Between Two Kings (13 page)

In addition, the royal mistress had a lofty and keen intellect and foresaw and reckoned on all of it. She understood she couldn’t act on her own, meddling into the king’s deals and annoying François too much. She predicted that if she lost François she would not just lose a lover who could easily be replaced, but also a high standing at the court. She had always used everything to her own advantage, calculated every word and step, and tried to manipulate the king on the sidelines, though not very effectively. Meanwhile, she often questioned in her mind whether he loved her as much and deeply as she loved him.

The king’s gaze shifted to Tournon. “Your Eminence, you will travel will me. Monsieur Jacques de la Brosse will come with us too. I shall need all of you a great deal in Venice. Monsieur Anne de Montmorency will stay in Piedmont with our army.”

“As Your Majesty wants.” Cardinal François de Tournon smiled sweetly as he liked to be in the king’s favor. He was an experienced courtier who was skillful at keeping the king’s secrets and preserving state interests.

Anne tilted her head. “Will I have a chance to spend more time with Your Majesty?” She meant that she wanted to spend another night with the king.

François smiled. “Of course, Anne.”

“Great!” the mistress exclaimed.

The heated gazes of the two lovers revealed that their minds were occupied by the mysterious rich sensations their amorous relationship gave them. Not wishing to interfere in the intimate chat, Cardinal François de Tournon smiled and looked outside.

The King of France bent his head. “I daresay we can teach each other a thing or two about sensitive and complex feelings tonight,” he whispered into her ear, his gaze sliding from her mouth to her bosom. At that moment, he wanted to touch her and to kiss the skin of her neck, to feel her naked beneath him. Yet, it was a primitive male desire, and nothing more, he mused. He was again confused that he hadn’t felt love for her.

Anne cocked her head to one side, as though to consider his suggestion. “I suppose we can. You won’t be disappointed, 
mon amour
,” she murmured into his ear.

“Yes, of course,” the king said. “I am usually not disappointed with you, Anne.”

Anne was so flirtatious that her hand clasped the fabric of her gown and brushed it against the king’s pants, her violet penetrating perfume hovering in the air. “And my king will never be disappointed with me.” She laughed, and her cheeks bloomed as she remembered the majestic nights she had spent in his arms.

“You are far from being modest.” François smiled and graciously bowed his head. “Never ever disappointed with you?” he teased her, feigning in his voice a sound of doubt but not realizing how true his question was. “Really, Madame?”

Anne forced a laugh, but she was slightly tense. Her hollow laugh sounded normal to Cardinal de Tournon, but not to François who knew her too well. “Never ever, Your Majesty,” she swore. Her heart was pounding as she had a mystery she was keeping from her royal lover.

May 1537, Venice, the Republic of Venice

Anne Boleyn sat on the edge of the cushions in Count Jean de Montreuil’s private gondola that was sailing down the canal. She was enjoying the city views. The gondola shot out across the Grand Canal, and soon they landed at the quayside at steps that lead up from the water into 
the piazzetta
. Anne felt a thrill as she beheld the pink arcaded bulk of the Palazzo Ducale, or the Palace of the Doges, which was her favorite building in the whole city. Anne’s eyes fixed on the golden facade of the Duomo San Marco, and she smiled at the number of pigeons fluttering over people’s heads and strutting beside their feet.

Anne stepped outside the gondola and kept going ahead, in the direction of the Piazza San Marco, the principal public square in Venice. The square was dominated at its eastern end by the Basilica Cattedrale Patriarcale di San Marco, commonly known as Saint Mark’s Basilica. As she reached the Piazza San Marco, she adroitly steered through the crowd, briefly looking at the Palazzo Ducale and at the facade of Saint Mark’s Basilica. She made her way right inside the cathedral and went inside.

Anne kept going down the nave and took her place on one of the wooden pews near the altar. Despite Saint Mark’s Basilica being a Roman Catholic cathedral, Anne, who was more inclined to Protestant religious ideas, had no other choice if she wanted to pray because the people of Venice generally remained Roman Catholics, although the state of Venice was notable for its freedom from religious fanaticism and had not enacted a single execution for religious heresy. As Anne settled on the pew, she started praying. She wanted to pray. She often came to this cathedral to talk to God, asking for his mercy and imploring him to care for her estranged children.

