The Magic Mirror

by Susan Hill Long

  “To the princess!” Bertram was forgiven his interruption, and they told Henry and Sebastian of the strange looks Margaret had received, and the odd exchange they’d had at the baker’s stall.

  “They hinted at something unsavory about the princess,” Bertram offered, “and swore Maggie could be her twin.”

  Henry stroked his chin. “Hmmm. A look-alike, eh? Stranger things have happened,” he said.

  “The similarity is quite remarkable,” Sebastian said again, “and I am aware of rumors, but regarding her sanity, I’m in no position to judge.”

  Father Sebastian smiled sadly at Margaret. “Let me tell you what I know of the Princess Petronilla’s tragic young life.” Sebastian told them a tale that any person in Knightsbridge could have done, for though it was frowned upon to speak of it, still it was a story well known in the manner of gossip.

  When old King Ranulph died, the young Queen Isobel and Armand wed happily, and for love. But their love could not last; Armand died in the wars the very day his child was born, a daughter who was called Beatrice. For protection and alliances, Isobel hastily wed again, to Geoffrey, by all accounts Armand’s closest friend; he’d been with Armand when he died. Together Isobel and Geoffrey had a child, Petronilla, and the two daughters, half-sisters, were scarcely a year apart in age. One night the elder daughter fell from a great height atop the castle wall and down, down into the River Severn and was presumed dead, though her body was never recovered. The queen fell ill and died of grief, leaving Petronilla heir to all of Rowne. Her father, now the regent, Lord Geoffrey, would hold the throne until his daughter came of age.

  “I know Geoffrey, and even served him for a time,” Henry said. A storm of emotion had crossed the monk’s face as Sebastian spoke, and now his face darkened. “As young knights we jousted. He was cruel to his mount. I liberated the horse.” He winked at Margaret before glancing heavenward, hands folded piously at his chest. “Another sin for which I must atone.”

  Father Sebastian bowed and took his leave, after offering his assistance with anything they might need.

  Bertram cleared his throat. “If, as we are led to believe, they look alike, the princess and Maggie,” he said, “and the two are near enough in age as well…” Bertram’s voice trailed off. “Maggie doesn’t know her true history. Could it be that—”

  “The child fell into the river, Bertram, presumed dead—”

  “But never found, Henry, never found—”

  “It’s too unlikely, Bertie, too unlikely by half.”

  “You’ve said yourself the Lord moves in mysterious ways—”

  “His wonders to reveal, yes, but—”

  Margaret sat very still and let their words flow over her. Her blood pulsed in her temples, and she felt a two-pronged stab of fear and anticipation. Was it possible? she wondered. Could she be…someone?

  They supped early on thin soup and thick slices of rye provided by the priests, and Brother Henry put down his traveling cloak on a pallet in the lady chapel, where they would sleep in the company of other pilgrims. Beside him was a stub of candle, and he sat on his cloak and bent over a Bible.

  “Brother Henry,” said Bertram, “Maggie and I are going to take a stroll about the city.”

  Henry barely looked up, but raised a hand and mumbled, “Mind you’re back before curfew.”

  They walked out of the chapel and heard another exhortation from Henry. “And don’t go to the castle! It’s trouble, Bertram, to entertain your fancy—trouble!”

  They passed through the huge open nave of the cathedral, and Margaret saw at the end of it, filling the west end of the edifice, the great round window. She realized she was seeing, from inside, the same window visible from the wild-eyed man’s chamber. Where must he live?

  “Bertram,” she said as soon as they’d left the church, “there’s a little light left in the evening; let’s explore in the other direction. I want to see what’s on the other side of the cathedral.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said hastily. “Won’t that be soon enough?”

  “But—”

  “Come on, let’s go to the castle,” he insisted.

  “Brother Henry said—”

  “Yes, but these royals, sometimes they make an appearance at the close of day, greet the populace, toss out some bread, that sort of thing,” he was saying, all the while fairly pulling Margaret along. “No harm in looking, no trouble there.”

  “All right,” she said, laughing, “all right! To the castle!”

