A/N: I am not particularly knowledgeable on the Tudor period. The only thing I know is that I love Anne Boleyn and therefore will create a story where she is the central figure. This story is based (as in everything) on the Korean Drama and novel 'Moon Embracing the Sun'. If you want spoilers, watch that.
This story will be set on a fictional England, a Joseon era-esque England. The capital is where Whitehall Palace is located, it is surrounded by walls. Nobles have mansions inside the capital but they also have estates outside. For instance, the Boleyns' house inside the capital will be the Hever Mansion, but Hever Castle also exists outside the walls. I know mansion was first used in the 1800 but for the sake of this ill-conceived story, don't be too much of a pedant.
Do be warned that describing this story as historically inaccurate is a great understatement. If you want a plain ole England setting, this is not the place to be. Stop worrying and enjoy it. If you can't feel free to exit.
Grammatical Errors.
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Chapter 1
Beyond the Capital
1st May 1501
"Oh my goodness!"
Elizabeth hears her maidservant exclaim in utter surprise, consequently piquing her curiosity. The palanquin grinds into a halt, and the crackle of leaves punctuates the nervous shuffling of her companions. She supposes she should be alarmed— after all, a noblewoman's entourage aren't usually forced to a standstill on pain of torture. But Elizabeth prides herself on her ability to remain levelheaded, and she opens the palanquin window to bid her maidservant forward.
"What is it?" The girl's eyes are wide with profound terror, her face white as sheet and her thin body trembles openly.
"There's a woman, milady, s-she's covered in blood."
Elizabeth's heart skips a beat ... bandits she guesses straightaway. Her hands move to encompass her protruding stomach. Her anxiety for her unborn child's safety gnaws at her, and she almost orders her people to move forward instantly, for fear that they become targets next. But Elizabeth's virtue—which her husband has always loved, but may kill her for now—keeps her from forsaking the woman who lays ahead of them, probably at death's door, simply because she was ill-fated.
Besides, the city walls are nearby. Surely, no bandit would dare harm them now with the royal guards in such a short distance.
She sighs, self-preservation has always been far in her list of priorities. And in the world of politics, it's a surefire way of getting disgraced. Perhaps her brother is right, she should've settled down with a nameless knight, although technically her husband was just that a few years ago. He just proved himself too exceptional to remain undistinguished, and Elizabeth would never have him in any other way.
Against her better judgement, she carefully walks out of the palanquin and dismisses the fervent protests of her maidservant. The bearers seem to think she's insane as well but are wisely keeping mum. She walks cautiously to the woman, and on a closer look her blood-soaked gown looks quite familiar. She ignores it though, in favor of checking the woman's pulse. She can feel a faint thrumming against her fingers, and when she tries to move the woman slightly, the woman's lids fly open and obsidian eyes stare at her with urgency.
"H-help me, please," she croaks.
If Elizabeth had any qualms before, she loses it all at the woman's palpable anguish. Her hair, in an undeniable state of disarray is matted with blood, sweat and dirt; her face is unrecognizable with grime, tears, and blood; and her filthy hands clutch Elizabeth's own, her hoarse throat spouting pleas and cries for help. Perhaps she should feel disgusted, the grime does feel unpleasant, but the unexpected concern for the unknown woman overrides everything else.
Elizabeth immediately orders her maidservant to aid her in assisting the woman to the palanquin.
"But, milady, surely the bearers can aid her instead." Elizabeth waves her off, however. Blood splatters on her bearers' garments will no doubt spell trouble for them. And she can't afford trouble, not when her husband's just starting out on his career.
They haul her successfully to the palanquin, and once they are seated comfortably, the bearers move forward without further prompting. The garments of her maidservant remains bloodless due to Elizabeth's careful directions, and she deems her fit to travel outside the palanquin, not that the transport could carry another person.
When they arrive at the entrance, where quite a number of royal guards are posted, they immediately demand her to step out for a thorough inspection, which they cannot afford.
To prevent any problems, her maidservant intercepts instantly, "Milady is heavy with child and cannot do so, and milord strictly instructed us to maintain her comfort."
The guards remain uncertain however, and Elizabeth decides to take matters into her own hands. She opens the palanquin window, and in her soft voice declares firmly, "My lord husband Wiltshire expects me."
