Free From the Indie Side by Indie Side Publishing

unnaturally so. They said his cries for his
Queen Mary could be heard echoing through the halls late at
night.
    They said that the old queen went mad. That
her death was by her own hand. That this king who was to be
Joanna’s husband drove his wife to such ends with his cruelty and
wickedness.
    The priest interrupted Joanna’s thoughts,
murmuring the words which bound these two royal lines, these two
people, Joanna and Stephen, together for eternity. King Stephen
turned and took a necklace from a velvet pillow. He placed it over
Joanna’s head, letting it dangle from her long, pale neck, his
brown eyes still never meeting hers, his face blank and joyless.
His tanned and weathered hand slid a large golden ring with a stone
the color of blood upon her finger. He kissed her chastely upon the
cheek when instructed by the cardinal, his coarse brown beard
scraping against her delicate skin.
    And then the ceremony was done. Their guests
broke out into polite, half-hearted celebration. It was only noise.
All spirit was dead. Keeping her hand atop his, Joanna and this man
made their way through the mirthless court, more actors in a
pageant than new husband and wife.
    Thus begun the rule of The Mad Queen
Joanna.
     
    * *
*
     
    She sat stiffly in her bed waiting for him.
Her long black hair had been braided and arranged by her assigned
handmaidens, every fold of her gown placed, the candles lit so that
they highlighted her beauty and cast the rest in shadow.
    Her uncle swore it would be her head if she
failed in this stately pact of marriage. He controlled her father’s
armies, and so he controlled her. Thus she found herself sitting in
this empty bridal bed waiting unwanted for a king.
    She wondered how many times Stephen came to
this chamber when the old queen was alive. What passion had these
walls seen? What was it about Queen Mary that caused him still to
mourn?
    She knew his advisors used logic to convince
him to take Joanna as his wife. The line of succession was barren
and unclear. “What better way to ensure the peace than to have a
child born with two bloodlines, of north and south, a child to heal
the wounds of a centuries-old rift?” they had urged.
    Her uncle’s face had boiled red when she
refused this plan. “You shall bend to the will of the state or else
find yourself without! The lives of thousands of your subjects
depend upon this. Do you forget your duties to those you lead? Your
anointed duty to protect those who have pledged their lives to you?
You shall win his heart, and if you cannot, we will find a woman
who can!”
    The wind began to blow and howl outside, and
suddenly her window swung open. She leapt up, undoing the enticing
picture her ladies had painted for the king. She reached out and
grabbed the lead-paned glass before it could smash against the
stone of the building and break. She pulled it back into place and
double-checked the latch, then grabbed the purple velvet curtains
and drew them tight.
    As she turned, she caught her reflection in a
looking glass over the dresser. She seemed a stranger. Who was this
woman, she thought to herself, this new queen of the southlands?
She stepped forward. Her face was tired from the travel, tired from
the ceremonies, tired of all.
    “Do you think you can really make this king
love you?” she asked her image, leaning until her nose almost
touched the glass.
    Out of the corner of her eye she spied a dark
figure at the edge of the mirror. The king! She turned quickly. But
no. There was no one there. She looked again at the glass, pressing
her forehead against its cool surface. She was alone. She climbed
into bed, blew out the candle, and pulled the covers to her
neck.
    The wind continued its empty howl.
     
    * *
*
     
    “Did you sleep well, my king?” Joanna asked
Stephen at dinner the next night. The sounds of celebration in the
Great Hall hid her words from prying ears.
    He did not look at her, his eyes glassy and
blank. “I was sure you would be quite