Alfonso's stern expression broke into a boyish smile. "Is she as pretty a ginger as they say?"
Lorenzo sighed, a rare smile touching her lips. "She is a red sun."
"Did you bring your red sun with you?"
"There was an agreement,"Lorenzo explained. "As penance, she will spend six months at her father's estate each year, and the other six months with me."
Alfonso's smile faded. "So he still has a hold on her. Your nomination as ambassador makes more sense now—it was more an insult to you than a favor to the empire."
"That is why I have come," Lorenzo said urgently. "I am asking you, my cousin, my emperor...please issue a decree calling her back so that I may bind us officially on Italian soil. If I cannot salvage her honor on English land, let the land of our ancestors cleanse her of my crime and reclaim her honor."
Before Alfonso could respond, Uraca stepped out from where she had been standing in the shadows near a pillar. "As long as she has not set foot in this country," Uraca said coolly, "she remains only your mistress. Alfonso cannot grant her any official title unless she is present on Italian soil. And you cannot challenge the English king's decree regarding how he divided her time. Based on your mandatory four months of official work in England, the earliest such a call can be made is next year."
Alfonso scratched the back of his head, looking apologetic. "Even if we overlook the traditional two years of courtship and reduce it to six months to coincide with the time she spends with you... Uraca is right. It can only be done next year at the earliest."
Lorenzo's shoulders sagged. "Cousin, is there nothing you can do?"
Alfonso opened his mouth to respond, but Uraca cut in. "You have done things wrong. Face the consequences. You will not compromise the Imperial Crown for your selfish desires."
Alfonso sighed. "Let us have a celebration instead. A party to honor your marriage, unofficial though it may be."
Lorenzo nodded, defeated. "Thank you, Your Grace."
As Lorenzo exited the throne room, Uraca caught up with her in the corridor. Her hand wrapped around Lorenzo's arm, intimate and possessive.
"You seem to be doing well, love," Uraca said softly. "I suppose the English woman is satisfying your needs properly."
Lorenzo removed Uraca's hand firmly. "I am married, Uraca. This is improper."
Uraca pushed Lorenzo against the wall, her hands sliding up to rest on Lorenzo's strong abdomen through her shirt. "She is your mistress, not your wife. Not yet."
Lorenzo gently cupped Uraca's cheek, her touch tender but final. "She is my wife. Like it or not."
She walked away, leaving Uraca alone in the corridor.
***
The Party The celebration was elaborate.
Alfonso had decreed a theme, the Greek gods.
Alfonso himself was dressed as Zeus, complete with a golden crown fashioned to look like lightning bolts and a toga of the finest white silk trimmed with gold. He looked every inch the king of the gods.
Lorenzo had been assigned the role of Hades. She wore black and deep crimson, with a crown of twisted metal that resembled flames.
The irony was not lost on her, Marie had called her Hades, her abductor, her captor.
Sancho was dressed as Poseidon, in flowing blues and greens, a trident in hand.
Lorenzo and Alfonso sat together at the head table, wine flowing freely, music filling the hall.
Alfonso leaned close, a mischievous smile on his face. "Have you consummated your marriage properly?"
Lorenzo hesitated. Alfonso pointed subtly to a young man across the hall, beautiful, with delicate features and an almost feminine grace. "We understand all manner of inhibitions,"
Alfonso said conversationally. "Since We are Zeus, beauty is all we seek, whether it be male or female."
Lorenzo choked on her drink. "You are married, cousin!"
Alfonso glanced to the side where his wife sat—a rigid, proud Italian woman who looked like she had swallowed something sour. Alfonso sipped his wine and made an exaggerated expression of distaste.
They both looked back at the beautiful young man, and Lorenzo relaxed slightly.
"We did it twice," Lorenzo admitted quietly. "Once... with my prosthetic."
Alfonso raised an eyebrow. "Is she ugly or something? Why so few times?"
"No!" Lorenzo said quickly. "She is a ginger with perky nipples and a round, generous ass. She has delicious lips, and she tastes divine."
Alfonso grinned. "Then what is stopping you?"
"Distance. Circumstance. Time."
Alfonso raised his glass. "I will not keep her away from you for long, cousin. Just... be kind to Uraca. She is not taking this well."
Lorenzo smiled and clinked her glass against Alfonso's. "To patience, then."
"To love," Alfonso corrected. They drank.
On the other side, Marie's journey home was swift and smooth.
