The Favoured Fall - Daydream_for_free - The Mortal Instruments Series (2024)

Chapter 1: Inevitabilities

Chapter Text

PART ONE: PAWNS (1536-1537)

"Love sought is good, but given unsought is better"

William Shakespeare

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Chapter 1: Inevitabilities

Convent of the Holy Cross, Broceland Forest, Idris, April 1536

Pale, neat hands flew over dark damask as Clary smoothed down the skirt of her dress yet again. She knew she'd brushed it down impeccably before putting it on, but she was nervous. When she got anxious, she needed something for her hands to do.

She longed to draw. To lose herself in the comforting rasp of charcoal over canvas. To translate her innermost imaginings into sight.

Any distraction from this interminable waiting would be welcome.

But her sketching papers had been the first thing packed away. Persuading her mother to let her take them at all had been a battle.

Agitation continuing to gnaw at her, Clary shot to her feet and began to pace the small room that had been hers for as long as she could remember. It was now plucked bare of every sign of her existence.

Well, everything except for the long-limbed boy who slumped by the window, plucking idly at the strings of his lute.

Technically men were strictly prohibited from the convent grounds. But Simon was more of a boy. And his mother lived in the village, so a blind eye was generally turned to his presence. He'd mastered staying out of the way of the sisters and novices by now.

For the past decade he and Clary had romped around the surrounding fields and forest seeking games and adventures. The two were quite inseparable, to the degree that Clary's mother and the nuns had given up on trying to keep them apart.

"I don't believe pacing is any remedy," Simon stated dryly, regarding Clary from under his fringe.

Clary shot her oldest and dearest friend an unamused look.

Her restlessness likely was becoming unbearable. But Clary could feel little else besides racing anxiety and her heart banging at her ribs. Underneath the sprawl of her skirts, much bulkier and thicker than she was used to, Clary was trembling.

Her childhood had ended abruptly just yesterday morning.

She'd been summoned by her mother; finding her hunched over a letter with tear-dampened cheeks.

The astonishment of seeing Jocelyn in a state of poor composure had halted Clary in her tracks. She'd loitered outside the door to her room, not with the intention of eavesdropping, necessarily, but holding her breath nonetheless.

They were, she'd surmised instantly, discussing her.

"Clary is not yet ready."

"Jocelyn, I believe she was rather born ready."

The nuns did not bother with Jocelyn's titles and graces either, but to hear an unfamiliar man address her mother with such forward familiarity, had peaked Clary's sharp curiosity.

"You must have known taking her here would only amount to avoidance, not an escape. You like to pretend you make your own moves and deal your own hand, but we both know that isn't the case. Clary is the King's daughter. It is he who will decide her future."

"Oh, I have made more moves than Valentine would care to admit," Jocelyn retorted, "And I do still. But you are right in one respect, Luke. If she's to have a stake in the game, the girl needs to start playing."

That ominous sentence urged Clary to shove open the door fully and make her presence known.

She'd thrown a half concerned, half curious glance at the intruder. Her mother had kept the high walls of the convent between Clary and the outside world since she'd been very little, so any interference from beyond sparked both curiosity and unease. Jocelyn had also instilled in Clary a fierce mistrust of strangers, especially those who dressed like nobles. The man she now knew to be Lord Graymark had surveyed her in return; just as intensely with a strange expression of expectancy and then something in his light blue eyes that could have been sorrow. He'd tried for an unconvincing smile as he'd sketched her a bow.

"Princess." Luke had been the first to greet Clary with a title she'd always held, but never been addressed by here.

Jocelyn had not bothered with any such pleasantries. She punched out a few short sentences to bring Clary abreast of the changes, waving the wrinkled letter in her hand. The broken seal it bore was of a crowned angel. Her father's seal.

"You have been summoned to court, daughter" Her mother had stated bluntly, in a hoarse voice. Jocelyn's free hand had then shot out to grasp her only daughter's face. "I cannot excuse you, Clary. I cannot refuse the Clave and King's Council. I had hopes they would forget you child, at least for a while longer. I suppose the King would have me be grateful for keeping you this long."

"What use would the King have for me at his court?" Clary had enquired, wanting to ask why Valentine would send for her now, when she hadn't seen her father in a decade. She'd not dared be forthright, not with an unknown third party in the room.

Jocelyn had not hastened to answer her. Clary would forever remember how the fire snapped petulantly in the silence. It shot out some meagre glowing sparks which rattled onto the cold flagstone floor. They had beamed momentarily before lapsing into nothing inches from Clary's hem.

"You are of a marriageable age now, Clary."

The pronouncement had sent a clanging, stunning dread through Clary that had yet to abate. She had no intention of marrying anyone. She didn'tknowanyone, no men anyway. None bar Simon. Getting married had never really occurred to her. It seemed preposterous to Clary that it should have occurred to anyone.

Her life was here, at the convent. With the sisters she knew. With her mother.

She had tried to tell Jocelyn as much. At which point her mother lost her grip on a thin patience.

"I took you away from that throne, but I cannot keep you from it. Nor will I deny who and what you are. You are not some idle milkmaid who can make her life in the fields, Clary! You are a Morgenstern! The blood beating in your veins is that of kings! Royal blood that is precious! Blood to which you have a duty- a duty to your kingdom and your people!"

The lecture, from Jocelyn, the runaway queen, had sapped Clary's patience in turn. Her temper, her defiance had demanded a voice. She had not cared who heard as she'd shot back, "I have no kingdom, nor people! There is no world to me, not beyond these walls! You ensured it!"

Her mother had sprang up and gripped her under the chin pulling Clary close. Their chests had heaved together, almost touching.

"You know why I took you away Clary."

It had not been a question, but Clary knew the reply she must give. Unable to contain an edge of bitterness she had replied, "To protect me."

The anger had seeped from Jocelyn's ferocious jade gaze. Her tone grew darker as she insisted, more to herself than her daughter. "You will see. When you see your court and your capital you will understand why I did it. You will also understand what is needed from you."

Jocelyn's shoulders sagged. For so long Clary's mother had been relentless with her. She had always been icy pragmatism and steely insistence as she oversaw Clary's education personally; in her need for near constant control of where her daughter went and what she did. Clary had come to understand it as the paranoia of an aging queen who had fled her husband and her court. She had never been able to see what it was Jocelyn still felt she was running from. Now, Clary began to wonder if her mother had in fact been driving her in pursuit of something. Of whatever came next.

This morning, as Clary paced her little room by way of farewell, her mother's parting words rang clear in her ears: "Do not resist this, Clary. It has always been inevitable. Be brave. Be strong. But above all, be careful. You could well be the last hope Idris has."

As the moment of departure drew nearer, Clary had only her mother's confusing and disconcerting words to occupy her mind as she waited for her escort to return. That and Simon's woeful music. Clary wondered briefly if Luke's presence and the haste of her departure was the King's insurance against his absent wife deciding to flee with their daughter a second time. But where could they go? Valentine would find them anywhere within his borders, and fleeing abroad was more dangerous still, for they would always be vulnerable to assassins and ransoms.

"Do you hear that?" Clary demanded, spinning to face her companion.

Simon's brow furrowed. She passed him in a few rapid steps to the glass. The view from her window remained unchanged. A small herb garden beneath her window leaked soothingly sweet smells into her chamber. Clary leaned out, perking her ears. She knew Luke and his men would be approaching from the road on the opposite side of the convent, but she could definitely hear the distinct rumble of hoof beats. Heart pounding in time, she backed away from the window. Under no circ*mstances would she be caught nagging out the window like some silly maiden awaiting rescue.

Simon had moved to stand beside her, reluctantly lowering his instrument to the ground. Emitting an unenthusiastic sigh, he turned to Clary.

"This is it."

Clary's hand flit up immediately, to ensure the unaccustomed weight of the French hood on her head was still straight. She impatiently brushing a few stray curls over her shoulders, down her back. "How do I look?"

Simon answered the question with a scoff. He thought she looked ridiculous in her fancy new farthingale, kirtle and headdress. He had told her several times already. She felt ridiculous, with skirts now flaring out until she felt as wide as she did tall. But this was how noblewomen dressed in Alicante. This was how Clary would have to dress from now on. She hoped in time it would become more comfortable.

Her fussing hand finally floated down and rested on the comforting chill of the rope of pearls circling her neck, another parting gift from her mother. As indeed was all of the jewellery packed in her chest. Jocelyn had insisted her daughter take whatever remained of her jewels, stating Clary would have more need of them.

Until today Clary's only possession that had remotely resembled jewellery had been her amber rosary beads. They too were safely tucked in the pouch at her waist.

"Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" Simon asked quietly, as though the magnitude of it all had finally struck him.

Clary shook her head. "It already has."