The guards' hesitance dissipates immediately, just as Elizabeth assumed they would. Thomas Boleyn has become popular due to his recent elevation. Nowadays, it is no secret that the king greatly favors him.
"Clear the way for Lady Wiltshire!"
Elizabeth exhales in relief, and gives the terrified woman in front of her a comforting squeeze in the shoulder. "Do not worry, it'll be alright." And the woman's eyes shine with evident gratitude.
But the celebration seems to be cut short when one of the guards booms, "Halt!"
Elizabeth's forehead creases in confusion. What could possibly be the problem now?
"Blood! Why is there blood dripping from your palanquin?"
She looks down to see the blood pouring out of the woman's wounds and trickling down to the floor of the vehicle. Elizabeth stiffens in anxiety, hundreds of prospective scenarios rooted on the guards' discovery of their secret hurtles through her mind swiftly with one common denominator, they end rather unhappily for her. She can hear the guards' footsteps clearly, closing in.
But before they could forcefully open the palanquin, an idea occurs to her and she shrieks in pain.
"The baby! Something's wrong with the baby!"
As expected, the guards back off immediately.
"Milady!"
"Make haste bearers! Bring the lady Wiltshire to a physician!"
Just like that, the crisis is successfully averted and Elizabeth almost slumps in relief.
Jocunda watches the woman carefully. She's very beautiful, garbed in a fine gown—now stained with blood— with her healthy blonde hair perfectly-coiffed like a true courtier. She's quite shrewd and perceptive like an experienced noblewoman, but continuously proves herself to be an outlier by lacking one defining characteristic that all courtiers seemingly possess, she lacks the common drive for self-advancement.
The bearers are still in haste, oblivious to the lady's deception, but once they reach a deserted road the lady orders them to halt. She then gingerly walks out of the vehicle, and Jocunda knows this is as far as she can take her.
"Forgive me but I can only take you this far. Our mansion is nearby but my husband is with my brother entertaining their guests, and I cannot guarantee that they will not speak about this. I have the notion that you want your presence to be concealed. And I confess, I also don't want anything to mar my husband's image. Forgive me for being so selfish."
Jocunda stands before with what little strength she has, and she smiles, understanding the lady's plight.
"I understand completely. You seemed to love your husband."
The lady smiles fondly as if replaying the memory of her beloved, "Very much. He and my children are my world."
The lady caresses her stomach as if in a trance, and Jocunda smiles despite the strain of the day. It's a relief to realize that in their world, kindness still dwells on the heart of the wealthy, and that this privilege did not infect everyone with greed. Jocunda hopes infinitely that the lady's fortune would remain, and that she and her family may live their lives in peace and happiness.
As if to contradict her, however, a slew of images came unbidden.
There's a child, a precocious babe.
Dark hair and olive skin, and eyes ... eyes that captivates the soul, and smile ... smile that charms the heart, like no one can, ever.
The child ... a young woman adorned in splendid garments ... garbed in royal clothing.
She falls ... a grave.
A moon, and a desperate sun.
When Jocunda comes to her senses, there's a bag of coins sitting on her palms as the lady clasps their hands together, the muck and the blood making it extremely uncomfortable. But that does not deter Jocunda from finding reassurance in the gesture. The lady truly never ceases to amaze her, she acts as if she didn't help enough, and Jocunda prays she remains this way to pass it on to her children. Especially, her unborn child, whom peril mires the path she will take.
"I will pray that you'll remain safe and alive." The gentle lady says in earnest.
Jocunda smiles, the images ... they can never be rewritten. She doesn't understand what it means, and the images usually contain multiple meanings that one can never fully comprehend until it passes. She hopes the child will prevail against it.
But ... what better way to convey her deep-seated gratitude than for her to personally protect the child.
She who has an inkling of the future, she must do her best to ensure the child's wellbeing.
The ultimate promise.
"It's a girl, milady. A girl in the image of your husband."
The lady's visage breaks into a stunning smile. "A daughter? A daughter in Thomas' image? Oh, dear! I've always wanted a little girl with her father's dark hair and eyes. Oh my, how glorious!" She speaks in fervent happiness and squeezes Jocunda's hand once more, forgetting everything but the satisfaction of having her wish.
Then she falters slightly as if doubting the origin of Jocunda's knowledge. Because how can she be so sure? Her eyes strays down Jocunda's clothing and she finds one particular suggestive mark that clears all her distrust.