“Lord, please help my children Elizabeth and Arthur. Save and protect them,” Anne prayed silently. When she finished her prayer, and, having crossed herself, she rose to her feet. She approached the altar and stared at an image of a lamb with a halo. After Anne had pronounced another short prayer, she turned around, apparently intending to go along the nave to the exit.

Suddenly, Anne noticed a man with a knife in his hand. He was poorly dressed like a peasant. The man with the knife was aiming to throw it at another man, who stood on the right side of the altar. That man wore clothing of extraordinary richness, including a white taffeta shirt with standing band collar, luxurious black puffy Venetian pants, and magnificent black and white striped satin doublet, lavishly embroidered in gold and trimmed with jewelry. Anne noted that his Venetian pants were ornamented with gold braid and some exquisite embroidery. His attire was finished with a black velvet flat cap trimmed with gold braid around the edge and adorned with a golden diamond brooch, the so-called affiquet.

The man looked like a rich Venetian nobleman. She couldn’t see his face as he stood with his back to her. The man was praying and could not see his potential murderer several feet behind him.

Anne’s eyes grew wide in shock. She stepped forward intuitively towards the man that was the target of the assassin. She couldn’t allow it to happen. She had to prevent the murder and to let the man know about the danger.

Anne came closer to him and spoke in flat, clear Italian, but with a slight French accent. “Monsieur, please be careful. Behind you, there is the man with a knife in his right hand. I think he is going to kill you.” Her loud words vibrated through the vacuum of the cathedral like warbling birdsong.

The man swung around to face the woman who had warned him about the danger. He blinked, his face evolving into confusion. “But, you are Anne Boleyn,” he said slowly in a low voice, as though he had forced the words to come out.

Anne looked at the gentleman. She recognized him in an instance. She remembered his handsome face with almond-shaped amber eyes, high cheekbones, and quite a long nose. He was one of the tallest men Anne had ever met, standing a head taller than an average man. His head was full of thick, straight, chestnut hair, falling smoothly over each ear. He was the infamous King François I of France. After all, she had spent so many years at his court in France. She couldn’t mistake him for anybody else.

Anne was in a cold sweat as horror seized her body and her heart skipped several beats. “No! No!” she murmured in vague, unavailing attempts to refute reality.

She wanted to say something else, but failed. Everything happened very quickly and unexpectedly – the assassin threw the knife in the direction of King François but missed. As a result, the knife struck Anne. At first, Anne stood there in profound shock as a bloodcurdling, unbearable pain stole upon her. As the pain spread from her right shoulder to her back, she screamed and fainted.

François’ eyes widened as he stared at the young lady on the floor. The picture around him was breathtaking. The unconscious lady looked like a rich Venetian noblewoman in her fashionable light green silk gown, with low square-cut neckline and skirt widely opened in front, with narrow sleeves to the elbow and wider thereafter up to the wrist. The lady’s eyes were closed, her skin deathly pale. Some of her long dark tresses had become loose and fell over her neck and her shoulders, the chain with the jewel in the center still fastened in the large knot at the back of her head. A black velvet skull-cap splendidly embroidered with jewelry, which had previously been set amongst her curls, was on the floor near her head.

As François leaned down to the injured woman, his eyes fixed on the increasing spot of blood appearing on her right shoulder. The people around them began to worry. Grasps and groans filled the cathedral.

“Oh my God! What happened?” a woman groaned.

“What did that man do to the signora?” another woman babbled.

“Poor signora,” a young girl moaned.

“This signora is so brave!” another woman noted.

“Shhh,” François whispered at the scared murmuring of the women near them, a pointed finger tapping against his pursed lips, surprising everyone. The women trailed off in unison.

The King of France raised his head and glanced across the nave, looking for his companions. “Cardinal de Tournon! Guards! Guards!” he called out. “Your Eminence! Guards!” he repeated. The cardinal and several guards rushed to him from the entrance.