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Princewater Palace, Alicante, Idris, April 1536

The rhythmic scraping of the penny rolling against the rough wood as it circled the table was strangely soothing to Jace. The Idrisian penny was a curious thing. Brass stamped on one side with King Valentine's profile, on the other with an angel. He let it clatter flat on its own before sweeping it up and setting it rolling again.

"Must you do that incessantly?"

With what he knew to be an infuriatingly slow reaction, Jace turned to face his companion's demand.

Alec stood mere feet away, arms crossed against his black doublet and hot blue eyes boring into his.

"Do what?" he sighed eventually.

"That!" his friend cried, flinging his arm in gesture to the table between them. "With the coin!" The small golden disk rattled against the smooth wood to acknowledge Alec's irritation.

"I didn't realise penny tricks were so offensive to the Idrisians. Or to you." Jace drawled, running his hand through tousled blond hair.

"I am offended, Jace that you would dare to cry boredom when there are countless important things you could be doing!" Alec snapped in reply, "Preparing how you are going to address King Valentine ought to be foremost in your mind! Then, mayhap, preparing how you are going to introduce the suit. If it doesn't pain you too greatly, you might even deign to spend some time planning how you are going to achieve what we were sent here to do!"

Jace grinned in the co*cksure way he knew would make Alec see red. He shouldn't poke at him any further. Nerves made Alec more uptight than usual. But riling Alec up was just too easy.

"Relax. All I need do is bow and smile to His Majesty. That will see him suitably endeared to our cause. People like me when I smile. The letters of introduction should take care of the rest." He set the penny rolling once again. Then his gaze flickered back to the other boy's.

"You do have the letters of introduction, don't you?"

Alec scowled, "Why would I have the letters of introduction? This isyourembassy!"

Jace grinned, picking up the penny and pointing at him with it. "Which is whyyouhave the letters of introduction."

Tutting, his friend flung the documents on the table between them.

"Ah, where would I be without you, my old friend?"

"Doubtless in this city's most disreputable tavern, unconscious in a pool of your own vomit."

"Well, I hardly think that is fair. You have based this theory on the assumption that I managed to survive the voyage without you. It is far more probable I would still be at home, unconscious in a pool of my own vomit."

Alec rolled his eyes. Still, Jace had succeeded in breaking through his fretting to tempt out a smile. Alec quickly turned away to hide it and started pacing back towards the window. "What is taking them so long?" He wondered aloud.

Jace shot another glance at the determinedly sealed door. "Perhaps the lady is very ugly."

Alec sighed, "It is hardly of consequence."

"But it is plausible they would seek to delay our inevitable horror upon laying eyes on her if she were indeed very ugly."

"If we do ever get to lay eyes on her," Alec muttered as he paced past.

Sighing, Jace stretched out his stiff legs. The slivers of sunlight stealing into the room were gradually retreating across the floorboards and back toward the venetian glass window as the day slid past. He and Alec been led in here hours ago, then abandoned outside of the King's presence chamber and told that His Majesty would see them shortly.

At least the glass city was beautiful, even if its princess seemed likely to disappoint. The shining towers of the cathedral, its neatly winding streets and prettily arching bridges over sparkling canals made the Idrisian capital seem more like a mosaic than a real city. Unfortunately, Jace doubted he would have much time to rediscover it. He was here for a purpose.

Impatiently he dropped his hand to the comfortably cool hilt of the knife at his waist. He would consider freeing the blade of his dagger from its sheath and marking the table before him, like he would have done at home in his boredom, but he suspected this would not be well received. The furniture was royal property.

At long last, like the gates of heaven, the heavy doors swung open to reveal a narrow faced, sombrely attired middle-aged man scurrying towards them. "Forgive me gentlemen but I-" He broke off as his eyes fell on the duo before him. "I-I was told the new French Ambassador waited without?"

Jace raised his hand in a little wave.

The stunned silence hung in the room for a terrible moment until Alec recollected his court manners.

"Good day, sir."

"Good day," their new acquaintance said faintly. He shuffled at some papers he held.

"Monsieur Herondale?" He looked at Alec hopefully.

Jace waved again. "No, that would be me." He rose and gave a little bow before fixing an expectant look on the man opposite him.

"Master Secretary Pangborn" he replied, lowering into a quick and incredulous bow. He raised a kerchief to his dribbling nose. "You are welcome to Idris, gentlemen."

"I thank you for the warm welcome" Jace couldn't prevent a touch of sarcasm dripping into his voice.

"I trust you have the necessary papers?" Wordlessly, Jace plucked the documents back off the table and passed them to Pangborn, trying to stifle his stinging resentment. He'd been looking forward to being given a tad more respect, having climbed the greasy pole to gain his first big embassy on his own. Now it seemed he was still destined to being sniffed at and chased away like a green-eared youngster.

"I shall see to it they reach His Majesty." Pangborn paused for a long moment as though considering what to say next. "Forgive me sir, but I must express my surprise at King Francois sending someone quite as… youthful as yourself to represent him in such a delicate matter. Surely you lack the experience required?"

Jace's irritation flashed. "It is my master's concern as to whom represents him. And I can assure you, Master Secretary, I am more than capable. Can I ask when we might see His Majesty?" Pangborn swallowed, clearly unimpressed by being spoken to in such a manner by one asyouthfulas Jace.

"His Majesty has many pressing matters to attend to today. I will give him your letters and you will be summoned at his pleasure." Pangborn announced lifting his chin pompously, as though his pleasure and King Valentine's were one and the same.

Perhaps it was, given that the papers needed to begin proceedings were now being clutched to his chest. They were indeed reliant on Pangborn's pleasure to see the King, Jace realised too late as the Secretary swept out of the room sniffling in his crisp, sensible robes. The doors swung shut once again behind him.

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It did not take Clary long to realise how unprepared she had been for her role as Princess of Idris.

She had thought herself capable. She was, after all, well versed in the grammar of several languages and in the history of her kingdom. She could execute complex sums in her head, she could quote Gospel passages by heart and recite verses from Homer.

No one seemed to care.

In the absence of her mother, Clary held the position of first lady at court and as such had the honour of occupying the queen's chambers. Recently refurnished in the very finest and most current style, she had been told. So at least she could enjoy the luxury of the sweeping damask curtains and expensive tapestries that made up her gilded prison.

All her days to date had been spent closeted in her rooms, released only for a Mass said in her private chapel and perhaps few sparse hours in which she was permitted to wander a section of the gardens. It was getting harder to ignore the lingering resentment each time she heard the snap of the shutting lock on the door to her privy chambers. Clary found herself wondering whether it was designed to keep intruders out, or her and her new ladies in.

A princess had to have her own household. In theory, she was mistress and mentor here, but Clary was beyond uncomfortable with the whole troupe of ladies. They were all practised courtiers who knew how to dress and behave so much better than she did. The notion of her being their mistress was laughable, when clearly they had been put in place to instructherto fill the role required.

Day after day of watching them glide around in their perfectly tailored gowns and assured beauty only made Clary feel more keenly the ache of her own inadequacy. Although their immaculate manners would never permit any criticism to be voiced, she felt their judgements scorching her turned back, and heard the veiled contempt in a polite: "perhaps not like that Your Highness".

Clary had never been as lonely as she was now with the constant company of a small selection of nobly born girls her age.

The nights were no better. Each evening, Clary would lay in the silken covers of her huge bed and will herself to stay strong. She would stare up at the heavy green and gold curtains that surrounded her and ornately embroidered tester bearing the royal arms of Idris and try not to think of home. But her longing to go back to the convent was present all the time, as shards of glass digging into her heart. It was in these darkest hours that she felt it most keenly. Alone in the gloom, save for the maid who was required to sleep in the trestle bed beside her, Clary never could bring herself to quell the rising sobs any longer, and ended each day weeping quietly into the corner of her pillow. The maid made no moves to comfort her, though she had to be aware of the tears, and for that Clary was eternally grateful. She would not have been able to bear the shallow condolences of a stranger while she longed for her mother.

She must seem wretchedly ungrateful. Her new life of finery and royal prestige was more than most girls dared dream of. She tried to remind herself she was a Morgenstern and her mother's daughter.

However today Clary was sure she'd reached the pinnacle of suffering, standing stoically through the artist's appraisal. His thin, pale eyes peered at her over his canvas and then came the sharp scratch of the charcoal as he outlined her figure. Trying to stand still in a way that would make every eligible bachelor in Christendom want to marry her was no small task. Especially not when she was sewn into a gown of rose-coloured silk. The icy weight of a jewelled crucifix was digging into the bare flesh above her sharp square neckline and Clary's arms were buried under velvet and gold-trimmed, fashionably trailing sleeves. Clasping her clammy fingers around the small prayer book in her hands she tried to make a supreme effort to be agreeable.

