From the Indie Side

by Indie Side Publishing

  She decided this must be her course of action.

  That evening, when her toilet was done, she turned to her ladies and said, “Begone. The king visits me tonight and I’ll not have you here.”

  They curtseyed deeply and stepped backward out of the room. When they were gone, Joanna did not wait. She grabbed a shawl to cover her nightdress and protect her from the cold. She pushed aside the tapestry to a hidden door in the wall, a door kept secret for those nights her husband might come, or she might need to escape and fly.

  Swiftly, she ran down the hallway, her black hair streaming behind her, her lamp flickering in her hand until she was outside the king’s chambers. There, she blew out her flame and waited for him to emerge.

  When he did, his face looked so ragged and worn that humanity and compassion would urge her to rush to his side in comfort, to reach out to him as her lord and master and ease the burden he carried.

  But she did not. The threat to her life if she did not capture his heart stilled her lips.

  Instead, she waited until darkness swallowed her, then she skulked in the shadows, following the bobbing light of his candle. He glanced neither right nor left, but walked swiftly as if on a mission. He did not even pause to see if there was someone matching his steps.

  He stopped before a door and withdrew the key from his belt. Carefully, he fitted it into the lock, pausing a moment with his hands leaning against the planks, his eyes closed in exhaustion, before he pushed it open and entered.

  Joanna ran behind him, placing her hand upon the door as he shut it so that the latch did not catch. Then she pushed it open just a crack and looked in.

  The room was like a private chapel filled with holy icons. The king knelt upon a velvet prayer stool, his hands clasped and his head bowed. But he did not pray to the gods. Surrounding him, on every wall, were portraits of the dead queen gazing down upon him.

  The blood in Joanna’s veins curdled. Queen Mary looked just like her. Her hair. Her eyes. The shape of their faces was the same. They could have been sisters, twins even. Joanna backed slowly away.

  Whose face did this king see when he looked into her eyes? And if it was a face which reminded him so much of this woman that he loved, that he longed for, why was he so repulsed? What happened to cause such guilt that he barred himself from Joanna’s bed?

  As she walked back to her room, the wind began howling across the flat and barren land around the castle. Joanna wrapped her shawl tightly around her arms as a draft swept through the hallway, chilling her to the bone.

  The wind picked up. It seemed to follow her steps and match her stride for stride. It whistled through the cracks in the windows and the nooks of the stone. It chased her down the passage, accusing her of her trespass upon the king. And then, there was a sound that made Joanna stop.

  “Staaaaay awaaaaay…” the voice whispered.

  Joanna spun.

  No one was there.

  “Make yourself known!” she demanded, her voice wavering.

  The wind continued to howl, but no one revealed themselves.

  Joanna’s heart pounded as fear tore through her.

  The wind gathered strength again and with it came the same voice. “Staaaaay awaaaay…” it said again.

  Joanna backed down the hall, peering into the darkness to see who taunted her. Suddenly, there was someone beside her! She turned. And could have laughed. It was her own reflection. Her own reflection! She placed her hand upon her heart. It was a looking glass hanging on the wall, and the face looking back at her was her own.

  And then the wind stopped.

  The face in the mirror was not her own. It was a face like hers—but not hers. It was the face she had seen in the portraits in King Stephen’s secret chamber.

  “STAY AWAY!” Queen Mary screamed from inside the mirror.

  Later, Joanna was found unconscious in the middle of the hallway with no sign of what the trouble might be. Her ladies helped her to bed, whispering that the king must have driven her fearfully from her chamber, perhaps terrified her to the point of exhaustion. They clucked and tended to her, but Joanna could not tell them what had happened. They would think her mad, just like their former queen. And indeed, Joanna thought, they would be right.

  At last tucked into her own bed, her lamp was extinguished and she closed her eyes to sleep.

  But her dreams were fitful, full of colors and shapes that crushed her. A razor voice pierced her eardrum like a needle. She needed to escape. She needed to get away. Suddenly, she was walking along the parapets of the castle. The inky sky was before her.

