The maid—Bess—and Dr. Linacre, the king's personal physician, rode hard toward the location the Italian guards had provided.
The castle came into view as the sun began to rise properly. It was a fortified stronghold, positioned strategically on a hill with clear views in all directions. Not grand like the palaces in London, but solid, defensible, rustic. The kind of place designed for war, not comfort. They were escorted through the gates and up a narrow stone staircase.
The interior was sparse, functional rather than decorative. Guards stood at attention in the corridors, their eyes watchful but not hostile. Finally, they reached a heavy wooden door on the upper floor. Two guards stood stationed outside, their hands resting on their sword hilts.
They nodded to the physician and maid, then one of them knocked firmly. "Lady Marie," the guard called. "You have visitors."
***
Inside the room, Marie stirred at the sound of the knock. She'd finally managed to drift into a fitful sleep, curled beneath the sheet, her body aching. When she moved, she winced, her shoulder throbbed where Lorenzo's fangs had pierced her skin, and between her legs, she felt sore, tender, the evidence of what had been done to her.
"Who... who is it?" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "A maid from your household, my lady," came the reply. "And the king's physician. They've been sent to attend to you." Marie's heart lurched. She pulled the sheet tighter around herself and slowly sat up, every movement sending fresh waves of discomfort through her body. "Come in," she managed.
The door opened. Bess entered first, and at the sight of her, a familiar face, a friendly face, Marie felt her composure shatter completely. Tears spilled down her cheeks as Bess rushed to her side.
"Oh, my lady," Bess whispered, gathering Marie into a gentle embrace. "Oh, my poor lady."
Marie buried her face in Bess's shoulder and sobbed. All the fear, the anger, the confusion, it all poured out of her in great, heaving cries. Bess held her, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing words.
Dr. Linacre stood near the door, his expression carefully neutral. He was an older man, experienced and discreet, the kind of physician who had seen everything and judged nothing. He waited patiently until Marie's sobs began to subside. Finally, he cleared his throat softly.
"Lady Marie," he said, his voice kind but professional.
"I am Dr. Linacre, the king's physician. I have been sent to... to examine you." He paused delicately. "To verify the nature of what has occurred."
Marie stiffened in Bess's arms.
"No," she whispered. "No, I don't want..."
"My lady," Bess said gently, pulling back to look Marie in the eyes. "I know this is difficult. But it's crucial to the negotiation happening right now. Your father...he needs to know all the facts. He needs to be able to make the best case for you, to get you out of this situation."
Her voice was earnest, pleading. "Please, my lady. Let the doctor do his examination." Marie closed her eyes, fresh tears streaming down her face. She felt exposed, humiliated all over again. But she thought of her father, of the negotiation, of the possibility, however slim, that this nightmare might end with some shred of her dignity intact.
"All right," she whispered finally.
"All right."Dr. Linacre approached with professional courtesy, his movements careful and respectful. He asked her to lie back, to relax as much as she could. Bess held her hand throughout, squeezing it gently. The examination was thorough but mercifully brief. The doctor made notes in a small leather journal, observations about the physical evidence, the location and extent of injuries, the clear signs of defloration. He examined the bite mark on her shoulder with particular interest, his brow furrowing slightly, but he made no comment. When he was finished, he stepped back and bowed.
"Thank you, Lady Marie. I know that was difficult. You may dress." He left the room immediately, his notes clutched in his hand, already preparing his report for the king. Bess helped Marie sit up, then moved to the door.
She called out to the guards. "My lady requires a bath. Hot water, soap, clean linens. Immediately."The guards nodded and one of them hurried off to make the arrangements.
Bess returned to Marie's side, taking her hand again. "It's going to be all right, my lady," she said softly, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "Your father is a clever man. He'll find a way through this."
Marie said nothing. She just stared out the window, feeling hollow and broken, wondering if anything would ever be all right again.
By the time Dr. Linacre returned to the negotiation field, the discussion had devolved into what looked like a shouting match. The air crackled with tension, voices raised in anger and accusation.
Lorenzo sat on a carved wooden throne that had been brought out and positioned opposite where King Henry's. It was a deliberate power play, two rulers facing each other as equals.
The verbal battle between them was fierce, each word a calculated strike, each response a parry. Lorenzo spoke only in Italian, Marcello translating with barely concealed disdain, while Henry's responses grew sharper and more cutting with each exchange.
Despite all the yelling around them, from Matthew, from Gilbert, from Henry's guards, neither Lorenzo nor Henry seemed bothered. Their fight was mental, a chess game played with words and wills.
Dr. Linacre dismounted and approached, his leather journal clutched tightly. The moment he dropped to his knees before the assembled nobles, the shouting ceased abruptly.
The silence was deafening.
"Well?" Henry demanded, his voice cutting through the sudden quiet like a whip crack. "Speak, man."
Dr. Linacre opened his journal with trembling hands. "Lady Marie shows signs of... the encounter. There is bruising on her wrists, which suggests she...she struggled."