She had a very good idea of how she was supposed to look: docile without appearing stupid, devout (hence the prayer book and jewellery) but not too nun like, and above all desirable but not wanton. In short, Clary and Master Cartwright's paintbrush had the trial of creating a portrait to prove that Valentine Morgenstern's only daughter was a fit mate for any of Europe's princes.

She just hoped her boredom was not too obvious. Aimlessly her eyes drifted to the hunched form of Cartwright. He had long ago abandoned his hat and rolled his sleeves out of the way. God, how she longed to be on the other side of the canvas. Although, upon reflection, perhaps not this canvas. In the chamber's pale spring lighting the poor man looked a touch sickly. Clary suspected the pressure was getting to him. Given the fact his hair had thinned out to almost nothing, he couldn't be new to his trade, but a botched portrait of the King's daughter botched the King's plans for a grand marriage alliance. Nothing less than a masterpiece would suffice.

Would that she could have interceded on the fellow's behalf. But of course, that would require contact with the King.

For most of Clary's life her father had been a presence rather than a person. From the snatches of her muddled childhood memories she could only recall a huge hulking figure with cold eyes and clipped words. She had lived in Alicante when she was younger, but prior to her arrival at Princewater Palace, Clary had no memory of a real conversation with King Valentine. She knew the disinterest was far from remarkable. A daughter being overlooked was hardly exceptional, even if she was a royal. Boys were heirs and thus worth plenty of attention, but a girl could quite easily be ignored until she finally became of use through securing a husband.

Naïve as it was, she hadn't been able to keep herself from hoping it would be different withherfather. That after having been apart for so long, Valentine would want to spend time with her. Get acquainted with her.

Yet she'd been in Alicante for nigh on a fortnight and Valentine had only sent for her once; to cast a brief eye over Clary, tell her that he expected her to be the epitome of maidenhood and good breeding and that he had commissioned this portrait.

Then of course there was her brother. Clary had little to go on when it came to him as well, although there were some garbled pictures from the royal nursery. There had been a little 'magic' lantern they both loved; one which looked like any other until it was lit in a darkened room and spun to reveal images from their favourite stories bouncing around the walls. She could still picture the little boy with the bright gold hair in the spinning shadows, echoing her delighted laughter.

Pointedly ignoring the babble of laughter from her female attendants, Clary drew back to the present and blinked the ferocious glare of the sun out of her eyes, wondering if she would ever be able to bend her back again.

She was momentarily distracted from the travail of standing utterly still while she ached and sweated by a commotion of voices outside the sealed door. Moments later a man in royal livery stepped inside and Clary automatically twisted her head to look at him.

"Your Highness!" Cartwright yelled in horror, flinging down his utensils with exasperation.

"I beg your pardon" she gasped apologetically catching the eye of the newcomer.

He swept a hasty bow and cleared his throat. "Your Highness, I bring a gift from His Majesty the King."

He extended his arms to her, offering a small black package.

Instinctively Clary moved forward to take it, then realised her mistake as the man shifted backwards uncertainly. Struggling to contain her blush, Clary halted her progress and tried to cool her expression.Fool!She mentally reprimanded herself. How she must have looked, bolting for any small token of favour like a greedy commoner! Princesses did not snatch for gifts, they calmly waited for them to be formally presented.

No matter how desperate she was to know the contents of the box her father had sent to her, however desperate she was to catch her father's attention in any way, she could not afford to let the façade slip for even a heartbeat. Clary needed to show them she was no green girl seeing the real world for the first time. Even if that was precisely what she was.

Thankfully she managed to salvage something of her self-possession with what she prayed was a politely moderate nod at the steward, who unlatched the box with a swift click and flicked the lid up to reveal a small fortune of jewels, gathered in a gold edged sapphire pendant, nestled happily on its mantle of black velvet. Clary's breath caught in her throat as she peered at the solid, glimmering blue depths, dazedly regarding the first jewel she would ever wear that had not belonged to her mother first.

Then the gift was snapped out of view by the closing lid and withdrawn. The steward replaced it with a folded piece of parchment.

Upon it, Clary discovered she would be wearing her new acquisition very soon indeed. This gift was far from a casual trinket of affection.

Clary deflated as her eyes scanned the neat, practised handwriting of a royal clerk. All the necessary envoys had arrived. Her official presentation to the court had been scheduled. Tomorrow night.

The marriage game had begun.

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"Extraordinary. Have you really managed to ruin the embassy before the embassy even starts? I think you have." Alec complained with a glare, tossing another log on the fire in their new apartments.

"I didn't see you being very helpful," Jace flung back, taking another swig of wine.

Alec flushed darkly, "You were the one who insulted him."

"Only because he insulted me first!"

"By insinuating you two were children! An inconceivable notion given the way you're behaving now." Isabelle's dark eyes glittered as they shifted between the two men, who had lapsed into a sullen silence. "So, you've doomed our endeavour to failure." She continued with smug satisfaction; "By God, I don't know why I ever worried after learning they were to send you as the diplomatic party." Alec's sister dropped her head back to her sewing with a soft laugh.

"It isn't over yet." Alec insisted, glowering at his sister.

Isabelle scoffed, tossing her head back so that the ruby at her throat blinked in the firelight. "Stop. Stop it both of you. You can't in all faith tell me you agree with this plan." Jace noted that her proud mask had slipped as she turned to the two older boys.

"The plan," Jace said lowering his cup, "Is to negotiate the Dauphin's marriage."

"And then to negotiate mine," Isabelle hissed, flinging her needlework away. "Well, if Father thinks packing me off to Idris is going to make me marry, he can reconsider."

"Father just wants to do what's best for you" Alec insisted, crouching beside his sister's chair and placing his hand over hers, "It's his duty to see your future secured through finding you a good husband." He paused and sighed slightly, lifting his hand to brush Isabelle's cheek. It was unusual, Jace realised, to see Alec so carelessly affectionate. He was always so measured and polite in his approaches to everyone, he rarely smiled or touched anyone. Yet with his sister he didn't hesitate.

"And it's my duty to obey him when he does so. I do not need to hear this sermon from you as well!" Isabelle tilted her face away from her brother's caress defiantly. "Suppose I do as Father asks. Then what? When they find you a good wife, will you do your duty for the family then, Alec?" she demanded with strange malice.

Alec flinched away as though she'd struck him, throwing a look of alarm at Jace. "That is my affair" he stated bluntly, but his cheeks were flaming once again.

"Where are all the damned servants?" He cried to no one in particular "We should have had supper hours ago."

Inexplicably desperate to get out of the room and away from the Lightwoods, Jace immediately volunteered to seek someone out.

Minutes later, he found himself wandering the halls of the palace in search of the kitchens. Of course, all he need to do was collar a serving man or woman and ask for food, but he was far from eager to reunite with his party. He let himself explore instead, noting that the people were getting increasingly well-dressed where he now found himself. The women were in fashionably cut gowns, coloured as brightly as their jewels. The men in similarly stylish clothes, sporting jewelled blades. Jace guessed from the crowd he was nearing the royal apartments.

He continued to wind his way through the labyrinth of halls, his mind just as active as his feet while he pondered the events of the day. Firstly, he failed to make sense of what had happened between his companions. While Isabelle had no qualms about raising hell at any suggestion of her marriage he couldn't fathom what fuelled the outburst at her brother. True enough, Alec had never spoken of marriage to him, but wives were hardly a popular topic of conversation between them.

Swinging around a corner he felt his body collide with something significantly less solid than the wall. Jace only had time to register a blur of green before he staggered back and felt the shape fall towards him. Instinctively, his hands flew out and caught what felt like a very slim waist to prevent his obstacle hitting the floor.

When he blinked, he found he now had a decidedly female figure in his grasp. A pair of startled eyes stared into his for a single raging heartbeat before the lady tore herself away from him.

Not so much a lady as a girl.

A very slight, very pretty girl in nought but a robe which fell open slightly to reveal a lace trimmed nightgown.

Any vulnerability her state of undress may have suggested was burnt to ashes under the scorching green eyes.

"Is it so hard take account of where you are going?"

A quick glance around at the empty surroundings confirmed that they were, somehow, alone. Jace broke out his trademark smirk. "Not that I am not used to ladies throwing themselves at me, but I must protest that I fail to see that as a disservice."

He had expected her to laugh. Instead, the glare intensified. "I beg your pardon?"

"Worry not. All is forgiven."

The girl drew herself to full height, which sadly was not very tall, and stared into his face defiantly, though her cheeks were glowing red. "Hardly."

Jace's stomach gave an unexpected lurch under her scrutiny. In his experience court ladies were frivolous but feeble fools, with the exception of perhaps Isabelle. And he suspected even she would find it difficult to stand on her dignity in such a circ*mstance. Then again, he doubted Izzy would be so callous as to wander the halls at late hours in her nightwear.

"What are you doing here?"