  They made their way through streets narrow and wide till they came to Castle Street, and followed it from there straight to the gate in the wall that ringed the castle grounds. They looked up at the top of the wall, and beyond that the tops of the castle towers, and, rising above that, the castle keep.

  They stood. They waited.

  “I’ve half a mind to storm the gate,” Bertram muttered after they’d stood a long while.

  Margaret turned and pulled up her sleeves and thrust her arms to her elbows in the fountain outside the castle wall. She hadn’t skill to braid and coil her hair like a lady, but she quickly raked her fingers through her hair from scalp to ends, and fixed a lock behind one ear with her little horn comb.

  “Might we”—Margaret shrugged, shaking out her sleeves—“knock?”

  “Yes, let’s.” Bertram pantomimed knocking at a door. He cleared his throat to address an imaginary someone.

  “Sir, we have come”—he gestured to Margaret—“my good companion and I, at this late hour”—he faced the invisible gate again—“to gain audience with Her Majesty. What business, you ask? Er, why it’s a matter both personal and private, at once peculiar and propitious. Do you not see that my companion could be a royal twin? Blasphemy, you say? Off with their heads, you say? Nonsense. Now let us in. Stand aside.” Hands on hips, Bertie turned slowly and looked at Margaret.

  Margaret turned now to explain their presence at the imaginary gate. “Yes, it is true we are filthy, and my companion did fart just now as loud as Minka Pottentott, and though I am lame, what of it? He sings like an angel, and I…I…” She searched for what she might say she was—“I…”—and failed.

  “By the Mary, she is a mystery worth solving!” Bertram said with feeling to the guard who was not there. He turned to her, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “I sing like an angel, do I?” he teased.

  Margaret flushed, and was saved from further embarrassment by the night that seemed to come down around them as sudden as a shutter darkens a room, and by the sound of an approaching ruckus.

  A group of rowdies came tumbling toward the entrance to the castle grounds. At the same time, the bells rang announcing curfew, and a pair of guards laughingly prodded the stumbling drunkards.

  “You rascals been at the ale again, I see,” said one of the guards, his falchion at rest but ready in a scabbard across his back. “Look sharp, now, Edgar. Jem, there’s a good lad. Best get you in before we close the gate on you and lock you in the dungeon!”

  The other guard laughed coarsely. “Your wife won’t take kindly to that, now, will she, Edgar?”

  “Or better yet, we might do his missus a favor and shut him out, eh?” The guards laughed again.

  Bertram squeezed Margaret’s arm. “Follow me, Maggie,” he whispered. “We’ll go in with this lot.”

  “But…curfew!”

  Bertram shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Then, just as he’d done the first time she’d laid eyes on him, and again when he’d rescued her from John Book’s camp, he winked.

  Oh well, then, Margaret thought, flushing with a mix of annoyance and amusement. She huddled beside Bertram and moved as gracefully and unobtrusively as was possible. Bertram pulled his hat low across his brow and began to sing a drinking song.

  “Doll, doll thy ale, doll thy ale!”

  The others sang along heartily, and Bertram and Margaret joined the band of rowdy men and passed through without detection. The heavy gates closed shut beh
ind them. They were inside the castle.

  The castle walls protected not just one, but an assembly of buildings. The enclosure was about a hundred yards across, and at the left was a cluster of low buildings. There was a well in the middle of the courtyard. Opposite the gate, rising above the ramparts on the far side, was the great column of the keep. And at the right, taking up most of the enclosure, was an enormous stone palace. A liveried servant was beginning to light lanterns here and there, and Margaret watched his movements warily.

  They entered the palace house by way of the kitchen shed, a merry, singing band. Margaret peeked at Bertram from under her hood and raised her eyebrows: What now?

  Just then, a harried-looking woman stopped the carousers by thrusting a laden tray in their direction.

  “Oh, Maynard, not again, you drunken sod! And me fit to be tied, with Her Majesty in a stink as usual! ‘I don’t care for the soup,’ she says, and ‘I don’t care for the roast lamb,’ she says! ‘Bring me supper in my room,’ she says!” With each explosion of words the woman tipped the large tray, threating to dump its contents—steaming crocks and stewed meats and crystal stems—across the stone floor. “And now you show up here reeking like a brewery!”

