Lorenzo's hands tightened on the arms of her throne. After a long moment, she let out a slow breath. "I agree to these terms."
Henry's smile was triumphant. On English soil, he was absolute. Prince or no prince, Lorenzo had been forced to bend.
Thomas wasn't finished. "There is also the matter of William Stanford. You took his bride. He must be compensated for the loss and the public humiliation."
Somewhere in the background, William stood pale and silent, trying to make himself as small as possible. He looked like he wanted to disappear entirely.
Lorenzo reached into her cloak and produced a sealed document, sliding it across to Thomas. "I anticipated this. Compensation for Lord Stamford is detailed here. Land, gold, and a title in the Italian territories should he wish to claim it."
The prepared nature of the offer seemed to infuriate Henry even more. She'd planned for everything, except him.
Then Lorenzo raised another matter. "There is still the question of the wedding ceremony. When Lady Marie and I are to be formally married in the eyes of the Church..."
Thomas nodded. "Yes, it should happen soon. Within the month, I think. To legitimize..."
"No."The single word from King Henry cut through the discussion like a blade. Everyone turned to look at him. He stood, and the weight of his presence seemed to press down on them all. This was a king in his prime, a man who had executed nobles for lesser offenses, who had defied the Pope himself when it suited him. "I will not allow a wedding,"
Henry said, his voice hard as stone, each word a royal decree that would not be challenged. "You used a barbaric law to claim her, an ancient, savage tradition. You want to call it legitimate? Then let it stand as it is. There is no point in staging a masquerade wedding to pretend this was anything but what it was: a theft."
"Your Majesty," Thomas said carefully, voice shaking slightly, "denying them a proper wedding would dishonor my daughter further. She deserves..."
"I have spoken,"Henry declared, and the finality in those three words was absolute. This was not a man making a suggestion. This was a *king* issuing a decree on English soil where his word was law.
"Let this be our judgment," he continued, voice ringing with royal authority. "A thief cannot be rewarded with a ceremony. The claim stands as made...brutal and uncivilized. That is all they deserve. Marie Boleyn remains an English subject, taken by force under foreign law. She will have no wedding blessing. No Church sanction. No legitimacy beyond what brute force has given you."
He turned his gaze directly on Lorenzo, and there was steel in his eyes. "And you will accept this, Prince Lorenzo, or you will leave England with nothing but the shame of what you've done.*We are King here*. And what I decree *is law*."
The silence was crushing. Lorenzo closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, a gesture of deep frustration. For the first time in the entire negotiation, she looked defeated.
Without a wedding, Marie would be her wife in name only, claimed but not married. Bound but not blessed. It was a blow to both their honors. And there was nothing she could do about it. Henry had won this round decisively. On English soil, he was supreme. And he had just reminded everyone, especially the Italian prince sitting opposite him, exactly what that meant.
On the Other side, at Lorenzo stronghold,
The bath arrived within the hour, a large wooden tub carried in by several maids from Lorenzo's household. They moved with quiet efficiency, bearing buckets of steaming water up the stairs and filling the tub near the hearth. The water bore the scent of lavender and chamomile.
Marie observed them at their work, feeling peculiar and exposed though she remained wrapped in the bedsheet. The maids were careful and respectful, their eyes cast down as they went about their tasks. When the tub was filled and prepared, they curtsied to Marie.
As they departed, Marie heard them conversing in Italian. "È molto bella," one maid murmured to another. *(She is very beautiful.)*
"Sì, il nostro padrone ha buon gusto," the other replied with a small smile. *(Yes, our master has good taste.)*
Marie understood every word with perfect clarity. Yet she kept her face blank, showing no sign that she understood their language. It would be safer, she reasoned, if others believed her ignorant of Italian. They might speak more freely in her presence, revealing things they would otherwise conceal. The door closed behind them, leaving Marie once more alone with Bess.
Bess assisted Marie from the soiled bedsheet and into the water. Marie winced as she lowered herself within, the heated water stinging the tender places upon her body, the bite mark upon her shoulder, the soreness between her thighs.
Yet after a moment, the warmth began to ease her aching form, and she released a trembling breath. Bess knelt beside the tub, washing Marie's hair with gentle strokes, her touch careful and maternal. She hummed softly, attempting to provide some measure of comfort, some semblance of normalcy amidst this nightmare.
"There now, my lady," Bess murmured. "The water shall help. You will feel better presently." Marie remained silent for some time. She gazed upon the water, watching the steam rise, her mind a tempest of emotions she could not name.
At length, she spoke, her voice small and hesitant. "How does William fare with all of this?"Bess paused in her washing, selecting her words with care. "Lord Stamford appears... lost, my lady. In disbelief, I think. He spoke little when the news came. He merely stood there, pale as death itself." Marie nodded slowly.
Then another thought seized her, one that made her chest constrict with dread. "Bess," she said, her voice rising with fear, "do people believe I was party to this? The abduction? Do they think I... that I conspired with him?"
Bess's hands stilled. She looked upon Marie, her expression troubled. "My lady, I shall not deceive you. There has been talk."
Marie's breath caught. "What manner of talk?"
Bess bit her lip, clearly reluctant to continue. "When Prince Lorenzo and your father spoke at the negotiation... I heard some portion of it. Lorenzo declared that your father had granted him permission to court you. To send you letters."
"Yes,"Marie whispered. "He did. Father permitted it."