Jace took a shocked step back, "Is that any way for a lady to speak?"

"Is that any way to speak to a lady?"

An astounded whoop of laughter leapt to his lips. For the first time since he'd crossed the border he wondered if his stay in Idris would have to be all work no play after all.

"Do all the Idrisian ladies make a habit of creeping around in very little at very late hours? Or is that just your pleasure?"

It took her moment to comprehend his lewd meaning.

Jace's head was snapped to one side and a strange stinging pain ripped through his right cheek.

Blinking in surprise he turned back to face his assailant slowly.

She stood very still, clasping her reddened fingers and looked back at him with unperturbed remorse.

He may well have been stunned into an apology had it not been for the distinctive shuffle of feet further down the passage.

Now it was the girl's turn to be alarmed.

"You shouldn't be here!" she hissed urgently. Jace just stared back dumbly, still reeling from her slap. Flinging another glance back over her shoulder she stiffened. For a split second she seemed to consider leaving him to fend for himself, then took pity and grabbed his wrist.

Jace was rapidly dragged down the hall and pushed into a darkened room. The young lady beside him shoved him further into the gloom and then peered through the slight crack she had left in the door. Fortunately, their height difference enabled him to see over her head and into the no longer empty hallway. To his disbelief a pair of men at arms passed by their hiding place, thankfully too absorbed in their hushed dispute over a game of dice to notice the slightly ajar door. Jace strained his ears to listen to their retreating steps.

Even after they were gone the secreted duo made no move to leave; his companion's firm grip on his forearm prevented Jace going anywhere.

In the shadows he could think of little beyond their proximity. Aside from the slim fingers wrapped around his arm, Jace's ears were now filled with her shallow breaths. He felt the firm press of her backbone through her flimsy clothing against his shoulder. Jace was mere inches from the slanted beam of light falling through the door and onto her face, illuminating slight cheekbones and scattering of freckles.

Keen to break the silence he made to speak but was instantly hushed. Not a moment too soon as the men at arms returned, now in a grim silence. With a barely audible gasp the girl pushed the door further closed and huddled backward into Jace, stumbling slightly. Jace slipped a hand to her waist in order to steady her a second time.

They remained undiscovered. The guards passed by once again and disappeared back the direction they came. After waiting what they deemed a safe amount of time the pair detached themselves uncomfortably and stepped out into the open.

Jace cleared his throat, "Well that was-"

He was hastily interrupted. She truly was an imperious little thing." You shouldn't be here. Neither of us should. You need to go. Now!" Her urgency proved contagious, and she punctuated her command with a slight shove.

Jace began to retreat obediently. With a flashing look of relief across her fine features the girl also moved to go, starting at speed down the hall in the opposite direction.

"Wait!" he called out suddenly. She paused and glanced at him over her shoulder.

"Believe it or no, I don't make a habit of being pulled into dark corners by girls whose name I do not know."

He had fully expected her to tell him exactly where to go, probably with colourful language and accompanying gestures. Alas, it seemed she was not yet exhausted of surprises.

"Clary" she told him simply and then hurried away.

-000000000000000-

Chapter 2: Sins of the Father

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Sins of the Father

Princewater Palace, Alicante, late April 1536

Clary hissed in frustration as the sharp silver needle jerked back from her finger. A single, despondent bead of blood welled up from the point of contact.

In a belated attempt to stop herself bleeding over her morning's labours, she flung the needlework to one side and raised her injured thumb to her mouth.

This had gotten ridiculous. Her obedient pursuit of the maidenly arts had done naught but turned her fingers into pincushions and her patience into shreds. Why in the name of God could she not manage to stitch in a single straight line?

Admittedly, her skill with a thread had always left something to be desired. But today the needle was spending even more time than usual in fingers instead of fabric. Clary couldn't seem to concentrate. Each time she managed to aim her attention at something useful it flitted back to the night before, to her encounter with the strange and beautiful boy.

She couldn't seem to push a pair of remarkably golden eyes and gentle lilting French accent from her mind. There was something about him that was almost familiar...

She tried to rein herself in; that boy may have had the face of an angel, but his devilish grin and appalling manners ought to be enough to knock her back to her senses. His arrogant sneer as he all but called her a whor* still left her seething.

Yet the night remained a blur of conflicting images. The memory her hand placing a well-deserved blow warred with the feeling of a steady arm around her, halting her fall. Of course, the former recollection brought her far more satisfaction, Clary reminded herself firmly. That boy was trouble. It was already clear from their brief meeting that he was the not the sort to shower smiles on a girl and walk away leaving her reputation intact. Besides, she had bigger things to worry about than one cheeky cad. She had mere hours to make herself a presentable princess worthy of a royal marriage and with very little help at hand.

Dropping her hands back to her lap and swallowing against the tang of blood in her mouth, Clary found her eye meeting that of one of her ladies; the girl with the slanting features and the strange brown gold hair- Lady Helen Blackthorn- who was looking at her with too much sympathy to tolerate.

"All this sewing is such weary work! Perhaps we could take a break? A walk in the gardens maybe? Or I could read to you?"

She made as if to rise, and Clary had to resist the urge to tackle her back into her seat. The last thing she wanted was her incompetence flapping about on a flagpole for all to see when Helen kindly sought out some soothing literature.

The first lesson her mother had taught her was to hide any weakness. However embarrassing her failures with a needle and thread, her real fear now was that any more gentle consideration from the Lady Helen would have her publicly in pieces: and that could not be borne.

Mercifully, Clary was saved by the entrance of a herald. "May I present to Your Highness the Lady Isabelle Lightwood, daughter of the Earl of Adamant." Clary automatically straightened up in her seat and fixed what she hoped looked like a welcoming smile on her face as she beheld her newest lady.

The new girl, the latecomer, swept her way into the room and instantly commanded all attention.

The slender figure of Isabelle Lightwood paused for a moment in the doorway, eyes skimming the room in seconds before resting on Clary with a raw curiosity that wiped the frozen smile from her features.

Clary barely had time to take stock of the enviously narrow waist, and the bright halo of her hood pushed startlingly far to expose rich ebony hair, before Isabelle was approaching with confident strides and sinking into a very foreign curtsy with elegant ease before her.

Somewhere in her stunned mind Clary registered that chattering gossip of all the other ladies had been evaporated by the hot red of the Lightwood girl's gown, blazing through the modest pastel shades of Idrisian skirts.

From this angle there was no ignoring the fact that the French girl's plunging neckline bordered on scandalous. Clary struggled to ignore the too many inches of creamy flesh it revealed.

Then a pair of gleaming black eyes flickered up to hers expectantly and sent Clary reeling once again. She had been at court long enough to know that one's eyes stayed fixed to the floorboards when introduced to a superior and remained there until spoken to.

Clary realised she had let the silence stretch on into discourtesy and hastily blurted out a greeting, willing herself fiercely not to stutter. "Welcome to our court, Lady Isabelle."

"Charmed."

An unconventional reply for an unconventional girl.

"Almost as much as I." The reply escaped before Clary could bite it back, and sounded terribly dry.

The newcomer rose from her display of submission and assessed her new mistress shamelessly, although Clary noted there was now a slightly pink tinge to her cheeks. Around them some talk had crept back into the chamber in the form of low whispers amongst the other girls.

Isabelle Lightwood towered over her, but Clary refused to betray any signs of intimidation and kept her light gaze locked on the dark one.

"You came from Adamant?" she said finally, to break the silence at least, and to gain some information from this curiosity of a girl at best. Adamant was a curious little French border province in the north-west of the country. From what Clary knew it was little more than a trading outpost between Idris and France, and also a region from which Idris kept a very close eye on her larger, more powerful neighbour.

Not unexpectedly Isabelle was far from forthcoming. "Yes. But I was at the French court before that."

Well, that explained the neckline.

Idris had no national tongue, the court nobility tended to fluctuate between French and German. In some pockets of the countryside the common people retained dialects of an older Idrisian speech. But the King's circle appeared to favour French, so Clary was fluent in the tongue. However, Isabelle's rapid, provincial French took some getting used to.

"What brought you here? Alicante can't be very exciting compared to Paris."

"Duty" Isabelle responded with a smirk. The bitter humour did little to mar her pretty face.

Clary felt her own lips tilt to a smile at their newfound common ground. She gestured to a seat amongst the other girls near her, which Isabelle took after executing another graceful curtsey.

Taking the needlework back into her hands Clary felt a small glow of satisfaction eat away at her frustration.

However beautiful and daunting Isabelle Lightwood might be, it was refreshing to have found someone who wanted to be here just as little as she did.

-0000000000000000-

The hubbub of the crowd's excited chatter swelled as the doors to the King's presence chamber opened tantalisingly, only to grow subdued again as the only movement beyond was that of a clerk scurrying away. It really was quite amusing to watch the massed people cluster around a doorway all trying to look the most important only to jump like excited schoolchildren at any kind of movement from the inner rooms.