As the carriage approached, people gathered to watch. Servants, minor nobles visiting the estate, even some townspeople who had heard of Lady Marie's return. The carriage door opened.
Marie stepped out in a crimson dress cut in the Italian fashion—lower neckline, tighter bodice, sleeves that flowed elegantly. Her hair was arranged in the Italian style, intricate braids woven with gold ribbon. She looked every inch a foreign princess.
Behind her, four soldiers in Lorenzo's colors stepped out, their bearing military and intimidating. Marcello emerged last, tall and imposing, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. Whispers rippled through the crowd.
Marie walked forward with her head held high, her Italian guards falling into formation behind her. Marcello walked directly behind her, his presence commanding respect or fear. She reached the great hall where her father stood waiting.
Thomas Boleyn, Lord of the estate, master of his household. Marie curtsied deeply. "Father."
Thomas bowed in return. "Daughter. Welcome home."
It was a formal greeting. A recognition that she had risen in stature. She was no longer simply his daughter...she was the wife of an Italian prince, a woman of standing in her own right.
The assembled household bowed and curtsied. Marie's mother could not maintain decorum a moment longer. She rushed forward and embraced her daughter tightly.
"Marie! Oh, my darling girl!" Marie clung to her mother, tears springing to her eyes. "
"Mama."
Lady Boleyn pulled back to look at her daughter, then took her hand.
"Come, let us talk in the gardens. I have missed you so."She began to lead Marie away, but the soldiers moved to follow. Marie held up her hand. "Please, give us privacy."
Marcello stepped forward. "My lady, His Highness commanded that you be guarded at all times."
"Surely in my father's garden—"
"At all times," Marcello repeated firmly. "At least allow Pierro to accompany you."
Marie sighed. "Very well. Pierro may follow at a distance."
Marcello turned to the other soldiers and spoke in Italian: "Andate. Esplorate la proprietà. Tenete gli occhi aperti e restate vigili." *(Go. Scout the property. Keep your eyes open and stay alert.)*They saluted and dispersed.
Marie felt like a child again, walking arm-in-arm with her mother through the familiar garden paths. Tears of joy streamed down both their faces.
"Are you well?"her mother asked, studying Marie's face. "Your husband—he is not too strict with you?"
Marie's answers were careful but honest. "We are... adjusting to each other."
Her mother's face grew more serious. "Marie, I will never approve of what he did. Of how this marriage came to be." She paused. "What makes it worse is that he cannot even properly marry you."
Marie frowned. "What do you mean, Mother? Are we not..."She hesitated. "Married?"
"You are married in the Italian sense. In their custom. But not in the way civilized society recognizes." Her mother squeezed her hand. "Did Lorenzo not tell you?"
Marie felt anger rising in her chest. "No. He clearly did not."
"So if I understand correctly," Marie said slowly, "Lorenzo does not want to make our union official? To restore my honor?"
"It is not Lorenzo,"her mother said quickly. "The king himself decreed it. He said that by allowing Lorenzo to marry you properly, in a church ceremony, he would be rewarding depravity and savagery. So he forbade it."
Marie felt conflicting emotions warring within her. Annoyance at Lorenzo for not telling her.
Anger at the king.
But also... a strange sense that perhaps the king was being fair.
Lorenzo had taken her through force and ancient custom. Why should he be rewarded with a proper wedding? Her mother then proceeded to ask questions about married life, about the household, about whether Marie had everything she needed.
"How often does Lorenzo..." Her mother's voice dropped. "Bed you?"
Marie blushed. "He is more respectful now."
"Now?"Her mother's eyes sharpened. "Was he not respectful before?"
Before Marie could answer, Philip burst out from behind a hedge. Pierro's hand went to his sword in a flash, his body moving to intercept the threat.
"Pierro, calm down!" Marie called out. "It is only my brother!"
Pierro relaxed marginally but kept his hand near his weapon.
He bowed. "Forgive me, my lady."
Philip grinned. "Quite the watchdog you have there, sister." "
How is life in that scary castle?"Philip asked, his tone teasing.
"I have missed your jokes," Marie admitted with a smile.
Philip reached out to tickle her sides as he had when they were children.
"Philip!" Lady Boleyn said sharply. "Marie is a married woman now. Such behavior is not appropriate."
Philip dropped his hands, looking chastised. Marie felt a pang of sadness. Even her relationship with her brother had changed.