They rode out at dawn, following the messenger through dark country roads as the first hints of morning light began to break on the horizon.
Thomas, his brother Gilbert, Gilbert's son Matthew, Thomas's son Philip, and King Henry VIII himself, surrounded by a contingent of armed guards. The messenger led them to an open field miles from any settlement.
In the distance, they could see torches, dozens of them, arranged in two lines that formed a corridor of light, still burning against the growing dawn. At the far end stood two large tents, facing each other across the open ground.
And there, illuminated by torchlight, stood Lorenzo. But this was not the Lorenzo who had moved quietly through Henry's court, dressed in modest finery and speaking in careful, measured tones.
This Lorenzo wore full royal regalia. A crimson cloak trimmed with ermine. A sword at her hip, a crown at her head, jeweled and ancient, a heirlooms that had been carried by Italian princes for generations. And above her, held aloft by two standard-bearers, flew the personal banner of House Sforza, not the imperial standard of Alfonso, but Lorenzo's own colors. This was not an emissary sent by Italy. This was the second-in-line to the Italian throne standing in her own right.
"Neutral ground," Gilbert muttered. "He's made this official."
Henry's jaw tightened. "That arrogant—"
They dismounted and approached on foot. The two parties faced each other across the torchlit field, the night air cold and still around them. Beside Lorenzo stood Marcello, and behind them both, a full contingent of Italian soldiers in perfect formation, not servants, not guards, but the soldiers from the Dragon Garrison itself.
Lorenzo's personal troops.
Battle-hardened men who had followed their prince through impossible odds and never lost.
King Henry VIII stepped forward, his voice ringing out with all the authority of the English crown. "How dare you,"the king declared, each word sharp as a blade, "defile one of my citizens and abduct his daughter? You have embarrassed yourself, disgraced the Italian empire, and committed a crime that demands punishment—regardless of your rank!"
Lorenzo stood perfectly still, her face calm, almost serene. When she spoke, it was in rapid, flowing Italian, her voice carrying across the field with quiet authority but incomprehensible to the English party. "*Vostra Maestà, non intendo mancare di rispetto né a voi né all'Inghilterra. Ma devo chiarire i fatti.*"
Marcello stepped forward slightly, his voice carrying as he translated. "His Imperial Highness says: Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect to you or to England. But I must make the facts clear."
Lorenzo continued in Italian, her eyes moving to Thomas Boleyn. "*Lord Thomas, per favore, fate un passo avanti.*"
"Lord Thomas," Marcello translated, "please step forward."
Thomas hesitated, then moved to stand between the king and Lorenzo.
Lorenzo addressed him directly in Italian, her tone firm but not unkind. "*Lord Boleyn, non mi avete forse dato il permesso di corteggiare vostra figlia? Non mi avete permesso di scriverle, di corteggiarla secondo la tradizione italiana?*"
Marcello translated: "Lord Boleyn, did you not give His Highness permission to pursue your daughter? Did you not allow him to send her letters, to court her in the Italian fashion?"
Thomas's throat worked. "I... I did."
Lorenzo's next words came more deliberately. "*E vostra figlia non si è forse offerta liberamente a me? Non mi ha forse concesso il diritto di rivendicarla prima di qualsiasi altro uomo?*"
Marcello's translation was careful, precise: "And did your daughter not, of her own free will, offer herself to His Highness? Did she not grant him the right to claim her before any other man?"
Thomas's face went pale. His eyes widened in shock. "She... what?"
This was news to him. Marie had never told him. He had allowed the courtship, yes, the letters, the visits. But he hadn't known that Marie had gone so far as to offer Lorenzo prenuptial rights.
Lorenzo spoke again, more gently now. "*Lo ha fatto, Lord Boleyn. Quella notte, prima che lasciassi l'Inghilterra. Si è offerta liberamente.*"
"She did, Lord Boleyn," Marcello translated. "That night, before His Highness left England. She offered herself freely."