Tugging at his sleeve slightly as he tried to disguise an ink stain Jace considered the matter at hand. Quelling his impatience, he turned to face Alec, "What do we anticipate this is about?"

"The royal marriage?!" Alec suggested incredulously, looking at Jace as though he had lost his mind.

"I concede that is the bigger picture. But I wonder what prompted these particular summons?"

Alec blinked, uncomprehending.

"It's barely been a week since we put Pangborn's nose out of joint. I doubt he recovered soon enough to pass on our introduction. The King likely asked for them directly himself. Now I wonder what could have prompted such immediate action."

He looked over at his friend's startled expression. "Not just a pretty face," Jace declared sardonically.

As though the mention had conjured his presence the doors swung open once again to release Pangborn, who turned to the French party with a pained sniff. "His Majesty will see you now."

Without further ado, the two young men rose and- after throwing one another a hasty glance to exchange confidence- made to follow the brisk secretary. But Pangborn raised a hand with a half- heartedly apologetic expression. "Just the ambassador for now. Although you have been invited to join His Majesty in the gardens later with the other lords, Lord Alexander." Pangborn did not attempt to disguise his disapproval of the invitation.

He left a tangible pause before he decided he had not offended them nearly enough. "You are the Earl of Adamant's son, yes?"

"Yes." Alec responded tightly.

Silently Jace unleashed a stream of violent curses. It was bad enough he had to do this at all, now he had to do it alone. But he wouldn't have Master Snuffly Pangborn see him perturbed. "Pray lead on, sir" he invited with a sharp nod, "We shouldn't keep His Majesty waiting."

He turned to Alec once more and read a distinctdo not destroy thison his features as he stiffly walked after the King's secretary.

They passed through to the King's presence chambers and Pangborn lingered by the entrance while Jace was announced.

Bracing himself, Jace took a deep breath and a step forward. There was barely time to appreciate the rich surroundings and golden pillars that lined the room before he was lowering himself into a deep and respectful bow before the raised dais.

"Ah. Your Excellency. Rise." The cool command rang out by way of greeting.

Obediently, Jace straightened up and faced the King of Idris.

King Valentine the Second rested on a huge, gilded oak seat, cutting quite the regal figure. He wore no crown and dressed completely in an immaculately cut black, but no one would mistake him for anything but regal. His placid and proud ,demeanour held the assurance of a men man who had been born to power. A man used to issuing orders and getting what he wanted, from his nursery days. Valentine still sported a neatly trimmed white beard, which served to add a sense of wisdom to his perfectly composed features. His relatively unlined face was that of a man who had yet to cross fifty. The only jewels he wore was a chain of dark rubies, and the sapphire ring of state on his right hand.

His dominating presence was only accentuated by the tapestry that hung behind him. The crowned angel exploding from the waters of the blessed lake, brandishing a sword in his right hand and a jewelled cup in his left. Here to remind all who stood before this man that the Morgenstern line could boast a heritage shrouded in myth and legend. It was said the blood of heaven itself ran in their veins.

Jace could feel the judgements being formed as the sovereign surveyed the young man before him. One dispassionate scan swept up and down Jace's body. Jace hated the cresting longing to do better, be better that sharp black gaze brought up. The impulse to do something,anythingthat might tempt a single word of praise from this man.

He wished the feeling were unfamiliar.

All these years he had tried to convince himself that he didn't care what anyone thought of him and now here he was; a simpering idiot like all the others. Ready to fling himself down and hone the purpose of his existence down to Valentine Morgenstern's every whim. Again.

There had never been anyone in Jace's life for him to call 'father.' Valentine was the man who had been left responsible for raising him. And Valentine had done so, with a certain diligence, until he had tired of the task and dispatched his titleless, fortuneless young ward to the care of an old friend in Adamant.

"Jonathan. It's been so long," Valentine offered a thin smile, "Too long."

"Your Majesty" Jace forced himself to say calmly, meeting the stony gaze. Inwardly Jace recoiled at the use of his full name. Outwardly he returned the smile. "Yet the reunion is a pleasure."

The King's smile stretched but grew no warmer. " The pleasure is ours. You are no longer a child, I see."

Jace saw no point in a reply. Thankfully Valentine decided to change the subject, "You think the Dauphin of France will make a fitting bridegroom for our daughter?"

At last, chartered territory.

Jace had been rehearsing these arguments repeatedly in his head since the very moment he had received his commission. In fact, he suspected that through perfecting existing points of persuasion and wracking his brains for new ones, he had become so well acquainted with the strengths of the French prince's suit that he had begun to recite them in his sleep. Now enduring the king of Idris's scrutiny, Jace gratefully seized the opportunity to take some command of the conversation.

"Indeed. He's close in age to the Princess and ready for a wife. There is much an alliance with France can offer you. King Francois extends his friendship, naturally, and your countries already have so much in common. Such a match will be especially advantageous to you, a Catholic King who has the Protestant German states pressing your kingdom's shoulder. It makes sense to ally with your powerful Catholic neighbour."

"All of this I know" Valentine extended an arm to signal the rooms beyond and the people who waited without, "But there are other Catholic suitors."

"None that your Majesty shares a border with." Jace blithely countered, "Why not secure your friendship by sharing a set of grandchildren? And we have not even begun to discuss the economic benefits. Just think, France has started not only started to trade with the Asian nations but also stakes a claim in the New World. Think of the influence Idris might gain through such an alliance! Consider the growing market for Idrisian goods such trade connections would create."

Valentine leaned back in his chair and raised hand to his mouth thoughtfully. "All true. We shall consider your suit Jonathan." Somehow, he made it sound as if he were saying 'I will consider you Jonathan'. Jace struggled to keep his expression nonchalant. The next words provided a welcome distraction. "Which is why I am throwing a feast tonight, so that you and the other embassies may see Clarissa for yourselves."

None of the other envoys had lain eyes on this girl either? She truly must be hideously deformed, Jace thought dejectedly. But it mattered little; France would wed her for her bloodline and her connections, not her beauty. Although, Jace admitted a fair face would have helped hurry proceedings along.

He could also see the King was withdrawing from the conversation. Another wave rose in Jace, this time one of resentment. He felt he was being sent to bed without supper again. Banished while he still had so many things to say. So many questions for Valentine.

And yet, Jace knew he would never say them.

Too many years had gone by. Jace may have been raised at this court and by this man, but Valentine evidently did not feel he owed Jace anything. If he had, he would have sent for him sooner. Or sent a letter.

Kings explained themselves to no one save God. Not even to their children, or those who were as good as.

The King of Idris was not going to acknowledge Jace as akin to family, he was not going to extend any of the privilege or protection that may come with such an acknowledgement. By now, Jace had stopped wishing for it. He had learned to make his own way in the world.

He knew that his elevation to Ambassador had not solely been on the basis of his skills. The King of France had hoped Jace's personal connection to the King of Idris would sweeten their suit. That some vestige of paternal fondness from Valentine may gain Jace and his party some preferential treatment.

Judging from this reception, this was unlikely to be the case.

Jace had expected as much. If anything, the opposite was to be true of Valentine. He was twice as hard on his own.

Jace knew a dismissal when he heard one. "It would be an honour to attend, Your Majesty" Jace bowed again and began to back out of the room.

"Oh, and remind the Lightwood boy to attend later," the King called over, already beckoning for Pangborn to fetch someone else.

-00000000000000-

The river walk was beautiful.

The preoccupied mutter of the Princewater river as it curled around the palace walls and then rolled into the city carried over to the narrow path Clary strolled upon.

Downriver the waters would be filled with the busy traders carrying their wares into Alicante, and with the stylish barges of nobility as they drifted between the court and their townhouses on the daily tides. Here however, on the narrow channel that brushed just under the ledge of the queen's apartments, the shallow waters were peaceful and private.

Although she had a choice of summer gardens, Clary preferred to take her daily outing here. Something about the rich greenery fringing the Princewater reminded her of the thick trees of Broceland forest that had kept her sheltered so long.

On the clear waters a single swan bobbed along, the haughty arch of a snowy neck and calmly gliding figure on the glossy waters concealing the furiously paddling feet Clary knew must churn beneath the waves.

Hearing footfalls behind her she turned. Clary immediately felt her face brighten with a smile. The other benefit of this walk was being able to see Simon. Much to her dismay, she'd seen and spoken very little to her friend since she'd arrived. He had been in her chambers often enough, but always behind his lute, and that left little room for conversation. After all, Simon too was here for a purpose; to finally make something of himself as a musician.

