I said that fornication outside of marriage was a sin.
That earned a laugh.
“This will not be fornication. There will be no slathering lips upon your flesh or groping hands. All that will belong to your husband, who will be paid handsomely to never speak of your condition. Or, mayhaps it will be as with your father and he will be so drunk he cannot tell the difference between wine spilt on the sheets or blood.”
I was the oldest child, born in their first year of wedlock. I adored my father. And in one night learned that he never belonged to me.
He would not shelter me should I fail.
My mother would drown me.
I was to stop weeping at once. “You are the daughter of a holy pope. Immaculate in both conception and upbringing. Why weep that Duke Arermici did not father you? You know he keeps a whore, right? A mistress the same age as you. He buys her jewels. Already she’s fat with his bastard!”
No, my papa would never.
But my mother never lied.
When I looked upon her with pity, she raised her chin all the higher. “I am a daughter of God’s holy church. Above a duke in all ways. Just as you will be above the fat Doge of Venice. You do not need man’s love. God will sustain you.”
In all the years this woman had reared me, she had never spoken so frankly.
A knock came to the door, her eyes widening just a touch. “Do not disappoint me, daughter. You know what will happen if you fail.”
***
In the morning, I had admired the inlaid marble floors, the frescos, the glory of our holy church’s wealth. Now, padding across those same floors barefoot, so terrified my bladder was begging to be emptied, I felt a ghost of my former self.
Dead was my joy. Dead was my anticipation.
A ghost indeed.
In the same ornate chapel I had confessed in only hours ago, I was told to kneel.
I did. I did because otherwise I would be stripped of my clothing and cast in the street to be rutted by vagrants.
I did because I was the coward my mother claimed.
It would hurt, she’d said. I would bleed.
I had even overheard her praying there would be a great deal of blood. A fragile smear was not enough. Not after her years laboring over me.
I’d paid little attention to the guard who had collected me. All I had noticed was the handsome Cardinal and his retinue were the ones awaiting my arrival.
Kneel, he had said.
Kneel I had done.
Head bowed, my rosary clutched between fingers gone white, I prayed for absolution.
A rich baritone bade, “Now is the time for confession.”
But I had only confessed hours ago.
“What are your sins, child?”
I had to be pure. Blameless. This my mother had said over and over.
But what was there to confess?