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.”