"And furthermore..."Bess hesitated, her discomfort evident. "Lorenzo also claimed that you had... that you had granted him prenuptial rights." Marie's face drained of all color. "He spoke thus? Before all assembled?"
"Before the king, your father, your brother, all who were present," Bess confirmed quietly. "So at present... well, people believe that though you may not have desired this precise outcome, you... you encouraged his suit. That you gave him cause."
The words struck Marie as a physical blow. She felt the world shift beneath her.
"So that was his design," she said, her voice hollow. "He has chosen to damn me alongside himself. To ensure I cannot escape. To make all believe I desired this."
She slid deeper into the water, submerging herself to her chin, as though she might hide from the truth. The warmth that had been soothing moments prior now felt suffocating. Bess wrung out a cloth and began washing Marie's shoulders with gentle strokes.
Then she inquired, her voice carefully neutral, "My lady... how did he conduct himself with you? Did he... did he release himself within you?"
Marie blinked, confused. "I do not understand your meaning."
Bess's cheeks colored slightly. "Did he leave his seed within you, my lady?"
Marie's mind raced back through the haze of the previous night. The sensations, the confusion, the moment when she had been turned upon her stomach and felt something larger, fuller, stretching her. She had believed, had been certain, that he had broken his word, that he had entered her with his manhood despite his promises.
She flushed crimson, the heat spreading down her neck. "He did turn me upon my stomach,"she said quietly, her voice trembling. "And I... I believe he did so then. Yes."
Bess's expression hardened, her own face flushing with anger. "Barbarous creature," she muttered, scrubbing more vigorously at Marie's arm.
As she worked, her hand stilled suddenly on Marie's shoulder. She had noticed the bite mark, deep, unmistakable, the puncture wounds still visible on the tender skin.
"My lady," Bess said, her voice tight with shock. "This mark upon your shoulder... what—how did this happen?"
Marie shifted uncomfortably in the water. "When he turned me upon my stomach,"she said quietly, "he bit me there."
Bess's face went pale with fury. "He bit you? Like an animal?"She examined the wound more closely, her hands trembling. "I shall not leave you alone with him again, my lady. I swear it. This is beyond all decency..."
"Bess," Marie interrupted softly. "It matters not."
"Does it pain you?"Bess asked, her voice gentle now, concerned. Marie shrugged, a strange emptiness in her expression. "I barely feel it now."
Bess looked as though she might weep. "To take you in such fashion, to mark you so... You must despise him for what he has done to you, my lady."
Marie bit her lip, offering no response.
"Let us hope your father prevails in these negotiations," Bess continued, her voice fierce with protective loyalty. "You might yet be fortunate enough to escape a life bound to this savage. To return home and—"
"Yes,"Marie interjected swiftly. "Home. I wish to go home."
Yet even as she spoke the words, something twisted uncomfortably within her breast. A strange disappointment she could not name, did not wish to name. She ought to hate Lorenzo. She ought to desire escape from him, to never look upon him again.
And yet...
And yet some treacherous part of her mind continued to recall the sensation of his hands upon her skin. The manner in which he had touched her with something approaching tenderness, even whilst claiming her. The sound of his voice when he had offered his apology.
She thrust the thoughts away violently, disgusted with herself. "I merely wish to go home," she repeated, more to convince herself than Bess. Bess pressed her shoulder gently. "Of course you do, my lady. Of course you do." Marie closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink deeper into the water, wishing she could wash away not merely the physical evidence of what had happened, but the confusing tangle of emotions accompanying it.
She desired to hate Lorenzo purely, completely. Why could she not?
After the bath, the Italian maids returned bearing clothing. They brought a gown of fine Italian silk, deep burgundy with gold embroidery adorning the bodice and sleeves. It was exceedingly beautiful, far more elegant than any garment Marie had worn previously.
The maids assisted her in dressing, their hands gentle and efficient. They arranged her hair in the Italian fashion, intricate braids woven with ribbons, softer and more romantic than the rigid English styles to which she was accustomed. Bess attempted to object.
"My lady, this is not proper. You should not be attired as though.....as though you belong in this place."Marie regarded herself in the polished metal mirror they had provided. She scarcely recognized her own reflection.
"It shall not be forever, in any case," she said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. The household treated her with remarkable deference. They addressed her as "Madonna," bowing their heads as they passed. They applied a subtle gloss to her lips and dabbed perfume at her wrists and throat—jasmine and rose, delicate and costly. When they had finished, they conducted her through the stone corridors to the dining chamber.
Marie surveyed the space with critical attention. It was rustic yet grand, with high ceilings and a substantial wooden table. Yet there remained dust in the corners, and the tapestries upon the walls appeared hastily mounted. The entire place had an unfinished quality.
She sighed, turning to address the staff. "Has anyone properly cleaned this establishment?"The eldest maid, a woman with gray hair and kind eyes, curtsied and responded in fractured English. "It was purchase just yesterday, Madonna. We have just arrived. Much work remains."
Marie felt a surge of revulsion. "Naturally. Lorenzo prepared all of this. He planned every particular." The maids offered no response, their faces carefully impassive.
***
Supper was served, roasted meats, fresh bread, vegetables dressed in olive oil, wine from Italian vineyards.
The fare smelled appetizing, yet Marie had no appetite. She scarcely touched her plate, merely sipping languidly at her wine, her gaze fixed upon nothing. The chair at the head of the table remained vacant.