequence. “I was told he favored my portrait and sent a kind letter to my father when dowry was discussed.”

  “Do you not desire a young husband? One who has not had two wives before you and an heir already born?”

  It felt as if the polished ground under my feet cracked open to swallow me. Not once had Mama or Papa mentioned such things. Old? Two brides
before me? My heart twisted and I am ashamed to admit water collected in my eyes.

  “You were not told?” My chin was set free, Beluni daring a chuckle as he lifted my veil and stroked a finger over my pallid cheek. “Shall I offer comfort? There is nothing I cannot forgive. To know my attentions is to know the touch of Christ, and I do so hate to see a young girl disappointed…”

  Clammy hands reached for my veil, pulling it forward to shield my face from male beauty and disconcerting agendas. The nuns often tested me, and I knew the smell of it in the air. God tested us all.

  “I trust my father’s judgment.” The same father who expected me to cry on my wedding night. Because the bridegroom was old, and I would not find him appealing… and he knew it.

  And now, so did I. Now I could prepare.

  “Old husbands lead to young widows; many ladies fail to consider what a few hard years will earn. Freedom. Furthermore, I imagine my cousin is very eager to adore his young, innocent bride. And you might find there is something to be said about experience. The old goat will treat you well. That is, if your godfather is willing to give you up. He will be taken the moment he sees your face.”

  Still confounded by Cardinal Beluni’s revelation, I staggered on his arm when he turned us toward the gilded doors.

  “Come, Lady Agnese. Let’s not keep His Holiness waiting.”

  ***

  Under the stiff layers of a pristine white cassock, under the embroidery, the gold, the jewels, and the majesty, was a man who stank of decay. Pinched jowls sagged over a collar, as if his jaw had melted slowly from the room’s stifling heat.

  A quantity of phlegm was caught in Pope Heptus’s grumbled greeting. I could not make out a word of it, but the lesser priest at his side leaned down, put an ear to the pope’s lips, and listened intently.

  A great, hacking cough wrapped the pope’s unheard soliloquy in disease before his priest announced, “Our holy father welcomes the daughter of our trusted friend, the Duke of Arermici. Lady Agnese, step forward to receive his blessing.”