"You're a court shaman." She states, and her smile comes back full-force, realizing that Jocunda's talents may as well solidify her proclamation of Elizabeth's unborn child. A Thomas-like daughter, she giggles inwardly.
It is sudden when Elizabeth notices the stark juxtaposition of her overwhelming cheerfulness against the woman's solemn exterior.
The woman stands, forehead creasing in what looks to be consternation.
Consequently, a shiver wracks her body. She did not need any expensive education to infer from the woman's expression that something unpleasant lies on her daughter's future.
"W-what is it?" She flounders, dread lodging itself gradually in Elizabeth's gut.
The woman seems to hesitate, before she clutches Elizabeth's hands tighter, "Fear not. I shall protect her." She promises with no shadow of doubt, and instantly, Elizabeth exhales in relief. The woman gives her a pointed look, a once-over, before hobbling away from them like a frightened but willful cat.
Perhaps she shouldn't trust the words of a stranger, after all she can very well disregard the promise. But somehow the thought that out there, one woman is prepared to do anything to protect her baby is a thought that will comfort her for the rest of her life.
.
Tower of London
18th May 1501
Elizabeth Barton rushes through the tower, all traces of good etiquette gone in an instant. When she hears about her most precious friend's arrest, horror seized her body causing her to faint. And when she finally recovers, her fellow shamans informed her of Jocunda's plight and sentence.
Tomorrow she is to be drawn and quartered for public viewing.
Tomorrow her only friend, half of her soul, is to be taken away from her forever.
Elizabeth feels sick. She knows in her heart that whatever Jocunda has been prosecuted for is no more than a fabricated lie. Jocunda must have seen something, something no one can afford to divulge and has therefore eliminated her to secure their disgusting lives. It is the life in court, a life Elizabeth has wished to leave. It was only because of Jocunda that she decided to carry on in the political minefield.
Jocunda who is in love with Richard, the king's bastard brother, and an ever persisting threat to his majesty's throne. Elizabeth knows it is hopeless now. From the start, Jocunda can never unsee what she has witnessed, and that as it may, has sealed her fate.
"Jocunda!" Elizabeth crouches down, placing her hands through the bars to hold her friend's bloodied arms. She drinks in the sight of her friend, and dies much more inside.
Jocunda's execution is still tomorrow but from the 30 lashes she has received earlier, she might as well be dead. Her fair skin is no more than a canvass for ugly bruises and wounds that marks herself as a traitor, and a mark of her loyalty to the king's bastard brother.
Elizabeth bits her lip in resignation.
Nothing can be done now.
"I warned you. You shouldn't have gone to him. You should have never given him your heart. Now, look what happens. For all of your foolish sacrifices, death is what he gives you in return." Her voice cracks, and she tightens her hold on Jocunda's wrists, though still mindful of her injuries. Jocunda smiles, as if she feels no pain. But from the occasional wincing and flinching, Elizabeth knows that she's only trying to condition her mind.
"I saw him, Liz. H-he fought bravely against the masked noble. I couldn't remember anything that I heard, only that I saw him freeze on the spot as if in disbelief. And that particular moment of vulnerability cost him his life. The sword cut his throat and blood spurted out as if it was a never-ending fountain. The air, oh the air, it smells like death. But no it wasn't the usual, it didn't smell like the end, it smelled like the beginning."
Elizabeth closes her eyes in agony as her friend recalls her last moments with a man that has never been hers.
Beginning ... end.
Shamans are known to talk nonsense, but she knows it is an omen and should not be taken lightly. Besides, Jocunda is an effective shaman, what she can feel and see is just a different face of the truth.
"I couldn't even say goodbye. Richard, he was so good to me as a child. I ... I failed him, Liz."
Elizabeth soothes her friend as she breaks down, tears streaming endlessly, perhaps reminiscent of the blood spurting from her love's throat. The Jocunda in front of her is different from before. It is clear that Richard's death had broken her. Although Elizabeth thinks that in some way, and as outrageous as it is, the knowledge of her impending death makes her whole. Because it ultimately means she can finally be with Richard.
She is sure of some things now. The traitors have moved, and the crown is in peril, caused by the treachery of those close to it.
"Did the king do it, Jocunda? Have you seen him personally or in your vision?" She asks, out of curiosity, perhaps.
Jocunda coughs, and shakes her head. "I have seen no vision of the king. But that is not important. I want you to listen to me carefully."