That meant he spent most of his time amongst the other court musicians, trying to make some valuable friends that might help him get forward. Very soon she would have to do the same. It was essential that Clary integrate herself with all the nobles. Worse still, she would have to endear herself to the envoys who would be scribbling word of her every move back to some foreign prince, who would then decide whether or not to keep her for the rest of her life.

But here, during the few hours after dinner in which she managed to escape the confines of her rooms, Simon almost always managed to make their paths crossed. His earnest brown eyes lit up as they met hers and he sketched a comically sincere bow, sweeping off his hat in an over-dramatic flourish that left strands of dark hair standing up at strange angles.

Pressing her lips closed on a giggle, Clary lowered herself to a similarly mocking curtsey. She could always rely on Simon to bring her some good cheer. Often, as she lay in bed racked with homesickness, she found herself wishing that she could invite Simon in, so that they could curl up and fall asleep together like they had as children. But that was beyond impossible; a young lady in her position had to be above all virtuous, and the notion of her sharing a bed with a boy to whom she was not wed was unthinkable, even if she had known him all her life and it was completely innocent.

Clary could not afford even a smudge of scandal on her reputation, especially not now. Not ever. Her name was all she had. And she hadn't tempted fate beyond last night, when she stupidly took advantage of a tardily unlocked door to risk venturing past her sleeping maid and seeking Simon out. She'd never reached him, of course. She'd spent most of her illicit outing cowering in the dark with that rude stranger.

"Fancy our meeting here!" Simon cried, coming forward to walk by her.

"Indeed. How are affairs in the cut-throat world of choir boys?"

"I am not a choir boy, Clary! Although they are a ruthless pack of little wolves, you'd be torn apart in an instant. I would not cross one."

"Now I can imagine their holy robes flapping around their feet as they beat you senseless to ate deum."

"Senseless? Be fair, they're less than twelve."

"A sound match for your maturity."

Her friend rolled his eyes. "I'm ignoring that. Instead, I'm going to direct this conversation to the real matter of interest."

"Which is?" Clary enquired tentatively. Simon began to speak, then his attention darted to one side. He stumbled on some incoherent word for a moment before abandoning it altogether and turning a wide-eyed gaze to their left. "Who-who is the dusky beauty?"

Clary followed his gaze to the ladies walking behind her at a respectful distance, though she feared she already knew the answer. As anticipated, Isabelle Lightwood was hurrying out from the under gateway to the palace, arriving late from God knew what to walk by Aline Penhallow.

"Ah ourfleur de lis!" At the confused reception, Clary sighed and tried to elaborate. She picked up the pace a little, keen to ensure they were out of earshot before continuing. "That's Lady Isabelle Lightwood. She's the daughter of some French Count and she's here with King Francois's embassy.

"Why does she have a place among your ladies?"

"Because His Majesty told me to give her one. Well, I'm sure my father would have done of he'd cared to consult me." She shrugged and lowered her eyes to the butter yellow hem of her dress grazing the grass, eager to avoid the look of sympathetic outrage that was sure to be in her friend's face. "Anyway, she has a place at my court, whatever the circ*mstances. Perhaps it is sign that I am to go to the Dauphin." She glanced back up at Simon, only to find his focus thoroughly fixated on Isabelle.

"Simon!" she summoned him back to her sharply.

"What?"

"She'll gouge your eyes out if she catches you staring."

"Really?"

"Really. I almost lost a page yesterday whose eyes lingered a little too long upon her bosom. Her fury was really quite unfair to the lad. You'd expect that with that much flesh willingly displayed she wanted attention."

"You don't like her?" There was a strange sort of curiosity in his tone.

"I have yet to form an opinion. I hardly know her."

"But you must think something."

"Well then, I suppose I find her… interesting if not a little intimidating."

"Why?"

Clary caught her lip between her teeth, chewing slightly. "I suppose that's how I find all other noble girls my age. It's a very boring and very female story. Let's talk about something else. What was the matter you wanted to discuss first? And I swear Simon, if you are about to ask me to hear another of your new friend Eric's poems, I will throw you in the river."

He threw his head back and laughed, "No. But do not give me ides. I was going to ask you about tonight's presentation."

Clary groaned, "I've changed my mind. Send for Eric, I have a sudden longing for his verses."

-000000000000000-

Alec narrowed his eyes at the target, his whole body as taut as the bow in his arms before he finally let the arrow fly loose and plunge into the board. It was met once again by the polite smattering of applause amongst the assembled lords. Slowly he lowered the longbow and turned to face the king and his companions.

"Aha! Trounced again Blackwell!" The Marquess of Edgehunt clapped enthusiastically as he bellowed with laughter.

The King on the other hand merely nodded, an equable smile balanced on his features. "Yes. You shoot well Lord Alexander."

Alec dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment, still straining to calculate what exactly he was doing taking part in an archery competition with the King's inner circle. Then he moved on to fretting that having the audacity towinan archery competition against the most influential lords at court was a very bad idea.

He reminded himself that he was supposed to be making a good impression on these men. He'd had decided upon doing so by showing them he was something to be reckoned with. His father had always told him that while the French appreciated charm, Idrisians would only acknowledge a show of strength. Besides, his skill with a bow was one of the few he had. Alec couldn't quite bring himself to hide it.

Lord Blackwell set his jaw, visibly trying to disguise his fury as he extended a reluctant hand to shake in an empty show of good sportsmanship. For the hundredth time, Alec found himself wishing Jace were here. He would be sure to make some asinine comment so insulting that Blackwell would instantly forget about Alec and turn all his animosity on his best friend instead.

That was how their friendship worked: Alec cleaned up Jace's messes, and in return, on the rare occasion of Alec making a mess Jace would deliberately make an even bigger one to distract all attention That was how they had done it since they'd been adolescents together in Adamant.

Yet King Valentine had requested Alec, alone.

Alec wished he knew what it was he had done right. Although he tended to stay as quiet as possible at the back of the group, Alec was nonetheless aware of the cutting contempt of this realm's peers. Both he and Jace were after all, in the eyes of most of the court, a pair of upstarts. An assumption not helped in the slightest given his apparently immediate grant of royal favour.

Moreover, he dreaded to think what they would say of Isabelle when the Princess was introduced to the wider public and his little sister stood in her train. He knew all too well that she had no intention of floating along with their father's plans like 'some inane piece of driftwood' as she had bluntly told their parents on the eve of their parting. Alec flinched from the memory of Robert's reply; that this plan was the last piece of driftwood she had to cling to, and that she ought to be thankful he had saved her from the shipwreck of her reputation in France, and even more thankful for God's mercy that word of her behaviour had not spread as far as Idris.

The King whipped him out of his worries with a crooked finger, beckoning for Alec to follow him as he moved away from the game and the bragging lords. Pretending he was blind to the indignant glowering of the gentlemen, Alec obediently crossed the green to stand by Valentine.

"Majesty?"

"Walk with me Lightwood. We have much to discuss where there is no one present to hang on our every word." Swallowing roughly past his apprehension Alec waited for the king to continue. "You write to your father, I suppose?"

"Yes, sire."

"Good. It is important for sons and fathers to maintain a bond." Alec nodded in silent agreement, pondering the strange direction of the discussion. In his experience when a king wanted to talk with you it more often meant that a king wanted to talktoyou. From what he had heard of King Valentine, it would be necessary only for him to listen attentively and to make noises of agreement where he felt they were required. Inwardly he tried to decode the last comment, wondering if this was some sort of indirect reference to Valentine's own son.

The Crown Prince was out of the capital presently, doing some kind of tour of the northern country and his estates there, although he would be expected in Alicante in the next few hours. Arriving just in time for his sister's presentation.

Alec had heard Prince Jonathan was an unspeakable disappointment to his father. Valentine kept him out of the city as much as possible. How that connected to Alec's own relationship with his father was beyond his comprehension.

"It has been many years since I last saw the Earl of Adamant. Remind him of my gratitude for all his years of good service in your next letter."

"Service?"

Valentine's unreadable black eyes flicked to Alec's and he realised that he had voiced the query out loud.

The King's raised his hand brushed his fingers to his beard. On anyone else it would have seemed like a nervous gesture. "True, your family are first and foremost the subjects of the King of France, but I fear I must speak plainly in order to fully explain our association."

Alec gave a vague expression of consent, although he doubted he was in a position to refuse. He also doubted Valentine Morgenstern ever spoke plainly. Still, he was curious.

"After your grandfather's disgrace and death, Robert found himself in quite a predicament. Instead of appealing to King Francois however, he accepted an invite to attend me at my court. While he was here, we came to an agreement. I believe it was the only way Robert could afford to keep his estates and save face with his own sovereign."

There was a pause during which Alec felt himself colour slightly. He had been raised under the pretence that his grandfather's fall from grace was a well-kept family secret, so discovering the King of Idris knew all about the whole shameful affair did not settle well with him. Struggling to keep his courtier's face free of any discomfort Alec kept walking, following the king onto a pathway covered by a canopy of bowed sycamores.

