by Unknown
“My queen,” he stated, bowing low. “There is great threat to the kingdom and I am afraid that you alone are the key to the stability of the throne.”
“Pray, tell you, what is this great threat?” Joanna asked.
“There is no heir…” he replied, awkward and uncomfortably.
“Ah,” she replied, folding her hands and resting them upon the front of her wide, golden skirt. “And so I promise you that my door has never been barred to the king. These words of caution and request must fall upon his ears.”
“Nay, my queen, we have advised him such, and he still is unable to part with the thought of his past wife. I know you women have wiles and ways to trick even the most chaste man to fall to his knees. I pray you, use such tools to sway him.”
“You forget, sir, that I, too, had no desire for this marriage. It was brokered by my uncle, and if a childless family is what this bond brings, it rests entirely upon your head,” she replied.
“Nay,” said the advisor, neatly arranging the sleeves of his coat before meeting her eyes, “I am afraid it is not my head that shall pay the price if you do not fulfill your duties.”
Her blood turned cold in her veins. “What?” Joanna asked. “Do you threaten me, sir?”
He withdrew a folded slip of paper from his sleeve and passed it to her. The words on the front were gibberish, but she did not have to break the wax seal to know who sent it.
The advisor informed her anyway. “A message from your uncle.”
Fear made her hand tremble. Her uncle had seemed so bent upon revenge for her father’s death, but then he betrayed her and forged this marriage contract. What cruel command did he send now? She bravely held out the message for the advisor to take back, her heart pounding. “You shall have to bring up this matter with the king.”
He merely bowed. “Nay, it falls to you, my queen, to bring up such matters with His Royal Highness. Remind him that his duty did not end with the end of his Queen Mary. So many lives depend upon it.” His voice dripped with insinuation before he backed away and left.
She stared at the advisor until he turned the corner and was gone. How she hated him. How she hated her uncle. How her loathing burned.
She strode into her room and threw her uncle’s note onto her dressing table, unread, not wanting to know the words it contained.
She stared at herself in the glass, gripping the gilt edges of the mirror. Could she turn this king? Could she melt his heart of stone to look upon her when she herself wanted it even less? Could she sway this king to save her own life?
She thought she caught a reflection of something out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced back, there was nothing there.
Ah! she thought. Her mind would give her any distraction to keep her from this decision. But the distractions were imaginary. Nothing could forestall this forever.
She looked back at the note and breathed deeply. She would see it was done. Whether she touched King Stephen’s heart or merely his loins, she would bind him to her and do what was demanded.
But how? she wondered.
If she was to know this man, know this enemy, she must discover his secrets, she decided. Where did he go each night when he dismissed all his guard and threatened death to any that might follow him? Surely he would not condemn his new bride if she was to see where he crept? What if there was some other secret he held and these pinings for a dead queen were nothing but a ruse? What if there was some secret she could use to gain his confidence, or to hold as power over him until he granted her the required child?
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 voi
ce 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 carried 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.