  She was all alone.

  Except she wasn’t. There was someone there. A woman. A queen.

  Queen Mary was suddenly before her. She stood there, this woman with Joanna’s face, but with burning eyes. Her gown was the color of midnight. Her black hair blew free. She pointed out into the dark void of the air.

  “Jump to your death!” the queen commanded. Her voice brooked no denial.

  Joanna could not back away, could not fight or protest.

  “Jump and die!” the queen commanded once more.

  Unwillingly, Joanna’s feet stepped up onto the parapet. The ground below was calling sweetly to her to leap into thin air, to shatter her bones in its embrace.

  “Jump!” said the queen a third time.

  Joanna placed her leg out, ready to take the final step, when strong arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her back to safety.

  And that was when she realized her eyes were open and she was awake. She was at the top of the palace wall, being held down by a guard, his heavy chainmail pressing into her skin. It had been real. She had been standing on top of the parapet. And if it had not been for the guard who had caught her just as her feet betrayed her, she would have leapt to her death just as she had been commanded in the dream.

  And so she wept, clinging to the stone of the battlement like a pilgrim baptizing holy ground with her grateful tears.

  And so the guards began to whisper that King Stephen had driven one more queen mad.

  * * *

  “Why?” Stephen asked, his face full of confusion as Joanna stood before him like an accused prisoner the next day. The throne room was empty so that only they were witness to their words. His crown sat heavily upon his limp curls. “What would cause you to so sin against yourself and the gods? Why would you seek death in the dead of night?”

  “It was not my doing,” said Joanna, trying to explain. “It was only a dream.”

  “Your words are just like hers!” he burst out, his voice pleading at her to change her story, to tell him some other truth. “Why would you choose to mimic the path of a woman who caused my heart so much pain and harm?”

  His words chilled her. “I did not know that she perished this way,” insisted Joanna. “It was not my intention… It was a dream. It was just a dream.”

  “Have I been cruel? Have I been demanding or unkind? I stayed away from you,” Stephen shouted impotently, “because I feared that I was the cause, I was the reason that she ended herself, and I did not wish to push you to such dire ends!” He placed his forehead in his hand and Joanna did not know if it was rage or despair which caused his shoulders to tremble. He seemed trapped in the memories of what had happened before. “Why would history repeat itself?” he asked to no one. “I have done everything different. I have walked the exact opposite path. Perhaps it is my own inattention which has caused you so much grief…”

  “Nay…” she began.

  He looked up at her, his brown eyes burning with remorse. “I shall give you all the riches you could ever desire,” he promised. “I shall shower you with wealth and joy! But you must not sin against yourself again!”

  And the next day, her room was filled with jewels and gold. New gowns were laid upon the bed. Birds and monkeys and every delight were brought before her to try and make her smile.

  But when she went to bed, the dream returned. Her feet were upon the walkway. Her legs ca
rried her to the top of the castle parapet. And once more, it was a guard who saved her from jumping to her death.

  As she was carried back to her room, she caught the face of Queen Mary scraping the inside of the mirror, trying to break through.

  “Staaaaay awaaaaay!” the queen hissed.

  The next day and the next, the pleasures and gifts doubled. They were piled at her feet for the taking. Carriage horses. Hunting parties. Acrobats. New fools. New ladies. The rights of her people stolen in the war, restored. Sacred land was returned to northern rule.

  And yet every night she found herself upon the parapet. No matter how many ladies slept in watch, no matter how many bolts were thrown in the door, her feet found a way to begin the death march.

  The advisors began to whisper that her madness was caused by want of motherhood, that a child would calm her hysteria.

  Finally, King Stephen said at the morning meal, “I shall come to you this evening. I shall fulfill my duties as your husband and king.” And then he got up and left the table, a man condemned.