As Tournon and others marched towards him, the King of France stood in such a way as not to allow people to see Anne and, most importantly, her face. Then he lowered his head, his gaze fixing on the face of the lady who had just saved his life and was injured because of him.

In those first few moments, François thought his mind was playing jokes with him. He felt his heart pounding so hard it was painful to breathe. As he strained his eyesight, François finally realized that he hadn’t had a hallucination and that his female savior indeed had a strong resemblance to Anne Boleyn, as if she were her twin.

June 1537, Venice, the Republic of Venice

More than a week passed since the fateful day when King François had been miraculously saved from the knife of an assassin. Everybody was shocked with such an audacious attempt to kill the King of France in the cathedral during his prayers. An attempted regicide of a foreign monarch in the church was an extraordinary and never-before-seen event.

Much gossip was floating around Venice. People wondered who the brave woman-savior had been. The courtiers and the ministers who accompanied François to the Republic of Venice, also gossiped about the identity of the female savior; they were astonished that the King of France was so secretive.

The tale of a miraculous salvation spread quicker than any other rumor in Venice. The woman-savior was proclaimed
le Sauveur du Roi-Chevalier
 or 
the Savior of the Knight-King
. That nickname was given to Anne because, due to his personal involvement in many battles, King François himself was known as 
le Roi-Chevalier
, 
the Knight-King.

After François’ salvation, Anne became the unknown, incredibly shining star of Venice. The tale was that she had saved King François because she had heard the whispers of God and had been destined to save him. Not only the people of Venice, but also the French courtiers and ministers, viewed the king’s female savior as a heroine of France, as well as a martyr who was ready to sacrifice her own life for the sake of a foreign monarch. As courtiers and ministers weren’t sure if the woman was a subject of France, they had even deeper adoration for her. Salvation of a sovereign was one thing, but protection of a foreign king’s life was a more courageous and more heroic deed.

Only several people knew that it was Anne de Ponthieu or Anne Boleyn in reality. When Anne fainted in front of King François near the altar, he called for his close friend and minister, Cardinal François de Tournon. His guards quickly arrived at the spot of the crime. Anne’s face was seen only by the French King and Cardinal de Tournon who was also stunned with the resemblance of the unconscious woman to Anne Boleyn. Tournon had met the grown up Anne in Calais and, with his excellent memory even for minute particulars, remembered her very well. The other person who knew the savior’s identity was Jacques de la Brosse, a cupbearer to the king and a diplomat; he also was there and saw Anne’s face, immediately recognizing her. François ordered Tournon and Brosse to keep silent until he gave them his personal instructions.

When Anne was wounded in the church, they started wondering what to do with her and where to take her. It was only a matter of luck that one of parishioners, an old Venetian woman, recognized Anne as the granddaughter of Count Jean de Montreuil, which wasn’t difficult because Anne often visited that church. The old woman was paid for silence because François wanted to keep Anne’s identity secret even in Italy.

The assassin was caught and arrested by the Dodge of Venice’s people. He was immediately interrogated. For several days, the man refused to talk. Then he was tortured and finally confessed that he had wanted to kill King François for the sake of Emperor Charles. However, the man didn’t confirm that he had been hired by the emperor. He stated that he had simply wished to murder King François because he had invaded Italy and Savoy which didn’t belong to France.

Anne was delivered by François and his people to the Palazzo Montreuil. Count Jean de Montreuil was speechless when he saw how the King of France entered the grand hall, carrying a pale, unconscious Anne with fresh spots of red blood on the right sleeve of her gown and on her bosom. In deep shock, the old man was able only to instruct the servants to urgently fetch the physician as it was evident that Anne needed qualified medical help. As Anne was placed by the servants in her bedroom, King François told Jean about what had happened in the cathedral. Jean was thunderstruck with the news.

The doctor said that the wound in Anne’s right shoulder was serious. She had lost much blood. However, the physician expected Anne’s full recovery, provided that there was no high fever and infection in the wound. Although it was impossible to avoid fever from the infected wound, it broke in five days. There was not much bleeding from the wound and the pain and swelling decreased considerably. Anne was gradually gaining her strength, and everybody was anticipating her to survive.