"How has your sister settled at court?"

This caught him even more off-guard. There were more twists and turns in this conversation than in a sailor's knot. "Quite well I believe. She is very much taken by the Princess Clarissa," He responded courteously.

"I hear she is a great deal like her mother." It was no surprise that the king would speak highly of his mother, Alec tried to reason, she was after all Idrisian and had served at Valentine's court before she married Alec's father.

"She was my mother's lady in waiting and later my wife's" His Majesty continued, echoing his thoughts, "It was I who arranged your parents' marriage, you know. Lady Mayrse was quite the catch for him. The only daughter of the Earl of Lielle and a valuable heiress. I thought that they would accord well together." Alec forced himself not to wince and held his tongue. His parents' current marital discord was surely beyond the interest of the King.

Sadly, it appeared it was not. "I am sorry to hear that no longer seems to be the case."

Alec could take it no more, pausing long enough to catch a breath and mentally piece together his words he plunged right in, "Your Majesty's concern is too kind, I thank you for. I only wish I could understand what a family as humble as mine could have done to warrant it."

The King laughed, though it was a sound of mirth edged with acute pleasure, "Spoken like a true courtier. I see you learned your trade well from Frenchmen. Well, suffice to say that your family has done much to warrant my concern and I hope will continue to do so in the future." He accompanied his speech with a rather meaningful look at Alec. The unspoken promise was obvious:I have done much for the existing Earl of Adamant and I could do even more for the next one, if he could do much for me.

"As ever, you are too kind." Alec said carefully, suddenly eager to keep his response ambiguous. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know what kind of service his father had rendered this man over the years, much less commit himself to a similar arrangement. He quickly tried to assure himself that there was no reason to accept given he was not in the position his father had been. Not quite.

As he and the King of Idris regarded one another, the first few heavy raindrops of what was sure to be a pouring April shower began to fall. "Let us return to our party," Valentine finally said, clapping Alec on the shoulder. "We are all surely keen to avoid a downpour." As they turned back the way they had come Valentine gave Alec another of his signature profoundly empty smiles. "I expect you and I will be seeing a great deal of one another, Lord Lightwood."

-00000000000000-

The petite blonde smiled up at Jace, peeping at him from under her lashes. Her charmingly affected modesty was making this entire flirtation game all the more fun. He shot her a daring smirk over the rim of his cup before taking another mouthful of what he supposed in passed for good wine in Idris.

He was accustomed to a much heavier French drink, and he feared that he was on the verge of having consumed too much of this light, sweet liquid. As the thought of such reckless behaviour tended to attract his best friend, Alec appeared a few paces away, shooting Jace a warning look. Ignoring him, Jace dropped his new acquaintance another compliment and gestured to a serving boy for another drink.

Like a hawk, Alec swept over as the fresh cup arrived. "Forgive me Lady-?"

"Kaelie," the girl supplied casting an unimpressed eye over Alec's plain apparel. Apparently not even a royal presentation was enough to persuade Alec to set aside his solemn black clothing, although Jace sighed inwardly as he noted his coat tonight was a little worn around the sleeves.

"Lady Kaelie, I'm afraid I must borrow the Ambassador for a moment." As his friend began to steer him away Jace tossed a wink over his shoulder at her in recompense for his sudden absence.

Drawing him into a quiet corner of the crowded hall Alec pinned him with a penetrating look and reached for his wine cup. Jace pulled away to preserve his lifeline. He moved rather sluggishly, and Alec successfully prised the drink from his fingers, some spilling over Jace in the struggle.

"Was that really necessary?" He demanded, shaking the droplets from his hand impatiently.

"Yes. I swear by all the saints Jace if I deem you to be too drunk, I will not hesitate to drag you out into the stable yard and dunk your head repeatedly in a water trough until I deem you sober enough."

Jace groaned at the prospect, he could already feel the water clogging his ears. It was a threat Alec had carried out before. "I'm sobering up already."

Alec gave him a knowing smile.

"I note that your new friend the king has yet to make an appearance tonight. I hope he does soon, firstly because this is his event and a pivotal point in our embassy. More importantly because I am starving. The sooner this is over, the sooner we get to go back to our apartments for supper."

Alec stopped scanning the crowd and followed Jace's gaze to the empty dais, where an empty but dignified throne ruled, flanked by two smaller chairs on either side of it. "He will soon. I told you, he's going to present the Prince and Princess together. And Valentine is hardly my friend."

"Really? You were with him most of the afternoon!"

"Not because he likes me." Alec snapped, twisting the family ring on his index finger in frustration. He looked at Jace, suddenly appearing contemplative as though he were making an important decision. "When you spoke with the King, did he mention your father?"

Involuntarily Jace stiffened and sent a flashing look over his shoulder to judge who was listening. Thankfully the other guests were immersed in their own conversations, speculating about the princess mostly he guessed.

"Of course not."

"Hmmm" Alec grew thoughtful, "And the Princess? You really don't remember anything about her?"

"I've told you before Alec, no. I don't remember much of it. I was just a child."

"In the royal nursery! You were practically one of them!"

"No," Jace corrected shortly, feeling the last of the alcohol's warm glow drain out. "I wasn't one of them and I never felt that way. Certainly not after I learned what my father had done."

The sincere compassion in the returning gaze made Jace impossibly more uncomfortable.

"Howdidyou find out? Did the King tell you?"

"I don't know Alec. I can't remember," Jace answered curtly, "And I certainly don't think of it anymore."

That was a downright lie. Jace could perfectly remember the moment he had learned of his father's downfall.

He couldn't have been much more than four years old. He'd been playing with Prince Jonathan. They got into a scuffle, and Jace made the mistake of sinking his teeth into his royal playmate's arm. The watching nurse swooped in instantly, hauling Jace away from the Prince and clawing him onto his feet. Her face twisted with anger as she leaned in, spittle flicking him as she hissed the words that would end his innocence. "How dare you, you filthy little traitor's bastard!" Then she'd served him a ringing slap and towed him off to the King.

Jonathan had been beaten too, of course, because he was always much rougher when they played. And the two of them were always punished physically, even Jonathan. Other princes had whipping boys, but the Crown Prince of Idris was personally punished for his own misdemeanours, though only ever by the King's hand. A little boy who was going to be God's chosen ruler of his country was a sacred person and so could not have a hand laid on him. Not by anyone other than his father.

Jace took that beating like he took all the others; in utter silence, refusing to let so much as a whimper cross his lips. It had been much later, when the baby princess was put down for the night and his aching limbs kept him awake that Jace had crept down to where her nurse was seated by the fire.

He had always preferred her. Where Jonathan's nurse was a vicious vixen, Clarissa's was always kind to him. She had spotted him lingering in the doorway and had instantly pulled him onto her lap. Back then he had loved her more than anyone else in the world. While all the other nursery attendants were wary about touching him, save of course the Prince's nurse who only ever did so to deliver a painful reprimand, Mrs Lewis had no such qualms about lavishing affection on the little boy who was utterly alone in the world. As she held him, he had finally asked the question that had been burning in him all day: "Why did she call me that?"

There was no need for the nurse to enquire what he was referring to because she had watched the whole fiasco helplessly. "Poppet, you know that your father died before you were born, and that your mother died bearing you?"

Little Jace had nodded, gazing up into her loving nut-brown eyes. "What was said to you today was cruel, but Lady Ravenscar was referring to your father's death. Do you have any idea how he died?" He had shaken his head, desperate now for the truth he had been protected from for so long. He could remember the feel of her chest swelling as she drew in a deep breath and then launched into her tale, the words pouring out in a forceful flood. "She called you a bastard, which was wrong of her. A bastard is a child born out of wedlock. Your parents were married, but your mother was not your father's first wife, who parted from him and joined a convent. Some people feel he should not have married again but he was, in truth, free to do so. He wed your mother in view of a bishop and of God. The King arranged and approved the match. Their union was lawful and true.

'But your father had to die because he tried to kill the King, who God has given the right to rule over us all. Regicide is one of the greatest sins of all. That is treason. It is the worst crime of all, the punishment is always death. Those who do such things are called traitors. Your father had to be put to death."

"But why would he act against the king, if it that is the worst sin of all?" Jace had demanded, uncomprehending how his father, who had surely been a good man, could have done such a terrible thing.

"We are all of us sinners, sweeting. We are all weak to temptation. Some are weaker than others." The nurse had told him, holding him close, as though her love could wash away all the hurtful truth.

Jace had been quiet then for a long time, and eventually she had assumed he was asleep and carried him back to bed. It was only as she tenderly tucked the sheets in around him that he had turned his head on the pillow and asked his final question quietly, "How did they kill him?"