A murmur ran through the English party. Henry's eyes widened in shock and fury. Lorenzo continued, her voice steady and formal. "*Secondo la legge italiana—in particolare il diritto di Proserpina, riconosciuto in tutti gli stati italiani e dalla Chiesa stessa,ero nel mio diritto di rivendicarla. Sia voi, Lord Boleyn, permettendo il nostro corteggiamento, sia Marie stessa, offrendomi i diritti prenuziali, mi avete dato l'autorità di rivendicarla secondo la tradizione italiana.*"
Marcello translated with deliberate emphasis: "According to Italian law, specifically the *Proserpina* right, which is recognized throughout the Italian states and by the Church itself. His Highness was within his rights to claim her. Both you, Lord Boleyn, by allowing their courtship, and Lady Marie herself, by offering prenuptial rights, gave His Highness the authority to claim her under Italian custom."
Lorenzo paused, then added in Italian: "*La vostra tradizione inglese del primo sangue è l'equivalente della nostra legge, anche se comprendo che sia stata bandita qui. Ma il principio rimane lo stesso. Era già mia, Vostra Maestà, prima che William Stanford proponesse. Prima che fosse fatto qualsiasi accordo inglese.*"
"Your English first blood tradition is the equivalent of our law," Marcello translated, "though His Highness understands it has been banished here. But the principle remains the same. She was already his, Your Majesty, before William Stanford ever proposed. Before any English arrangement was made."
"That's not how English law works!" Henry spat.
Lorenzo responded in Italian, her tone even. "*Ma è così che funziona la legge italiana.*"
"But it is how Italian law works,"Marcello translated.
Lorenzo continued: "*E Lady Marie ed io abbiamo condiviso quella notte secondo la tradizione italiana, con la benedizione di suo padre. Il fidanzamento era implicito. Vincolante.*"
"And Lady Marie and His Highness shared that night under Italian custom, with her father's blessing. The betrothal was implicit. Binding."
Matthew Boleyn could take no more. He drew his sword with a harsh *shing* of steel, pointing it at Lorenzo. His face was twisted with rage and Jealousy. He had always wanted Marie, had always watched her from afar, hoping that one day she might be his.
"I don't care about your laws or your customs!" Matthew roared. "You took Marie! You violated her! I challenge you, Lorenzo...I'll fight you to the death and take your head for this insult!" For a moment, no one moved.
Then Henry smiled. It was a cold, calculating smile. If Matthew won, Lorenzo would be dead and the insult avenged, Italy be damned. If Matthew lost, well... that was just the fortunes of combat. Either way, the problem might resolve itself without Henry having to start a war.
"Yes," Henry said softly. "A duel. That seems... appropriate." But before Matthew could take another step, Lorenzo's men moved. A dozen swords were drawn in perfect unison, the sound like a roll of thunder. They formed a protective wall in front of their prince, their faces hard and dangerous. And from among them stepped Marcello. He was a bear of a man, scarred and weathered, and when he spoke, his voice was like gravel and his words were his own, no longer mere translation. "You will sheathe your sword, boy," Marcello said, his tone deadly calm. He looked directly at the assembled English party, his gaze sweeping across them with barely contained contempt. "Let me make this abundantly clear," Marcello continued, his voice carrying across the field. "The man standing before you is not an emissary. He is not a representative sent by Emperor Alfonso. He is not here on behalf of the Italian crown."
He paused, letting that sink in. "This is *His Imperial Highness*, Lorenzo Di Sforza, Prince of Aragon, Padua, and Napoli. *Second-in-line to the throne of Italy*. The Sword of the Dragon. He stands here in his own right as a sovereign prince of blood, exercising inalienable rights that predate your kingdom and will outlast it."
Matthew faltered, his sword wavering.