  Joanna could have wept. Finally. King Stephen’s actions would protect her from her uncle, her life would be preserved, her promise fulfilled. She had wooed him. And perhaps, she tried to comfort herself, this madness had been brought by the knowledge of her impending death at her uncle’s hand if she did not capture this king. Perhaps the advisors were right and the solution was a child. Perhaps, once this night was done, she would fear looking in a mirror no more.

  She waited anxiously for night to fall.

  When King Stephen entered her chambers, her lady-maids politely excused themselves and scattered.

  Stephen’s face was pained. Joanna knew from his nightly visits to his queen’s chapel that he did not wish to be in the room with her. But she did not care. She would see it through, no matter what the cost to Stephen. She would do whatever it took to stop the dead queen’s curse. He began unlacing his doublet. Joanna waited. And then she looked into her mirror and screamed.

  It was her face. Queen Mary’s face. She was coming out of the glass. The mirror wept scarlet. And that was when Joanna realized that when Stephen had sworn anyone who might follow him at night would die, it was not by his hand. It was by hers, by his Mary, his jealous Mary. It was her hand which kept him bound to death.

  “STAY AWAY!” Queen Mary screamed, her voice mingling with Joanna’s terror.

  The king turned, scanning the room for the danger that caused her fear.

  “The Queen!” Joanna said, her hand trembling as she pointed at the mirror. “The Queen!” she cried out again.

  Stephen’s face paled as he shook his head disbelievingly. “What?”

  “She is there!” Joanna sobbed. “Right there!”

  Stephen shook his head, as if waking from a dream or a spell. He swiftly tied his garments and strode out of the room, leaving Joanna alone with nothing but the mirror.

  “Staaaaaay awaaaaay…” Queen Mary hissed.

  Joanna’s ladies rushed inside to calm her hysteria, to stroke her hair and murmur words of comfort, but it was no use.

  The blood that dripped from the mirror did not disappear.

  And in the morning, the broken body of one of Joanna’s ladies was found upon the ground outside the castle. The whispers began that the madness of Queen Joanna was catching, a poison which would invade the mind and lead to death.

  But Joanna knew the truth. It was not her, but the queen in the mirror, who caused these terrible deeds.

  Her girl’s death was Queen Mary’s revenge.

  And it would never end. She knew it. It would never stop. Mary would never allow her husband to move on. The wedding would have to be annulled if either of them hoped to survive. And so Joanna strode into the throne room where her husband held court. Her ebony hair hung loose and unbrushed. The ties on her clothing were held as best she had been able to do herself. She did not care. It could not wait. His advisors and attendants were busy discussing matters in the cavernous hall and paid her no mind. She walked up to Stephen on his dais, not pausing to curtsey or even acknowledge his place with a tilt of her head. Instead, she gripped his arm fiercely.

  “Your wife is alive,” Joanna said, knowing he would not believe her.

  The king looked at her as if she were a raving madwoman. “What did you say?”

  At the sound of his voice, the entire room stopped and looked at the royal couple.

  “I said,” Joanna answered, lowering her voice, “That your old wife is alive.”

  Her words struck him like a blow to the face. “How could that possibly be?” said King Stephen, pity in his eyes. “If she is alive, where is she?”

  Joanna wet her lips. “She lives in the mirrors of the palace.”

  The court broke out into titters, and then into guffaws, and then gales of laughter.

  “I speak the truth,” she insisted, hot tears of embarrassment coming to her. “She has bewitched you, my liege. She lives in the mirror and will stop at nothing to destroy us.”

  “My wife,” he replied slowly and succinctly, so that there would be no misunderstanding his seriousness, “is dead. And, the gods rest her blessed soul, she would never seek to destroy a woman so unworthy to be her successor as you. You will never speak to me about this again.”

  “But my liege—”

  “NEVER!” he roared.

  Her face burning with shame, she swiftly left the room with the few shreds of dignity that she could gather around herself.

  How could he not believe her? How could he not see that his dead wife would drive them both to an early grave?