Mrs Lewis floundered for the words to blanket the horrible answer. In the end, she found none. "They cut off his head. But it would have been so quick that I doubt he felt any pain."

And that had been the last Jace spoke of it to anyone. Even in the months afterwards, every time he awoke screaming from the same nightmare and Mrs Lewis would sit on the end of his bed in silence until he fell asleep again, neither of them would acknowledge that they both knew the horror he dreamed of.

Jace hastily shook himself a little as he attempted to bring himself back to the present. Over the years he had become accustomed to the knowledge although he would not go as far as to say that it had become bearable.

He had no reason to mourn his father. Stephen Herondale had made a foolish decision that had sent his head rolling across the Gard's green when Jace had still been in his mother's belly. His mother had failed to do much better. Jace heard she'd been miserable in the months after her husband's arrest, and bitter about having to bear a child that had once been heir to the greatest dukedom in Idris and was now to be born to absolutely nothing. She'd decided her heartbreak was too great a burden and had begun to make arrangements for her child to be taken in by some distant family, rather than raise him herself. Why keep the taint of treason under her roof a moment longer than she had to? She hadn't had much time to grieve for her lost fortune, or to deal with the traitor's spawn. She'd had perished in childbed soon after her husband's shameful demise.

Nonetheless, like the wounded who insisted they still felt the limbs they had lost, Jace had always been aware of the aching gap in his life were his parents had been. However selfish or foolish they had been, at least they would have been his parents. Not the King of Idris who begrudgingly agreed to take him in so he could keep a close eye on his enemy's son, or the Lightwoods who, however much they felt like family now, had agreed to take him in the first place because of the generous sum of money they were offered to do so.

Thankfully the swelling fanfare of trumpets drowned out all talking and further thinking. King Valentine himself made his entrance, mounting the steps onto the dais and standing before his throne.

"Welcome, my good lords and ladies!" he called out, his face a perfect mask of pride and happiness as he became the loving father, finally able to revel in the joy of having his children with him. "I thank you all for your attendance here today. There is much that I could say, of course, but I do not wish to prolong the waiting." He donned a pleasant smile, gesturing towards the rear door of the room. "May I present to the court, my children: Prince Jonathan and the Princess Clarissa!"

The crowd instantly parted like the red sea, making room for the royal duo to walk down the hall. With the sudden urgency of pressing shoulders Jace found himself pulled back a few steps.

Initially, all he was able to see was the distinctive white-blond head of Jonathan Morgenstern. Then the line in front of him shifted and he finally caught his first glimpse of the princess.

And it felt as though Alec had shoved his head into a trough of cold water after all. All Jace could do was stand there staring dumbly, stomach lurching as he stared. It was not, as it happened, his first glimpse of the adult princess.

Tonight, she looked entirely different. Someone had persuaded her out of her nightgown and into a tight moonlight blue dress, a bodice accentuating her narrow bust and hips, her skirts blossoming out around a golden kirtle. But Jace would know her anywhere, even now as she transferred a little hand from her brother's grasp to her father as he helped her up the steps and steered her onto the dais.

Under the curving French hood her hair flowed unbound down her back in waves of molten copper. Jace knew the eyes now determinedly meeting the assessing gazes of the applauding crowd would be a serious and shining green. Carefully with a nod and a smile to her court, she turned and settled herself into the seat on her father's left.

Clary. Short for Clarissa.

"What is it?" Alec demanded, looking over at his friend's frozen form in alarm.

"Horse f*cking sh*t!" Jace eventually choked out.

-000000000000000-

Chapter 3: Sparks

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Sparks

The smile had been etched on Clary's face for so long that her cheeks hurt. She feared that by now it resembled more a scowl. Allowing her eyes a darting circuit of the rows of faces turned up toward the dais, she quickly confirmed the heavy stares of most of the hall's occupants were still fixed on her. Clary maintained the undisputed position of court curiosity.

At her shoulder another serving boy appeared and refilled her wine cup to the brim. Taking a sip, she reminded herself to be careful of the delicious and headily honeyed liquid. Soothing to her frayed nerves as the wine was, getting drunk would be far from a remedy to her woes.

Thankfully, she seemed to have evaded being drawn too deep into a conversation thus far. Those who flocked to her father's throne were content to talk over her. Clary had to volunteer little beyond a smile.

From what she could gather as she drifted in and out of the conversation, her brother was planning some kind of hunting trip while her father heard suggestions for the court's summer progress.

"I'm sure the Princess would love the southern country. The estates around Lake Lyn are especially beautiful in the summer. And from what I hear, Lady Carstairs has recently refurbished Chatton House." The Marquess of Edgehill, George Penhallow recommended. Clary returned his smile gladly. He was one of the few councillors she had taken any sort of a liking to, on account of his kind smile and considerate attempts to include her.

"I'm sure I would like that very much, my lord."

The other lords moved on in their plans, but the Marquess continued talking to her. "How does Your Highness find life at court thus far?"

Clary couldn't restrain a mild giggle, "I fear I've barely begun to experience court life."

"I fear you may be right." He paused for a moment as though considering carefully what to say next. "Madam if I may be quite so bold..." he looked rather warily for consent.

"Pray continue." Clary encouraged past another sip.

"Your Highness must be careful not to be overwhelmed. Take caution where you seek out council, that is the best advice I can give. But do not make yourself too alone, Princess. I believe a royal position is a lonely enough state."

Clary blinked. She never would understand why men could not even manage to give a lady advice without issuing orders.Take care to seek council with you, you mean.She quelled her thoughts and tried to nod appreciatively, "I had not looked for such kindness. I thank you, sir."

He nodded, seeming pleased with himself. "I only speak because I have a daughter your own age, Madam. I know of the many tribulations a young woman must face."

Only because you lords insist we face themClary reflected wryly, but kept herself outwardly as pleasant as possible.

"Ah yes, the Lady Aline? She is very accomplished, " She managed, trying to hold the picture of the rather dainty, solemn girl whom she was sure was this man's daughter. Lord Penhallow preened at the praise and suddenly Clary found herself fighting the urge to laugh. No one had warned her that the noble men of Idris would be such pompous fools.

"Those earrings. Your mother had a pair just like them."

Clary's mirth instantly disappeared, the laughter drying up in her throat. King Valentine was looking at her, his expression blank as ever. As Clary turned her head to him the candlelight bounced off the sapphires hanging delicately from her ear lobes.

"Yes, these are hers," Clary offered uncertainly, staring into her father's face and desperately trying to decipher the emotion she was sure lurked there somewhere. "She gave them to me before I left the convent" she continued, unable to stop herself babbling to fill the gaping silence between them. "They complement the necklace you sent me."

Valentine merely nodded, "You look just like her, sometimes." The tone was undoubtedly wistful as he contemplated his absent wife. As quickly as his nostalgia came, it went, and the King launched himself back into the courteously meaningless babble of another conversation.

Adrift again, Clary let her attention wander, her eyes skimmed across the steady blue gaze that had watched her so intently all night. Remembering how Lucian Graymark had spoken with her mother Clary stared back, wishing he would speak to her again. He had been amiable enough of their journey here and she could use an ally at court. Knowing how hard it was to win even a scrap of Jocelyn's trust, she had already marked Luke out as her most likely candidate.

Clary wondered, yet again, what it was exactly that had ended her parent's marriage. For ended it had, although as a staunchly Catholic sovereign Valentine would never dream of divorce. But her parents had been living apart for years. Valentine and Jocelyn had married for love, causing quite the scandal at the time. A young king was supposed to marry for political benefit and security but barely had the crown of Idris touched Valentine Morgenstern's head before he announced himself wedded to Jocelyn Fairchild, the daughter of practically no one and whisked her off to the capital to have her crowned queen.

Sitting beside the King now it was difficult to imagine him being moved by any sort of passion; charming and quick as his words were, she got the distinct feeling they were chosen with the utmost care. The union had produced two children before things soured, and Jocelyn decided to shut herself up in a convent with their six-year-old daughter.

Over the years Jocelyn had been frustratingly vague as to why had renounced her royal life and title, expertly evading her daughter's questions; infuriatingly insisting that the less Clary knew the better.

Whatever had happened a decade ago here Clary was, sitting in her mother's place with her mother's jewels circling her throat and weighing down her ears. Being used in Valentine's power games anyway. Whoever it was that had claimed ignorance to be bliss had been too ignorant to realise the stupidity of what they were saying.

"Clarissa."

Clary jumped as her father addressed her again. He brushed his fingertips along his neat beard thoughtfully, eyes sweeping over his only daughter. "Come. The ambassadors have waited long enough to meet you."

-0000000000000-

The cool metal edge bit into soft white flesh as Isabelle gripped her wine cup between her fingers. Realising that she could no longer feel them, she forced herself to prise her fingers away from the drink. She hoped that was the only sign she was uneasy. