From the Indie Side by Indie Side Publishing Page A

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