Immaculate

Pious and pure, obedient and worthy, convent reared Lady Agnese has finally come of age.

Powerful beyond measure and willing to any commit sin in service to God, Cardinal Beluni holds the young beauty’s soul in his well-manicured fingers. He takes her confession, and then he takes everything else.

This sacrilegious tale is not for the faint of heart. IMMACULATE is a tale of pure horror by USA Today bestselling author Addison Cain. 

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 rejoiced 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.