  In answer the man called Maynard leaned toward her, turned his head to the side, and vomited.

  “Gack!” the woman cried. She turned and shoved the tray into Bertram’s arms. “Are you drunk?” she demanded of him.

  Bertram shook his head. “No, missus!” he said, while Margaret made herself small in the shadows behind him.

  “Then take this to her chambers. Hurry, now! Knock hard at the door and wait.”

  Then she spun round to Maynard and stuck a bucket over his head.

  “Shoo, then!” she shot back at Bertram over her shoulder.

  “I’m not—” Bertram began.

  “Up the passage, up the second stairway, through the arch, second doorway—now shoo! Shoo!” she snapped, and returned her attentions to Maynard.

  Margaret slipped ahead of Bertram so that she would be hidden by his form, and they hurried away with the tray. No one gave Margaret so much as a glance, though her heart pounded so, she was sure the noise of it would draw attention. Gratefully, she noticed that the action of her crutch was near silent, wood upon stone. They followed the kitchen maid’s directions and found what they hoped was the door to Petronilla’s chambers.

  Margaret’s knock on the heavy wooden door sounded with more bravery than she felt. “I am Margaret Church,” she whispered. “I am Margaret Church.” Blast it, how had she got this far, and why had she gone along with Bertram’s wild hare? There was bravery, and then there was stupidity. But then there came a voice.

  “Come!”

  Bertram pushed open the door.

  There, across the chamber, stood Princess Petronilla. She was a bit taller than Margaret. Her hair was fair, parted in the center and wound round in a ramshorn coil above each ear. She wore a gown of glorious blue brocade with scarlet laces up the sleeves, a close-fitting tunic of yellow linen over the top. Her fingers dazzled with rings, and she held in her arms a large white rabbit. And her shoes! Peeking from under her gown were two slippers fashioned of spotless silk and beaded all over with pearls.

  But what captivated Margaret most was her face. It was true. They were alike as…sisters. Margaret stood unmoving at the threshold of the chamber, legs gone to lead and mind to mush. She wanted to hide within her hood and never mind any of this madness, and at the same time she prayed the lady would look and see for herself the remarkable likeness between them. But in the manner of royalty, Petronilla was not even glancing at her supposed servants.

  The princess waved a white hand to a table. “Put it there,” she said. Now Bertram looked feelingly at Margaret, and she roused herself to enter the chamber and close the door behind her. Her stomach turned to butterflies, fluttering thickly and rising in her throat.

  Petronilla glided to an ornate hutch, fresh herbs among the rushes on the floor giving off a good scent with each step of her slippered feet. She opened the door, kissed the rabbit’s nose, and settled the pet inside. Then she crossed to a little table, lowered herself gracefully into a dainty chair beside it, and began to write. The goose feather bobbled with the speed and passion of her words, and Margaret wondered what words those might be. Without looking up from the vellum, Petronilla said, “Why are you still here? You may go.” The voice was final.

  But Margaret couldn’t go, not when she’d come upon such a strange coincidence. Margaret Quest would not turn and go. Wrapping her cloak more tightly about her, by which she concealed leg and crutch, she glanced at Bertram for courage.

  “I am Marg—” Margaret’s name froze in her throat.

  Petronilla’s quill stopped dead at the sound of Margaret’s voice, and she snapped her gaze to Margaret, cold as stone.

  “You would dare speak?”

  Margaret’s mouth went dry. Why had she let Bertie talk her into coming to the castle? Why hadn’t she simply gone and looked for the wild-eyed man? Was she afraid to find him? She’d be wiser to fear the princess—the baker said she’d have their heads!

  Margaret took a deep breath and tried again. “Highness, I am Marg—”

  Petronilla stood abruptly and pointed a regal finger, first at Margaret, then at Bertram. “What are you doing in my chambers? Did Miriam send you?”

  Bertram shot a look at Margaret, still shadowed by her heavy hood.

  “I am Maggot!” Margaret blurted.

  Petronilla turned to her, mouth slack with surprise. For a moment there was no sound but a soft rustling from the rabbit hutch. Then Petronilla tipped her head back and laughed.

  “Oh, ha-ha! Maggot, yes! Maggot, I like that!”

  Margaret’s cheeks burned furiously and she glared at the princess.

  “Show her,” Bertram whispered. “Show her your face.”

  “Fine.” Margaret yanked her hood from her head. “Feast your eyes, Princess.”

  Petronilla’s brow creased in confusion, rude laughter dying on her lips.

  Now that she had Her Royalship’s full attention, Margaret was glad her long cloak concealed her crutch and twisted leg.

  Petronilla stood very still. Her eyes widened, and then she seemed all at once to shrink, for one hand went across her middle, the other to her lips, and she gave a gasp that was barely audible.

  Bertram took a step. “So you see it too, Your Majesty, how you”—he inclined his head—“and Margaret here”—he gestured to her—“well, you’re alike as two peas!” he said brightly. “Is it not a wonder?”

  Petronilla once more went rigid and regal. “You must be mad. To suggest that she—that she and I—that there is some resemblance—” Petronilla scoffed, turning to Margaret and looking her up and down. “You smell of dung! You’re a disgusting ruffian, and a sneak, and yes, quite possibly insane!” She bit her lip. “Yes! More insane than I!”

  “But—surely, Princess, you can see—” Margaret said, pointing to her own face. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. What was the worst that could happen if she pressed her point?

  Suddenly Petronilla ran across the chamber and threw open the door. “Guards!” she shrieked. “Father! Intruders!”

  Ah. That could happen.

  Heavy feet thundered down the hall. Triumphant, Petronilla turned in the open doorway. “You see? They come at my call. They’ll lock you up and swallow the key!”

  Bertram held out his hand to Margaret; she reached for him, stumbled, and her cloak fell open. Petronilla took in the crooked leg and the crutch; the cold smile slipped. She looked at Margaret’s face, her gaze lingered there, and then she fell against one side of the doorframe, collapsing as if punched in the stomach. Her gaze searched Margaret’s face, her leg, her face again.

  Footsteps pounded closer. “Your Highness!” came a deep cry.

  Petronilla glanced behind her out into the hallway. Then all at once she swung round, slammed the great d
oor shut, and threw the bolt. She ran to Margaret and grabbed her arm roughly.

  “You’ll hurt her!” said Bertram.

  Quick fingers darted, pulling Margaret’s hair. Petronilla’s purpose became clear—she tugged Margaret’s horn comb from her head and held it inches from her nose. “Where did you get this?” she hissed.

  “My comb? I—I’ve always had it,” Margaret said. Alarm coursed through her veins, and she grabbed for the comb. Petronilla snatched it out of reach and held it high in one hand. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean!”

  “He told me you were dead!” Petronilla whispered, explaining nothing. “He told me that I—” She shuddered.

  “That you what?” demanded Bertram. “What are you talking about?”

  Petronilla pitched Margaret’s comb to the floor and held up her hands. “I don’t understand,” she said, backing away. “I don’t understand any of this, I tell you!”

  Fists banged on the door.

  “Hide!” Petronilla said, her voice urgent and low.

  Margaret looked about in a fever. Through the rounded archway was an alcove, but no cover, and no door but the one they’d come in, and upon which now came urgent knocking.

  Petronilla pushed them roughly toward the bed. They fell upon red silk and pillows. Heavy bed-curtains that draped to the floor enclosed them. They heard the rustle of Petronilla’s garments as she went toward the door.

  “Quick, Maggie!” Bertram whispered. They slipped down over the edge of the bed and huddled side by side underneath its carved wooden frame. At the last moment Bertram tugged her crutch, and it too disappeared beneath the bed.

  “Danger, Bertie!” Margaret whispered hotly against Bertram’s ear. “And probably death!” He shook his head to shush her.

  Petronilla unbolted the door and let the men inside.

  “It was no one, Father,” Petronilla said, pretending petulance. She settled her skirt and patted her hair, addressing a tall man, lean and balding, dressed in a quilted doublet and rich brocade. His beak of a nose and the hunch of his shoulders gave him a birdlike aspect. “Father, I fear I’m on the verge of one of my fits.”