There's something insistent about Jocunda now, so different from the frail and dying woman that she really is and it is what compels Elizabeth to listen.
"The following years will be peaceful, the calm before the storm. And when the moon grows up and the sun is called to take over, only then will the events unfold. Yes, I understand it now ... star-crossed, fate's design. But first, I need to die. The first blow has already been dealt. The traitors have emerged. It's all up to them now."
Jocunda inhales raggedly, her time on earth is minimal, but she will not die today. Tomorrow ... tomorrow she shall die as a traitor in the eyes of the public.
Jocunda reaches towards Elizabeth, her friend is shaking. Angry tears springing from her eyes, eyes that speak of betrayal. It has always been the two of them, Jocunda and Elizabeth, the court shamans, the honest court shamans. The ones who are not afraid to state their visions no matter what wrath they may incur as a result. But from tomorrow onward, only Elizabeth Barton will survive.
"And Elizabeth ..."
Elizabeth pats her hand softly, dismissing her ill feelings to provide comfort. Jocunda dies tomorrow, this is their last time together.
"What is it?"
"Take care of her. Take care of the child."
She furrows her eyebrows, "What child?"
"The moon, keep her safe."
In truth, she comprehends none of Jocunda's words, but fate usually works this way.
She knows she will understand in time.
She nods shakily, "I will, I promise."
It is a new duty born out of a promise. And Elizabeth intends to keep it no matter what.
.
19th May 1501
In front of the Tower of London
She is in position. The ropes are tied tightly around her wrists and feet. And the horses—four strong horses are in place, ready to run towards their respective directions once spurred. The jeers and taunts of the people are loud, condemning her for the crimes she never committed. But she couldn't hear them, none of their insults can penetrate her now, and all she wants is to get this over with. There is no future for her. This will be her end. And as selfish as it may sound, she's glad it is her end. A world without Richard is a bleak world.
She smiles slightly, love's hold around her remains firm, even in the dawn of death.
They're preparing now, and she waits patiently for the signal. It is given, and her body lifts from the ground as her limbs are pulled from four different directions.
She stifles the urge to scream.
She will not let them bask in her pain, this will be her last act of defiance.
In the end, she fails, it is too much to bear. And she leaves the world with a chilling scream of agony from having her body brutally teared apart.
.
19th May 1501
Hever Mansion
The cries of a newborn babe permeates the air, eliciting gasps of relief and cries of delight.
"It's a girl, milady."
The midwife carefully places the baby into her mother's eager embrace, and Elizabeth runs her eyes over the child's form. The shaman woman is right. Elizabeth's unborn child looks just like his father, albeit more feminine. She will grow up to be gorgeous, she's sure, but a beauty much more subtle than the standard English one. It will be the men's lost if they fail to recognize her daughter's pulchritude.
Oh and what foolish men they would be!
The child opens her eyes and Elizabeth's breath leaves her, "Such striking eyes," she whispers in pleasure. The baby's eyes are dark, inviting and curious. Like a ceaseless vortex, sucking you in with every second you look. She has never seen eyes like hooks to the soul. No doubt her baby daughter shall attract people like a fire would to a moth.
"My dearest," Thomas enters the birthing room with a proud smile. Elizabeth has told her beforehand of the shaman's prediction, and is elated at the prospect of having a special daughter in his image.
"Husband, come see her." Thomas moves closer, and the baby's eyes flick towards him. The eyes at first unnerves him, it's deep, like there's something it needs to convey, but then the eerie feeling evaporates.
Thomas places his pinky finger near her daughter, and she surprises him with a strong grip.
He wonders if he had become obsessed with sons, discarding his daughters and their importance, what kind of life would he be living in? What if the only significance he finds in his daughters is for them to bring honors to their family by being a mistress to the king? He shudders, and sends a prayer of gratefulness. He would hate himself very much if that had been the case. He was just glad that love had allowed him to act otherwise.
"A jewel like no other, what shall her name be?"
Elizabeth chuckles when the baby creases her nose as she taps it gently. "Anne. Anne Boleyn."
A/N: The Boleyns are good if you haven't noticed.
Elizabeth Barton is historically the 'Nun of Kent'.
Jocunda is an OC.
The bastard Richard is actually Richard III.
Stop comparing it to history and just enjoy it.
I honestly don't where this will go.