"You do not deserve his blade, boy," Marcello continued, his voice cutting like a knife. "You are *nothing*. A jumped-up captain in a king's guard, barely worth the dirt on His Highness's boots. Only a king or a prince of equal rank may challenge a prince of blood in single combat. If you insist on a duel, you will face *me* and I will cut you down where you stand and leave your corpse for the crows."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Henry's smile had faded. The reminder was brutally clear, this wasn't just some Italian courtier who could be killed without consequence. This was the second-in-line to one of Europe's most powerful thrones, acting in his personal capacity, exercising rights that were recognized by the Church and by ancient law.
Killing him would mean war, not with an emissary who could be disavowed, but with a prince of blood. It would mean facing the full might of the Italian states united in vengeance. It would mean explaining to his own nobles why he'd started a catastrophic war over a merchant's daughter. The political calculation shifted instantly.
"Witty,"Henry muttered under his breath. Then, slowly, he raised his hand, a clear command for Matthew to stand down.
Matthew, trembling with rage and humiliation and the bitter knowledge that Marie would never be his, sheathed his sword. Lorenzo stepped forward, her eyes now on Thomas Boleyn alone. When she spoke again in Italian, her voice was softer, almost gentle. "*Lord Thomas, ho rivendicato vostra figlia. Le prove sono state consegnate alla vostra porta. Sapete cosa è accaduto.*"
Marcello translated: "Lord Thomas, His Highness has claimed your daughter. The evidence was delivered to your door. You know what has transpired."
Lorenzo paused, then continued. "*Voglio fare la cosa giusta per voi. Per lei. Per la vostra famiglia. Pagherò qualsiasi prezzo per la sposa che chiederete. Fornirò qualsiasi compensazione riteniate giusta per sanare questa offesa. Ma non mi scuserò per aver rivendicato ciò che era già mio.*"
"His Highness wants to do right by you," Marcello translated. "By her. By your family. He will pay whatever bride price you ask. He will provide whatever compensation you deem fair to settle this matter. But he will not apologize for claiming what was already his."
Lorenzo took a breath, then spoke again. "*Nominate i vostri termini.*"
"Name your terms," Marcello finished.
Thomas stared at the young prince before him.
At the torches.
At the banner.
At the armed men standing ready to defend their lord to the death. He thought of what would happen if the king pressed this further.
Blood would be shed, Italian blood, English blood. And when the dust settled, his daughters would be the ones left to pick up the pieces.
Marie, already compromised, would be utterly ruined. And Anne....Anne, who had worked so carefully to secure her position at court, would find herself competing with her own sister for the king's favor.
Henry would play them against each other, as he always did with women. It would destroy both of them. Destroy the entire family. No. This had to end here, now, with negotiation rather than war.
"First," Thomas said, his voice steady but strained, "I want someone sent to attend to my daughter. Immediately." Lorenzo spoke quickly in Italian. "*Naturalmente. Farò inviare una cameriera da lei immediatamente.*"
Marcello translated: "Of course. His Highness will have a maid sent to her at once." "And," King Henry interjected, his voice sharp and commanding, "I want my personal physician sent to examine her. To verify that this... claim... was indeed consummated."
His eyes bored into Lorenzo. "If you're lying about any of this..."
Lorenzo met his gaze steadily and responded in Italian.
"*Non sto mentendo, Vostra Maestà. Mandate il vostro medico. Troverà tutte le prove di cui ha bisogno.*"
"His Highness is not lying, Your Majesty," Marcello translated. "Send your physician. He will find all the evidence he needs."
Thomas turned to look behind him, where a small group of servants who had accompanied them waited at a distance.
"Bess," he called out. A young maid stepped forward nervously. "You'll go with the king's physician to attend to my daughter. She'll need someone she knows." Bess curtsied quickly, her face pale but determined. "Yes, my lord."
Henry turned to one of his guards. "Fetch Dr. Linacre. He and the maid will ride to wherever they're keeping Lady Marie."
The guard bowed and rode off into the growing dawn, Bess following on a spare horse.
"Now," Thomas said, his jaw tight, "let us talk terms. As civilized men."
And so, under the torchlight mixed with the pale light of dawn, with the king of England watching in cold fury, the negotiation began.