England was a country holding its breath.
The king had two sons:
one sickly, fading like a candle in a draft…and another, young Henry, spoken of rarely and with caution.
Power trembled at the edge of uncertainty.
In such a climate, families like the Boleyns sharpened their ambitions into weapons.
Thomas Boleyn and his brother Gilbert seized every opportunity they could grasp. While their tenants starved through winter frost, the Boleyn brothers poured their money into lavish banquets, imported music, and dazzling displays of wealth. They understood court politics: visibility was power.
Thomas had three children. Each an instrument of his rising dream.
At the time,
Anne Boleyn was 15
Dark-haired, green-eyed, frighteningly perceptive. Anne could read a room with more accuracy than half the diplomats at court. She understood charm like it was a language, and wielded it without mercy.
Philip Boleyn was 14,
Tall, handsome, golden-haired. A natural flirt, a bit lazy, but effortlessly charismatic.
He was no warrior instead, he was a creature of laughter, wine, and late-night scheming with his older sister.
Marie Boleyn was 12
A ginger with soft green eyes.
Sweet, gentle, tender-hearted, too kind for the world she had been born into.
Marie preferred poetry to politics, flowers to gossip, innocence to ambition. She was her mother's child entirely.
It was the largest gathering of the season, the eve of the New Year.
The Boleyn name floated on every whispered conversation.
Anne shone at the center of the great hall.
Philip mirrored her energy, matching her wit-for-wit, drink-for-drink. Together they were a spectacle crafted by their father's ambition.
Marie, meanwhile, drifted to the gardens.
She listened to a poet recite verses near the fountain, then wandered toward her beloved roses, the only place that felt honest.
That was when her cousin Matthew approached.
"Will you show me the flowers in the maze, Marie?"
His tone was soft, pleasant.She saw no reason to refuse. She trusted him. She trusted everyone
They walked deeper into the hedges, the laughter of the party fading behind them.
When no one could see them, Matthew changed.
He grabbed her wrist.
Pressed her back against the hedge. Tried to kiss her.
And when she turned her head away, trembling, he forced his hands onto her breast, touching her in ways she didn't yet understand.
Marie whimpered.
"Matthew... stop...please"
He didn't.
Footsteps.
Marie jerked her head toward the sound.
Three men emerged at the far end of the path.
Two wore deep blue uniforms trimmed in gold, swords sheathed but ready. Foreign. Italian.Between them stood a youth no older than Matthew, unnervingly beautiful, with shoulder length dark hair and blue eyes bright as a winter sky.
His uniform was black, the fabric finer than anything the soldiers wore, and a golden sigil gleamed on his back: an eagle holding one blue rose. Noble perhaps, yet built like someone who had endured harsh training and battlefield combat.
He spoke with calm authority that did not match his age, his accent disarmingly gentle.
"Are you harmed, my lady?"
Marie's breath shook. She managed to nod, unable to speak.
Matthew, flushed and panicked, stepped forward."This is family business..."
One of the Italian soldiers snapped,"My lord was not addressing you."
Matthew scoffed, his voice rising."You think because you prance around in foreign colors..."
The blue-eyed youth approached Marie instead, not sparing Matthew a glance.He gently took her wrist, the one Matthew had twisted and examined it with a frown.
"You should keep quiet," he said to Matthew without looking at him."Your crime is already loud."
Matthew's cheeks reddened with humiliation.He tried again to assert himself, taking a step forward.
One of the soldiers moved instantly, hand reaching for his swordBut the blue-eyed youth raised a hand.The soldier froze.
Then the young man looked Matthew fully in the face at last.
"As you can see, we are emissaries," he said softly."Your king invited us here. To insult us is to insult the Crown."
He let the words sink in.
"Treason is a bold choice for a boy with nothing to his name."
Matthew's pride snapped.
"Italian scum," he spat literally spitting on the young man's shoe.
Then he wheeled around and stormed away through the hedge, furious and humiliated.
The blue-eyed youth simply watched him go, expression unreadable.
Marie burst into tears, terrified, embarrassed, shaking.
"I... I'm sorry... I didn't... I didn't mean"
"There is nothing for you to apologize for," the young man said warmly.
His voice softened in a way she had never heard from any man.He took her gently by the elbow and led her through the winding paths.
He spoke of harmless things, the crisp air, the music from the hall, the stars beginning to peek through the winter sky. Slowly, Marie relaxed. She even giggled once, and he replied with a quiet smirk.
He was older, composed, strangely gentle.His presence felt safe.
When they reached the end of the maze, music and candlelight spilling toward them, he paused.
He took her hand.Lifted it.Pressed a slow, formal kiss to her knuckles.
Marie's breath caught.
"My lord… your name?" she whispered.
He stepped backward, shadows catching the gold of his sigil.
"We will meet again," he said."And when we do… I shall answer."
Then he turned and vanished with his guards