  “Leeeeeave hiiiimmmm allllooooone!” hissed the queen as Joanna passed by a mirror.

  Joanna looked around and found a pedestal. With all her strength, she lifted it and hurled it at the mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

  The courtiers in the hallway stopped. Silence descended as they all stared in shock.

  “GO ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS!” she screamed at them, and then ran on down the hall, brushing the wetness from her cheeks.

  She grabbed a servant who was scurrying by. “You must remove every bit of gold, every bit of glass. Cover every mirror. Sand every piece of wood to dullness! Nothing can remain which will show a face in its surface!”

  “My queen?” the servant stuttered, unsure.

  “Am I or am I not your queen?” she roared. “You will do as I command!”

  The servant bowed and then ran to spread word of her edict.

  The whispers now began that this mad queen was a pious woman and wanted not the trappings of royalty. People’s hearts began to soften, thinking that it was their own suffering that caused her to suffer so. But the king, finding his golden goblet replaced with a wooden cup, upended the table in the banquet hall and decreed that only gold and silver fill his house. And he called for his own personal physician to look in upon the queen.

  His men held Joanna down upon her bed as a black-robed man peered into her eyes, bled her from her arms and legs, placed leeches upon her temples, and found no solution.

  “She seems to be bent upon self-harm,” said the court physician to King Stephen. “There is little else I can do.”

  “I do not wish myself harm!” Joanna insisted, struggling against the strong hands restraining her, begging for them to listen to her and believe. “The queen is alive and drives me to my death!”

  The physician took Stephen aside. “She raves. Perhaps a priest should be called to hear her confession, in case she has been possessed by an evil spirit,” the physician suggested.

  “Please,” Joanna whispered. “Please, do. Anything!” she begged.

  But the priest merely looked at her and shook his head. He anointed her. He assured her he had chased out the demons and that she was now safe. But as he touched her forehead, the walls of the room ran red. Blood pooled upon the floor, ankle-deep. The face of the queen was everywhere. “Jooooannnna!” she cried. “Jooooaaaannnna!” she said a thousand times.

>   Joanna screamed for help.

  “Please,” King Stephen begged, kneeling at her side. “Please return to me.” He took her hand tenderly, and for the first time, she saw love in his eyes.

  And she knew what she must do to save him.

  That night, it was not in a dream that Joanna walked up the steps. It was not by the force of a dead queen that her feet carried her to the battlement. She looked and waited until the guard had already passed by. And then, when all was silent, she stepped from the top of the wall out into the quiet.

  As the ground rushed toward her, she heard the queen’s cry.

  As the pain, the blackness, the end engulfed her… she woke to find herself in a room exactly like her bedchambers.

  Joanna stood, her heart broken, knowing that she had not escaped. She walked over to the mirror. But this time, there was no reflection. Instead, it was like a window peering into a room, a room that seemed to be a mirror image of the one she now found herself in. It was her own room. The Queen’s chambers.

  And then Stephen entered.

  He did not seem to see her, and so Joanna pounded upon the glass to get his attention. “Stephen! Stephen, can you hear me?”

  But he did not turn. He did not acknowledge her. He just walked into the room with a girl who looked just like Joanna on his arm. She was dressed in a wedding gown of gold and white. Tenderly, he kissed her cheek before leading her to the bed.

  Just then, Joanna saw something by her left hand. A note upon the dressing table, the note from her uncle that the advisor passed to her a lifetime ago, which she had cast down. After all this time, it still waited. But the unintelligible words on the front were suddenly not just scribbles. In her uncle’s looping scrawl, it said, “Joanna, you shall know when to open this.”

  She picked it up and broke her uncle’s seal and read: “And so vengeance for your father’s death is meted out. His curse shall break King Stephen. All that ever touch his heart with love shall be driven mad and taken from him. And so I thank you for fulfilling your duty, sweet niece. Your affectionate uncle.”