"You bastard!" Philip burst out, his face flushed with rage, taking a step toward Lorenzo. "Enough, Philip!" Thomas snapped, though his own voice shook with barely contained fury. He turned back to the doctor. "Continue."
"There is also bruising on her neck," Dr. Linacre continued, consulting his notes. "And a rather... strange bite mark on her shoulder. Quite deep. Unusual."
Henry's patience snapped. His voice rose to a roar that made even the hardened soldiers flinch. "I don't care about every scratch and bruise! Get to the point, doctor! I don't need a catalogue of what savage acts this animal committed against her!"
Lorenzo's jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together. Her eyes flashed dangerously. She spoke in Italian, voice tight with controlled anger. "*Fate in fretta, dottore. Questo è spiacevole anche per me. E la dignità di mia moglie non deve essere ulteriormente offuscata da questa pubblica esibizione.*"
Marcello began to translate: "His Highness says.."
"ENOUGH!" Henry's voice cracked like thunder across the field. Every man present went still. The King of England stepped forward, wine goblet still in hand, and his presence seemed to expand, filling the space with raw, undeniable authority. This was not a man who negotiated. This was a man who commanded. "I am *sick*," Henry said, his voice dropping to something more dangerous than shouting, "of this theatrical performance. This is *England*. You stand on *English* soil. You address an *English* father about his *English* daughter." He took another step forward. "And you will speak in a tongue all can understand, or I will consider this negotiation at an end and let my armies explain matters to your Emperor."
The threat hung in the air—absolute, unmistakable. Lorenzo's hands tightened on the arms of her throne. For a long moment, she didn't move.
Then Henry raised his goblet to a servant without breaking eye contact with Lorenzo. "More wine," he said flatly.
The casual dismissiveness of the gesture, the king treating this tense standoff like a minor inconvenience, was more cutting than any insult.
Lorenzo took a slow breath.
When she spoke, it was in English, her accent thicker than usual, the concession clear. "Make haste, doctor. This is unpleasant for me as well. And the dignity of my wife needs not to be tarnished further by this public display."
"She is NOT your wife!" Matthew roared, his hand going to his sword. "You stole her, you Italian scum!"
In a flash, Lorenzo raised her hand. An arrow whistled through the air and thudded into the ground inches from Matthew's boot. Matthew froze, his face going white. Every head turned to see an archer on the ridge behind Lorenzo's position, already nocking another arrow.
Henry didn't even flinch. He simply took a long drink of his wine, utterly unimpressed by the display of martial prowess.
Lorenzo's voice was cold as ice. "One more insult from you, Matthew Boleyn, and I will have you killed. Do not test me again."
Matthew stood trembling with rage and humiliation, but he kept his mouth shut. Henry still said nothing, just watched Lorenzo over the rim of his goblet with calculating eyes. Dr. Linacre cleared his throat nervously, drawing attention back to himself. "There is... there is proof of penile penetration," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The hymen was broken. However..." He paused, consulting his notes again. "There are no signs of violence or tearing. No internal injuries. The... the act appears to have been... prolonged enough that..."
Thomas exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between relief and despair. King Henry spat out his wine, coughing. "What?" Dr. Linacre looked up, meeting no one's eyes. "I'm saying, Your Majesty, that while Lady Marie was clearly deflowered, the physical evidence suggests the encounter was not... entirely forced. There was preparation. Care taken, even."
The silence that followed was absolute. Lorenzo spoke then, her voice firm but still in English as commanded. "This examination is the proof of my claim. It wasn't an act meant to defile. My affection for Lady Marie is real. I have claimed her according to the laws of my people, and I have treated her with as much care as circumstances allowed."
Thomas's jaw tightened. He looked at his daughter's deflowerer, this Italian prince who sat so confidently on that throne and made his calculation. "Then you will provide for her as befits her station," he said coldly. "I want her estate established and estimated at one hundred horses, seventy-nine hectares of land, and the title of Princess throughout all the lands owned by Your Imperial Highness."
A murmur ran through the assembled men. It was an enormous demand, essentially making Marie a princess consort with her own significant holdings. King Henry leaned forward, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"Additionally," he said, his voice dripping with mockery, "you invoked the Proserpina law, did you not? The tale of Hades and Persephone?" He paused for effect. "In that story, the daughter's life is divided between her home and her husband. Is that not right, King Hades?"
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed. She glanced at Marcello, who nodded subtly—it was a trap, but one she could navigate. "That is... correct," Lorenzo said carefully. Henry's smile widened, and when he spoke, it was with the absolute confidence of a man whose word was law. "Then We declare you, Prince Lorenzo Di Sforza, as my direct contact with the Italian Empire. Your presence on English soil is required for at least four months of every year. To maintain this... connection between our nations."
The pronouncement landed like a blow. Henry wasn't requesting. He was *decreeing*. Lorenzo's expression darkened. She realized immediately what had just happened.
Four months in England meant she could only take Marie to Italy for a maximum of two months per year since she would spend 6 months with her and the other six months with her family.
The daughter would indeed be divided, but heavily weighted toward England. Toward Henry's control. She'd been trapped.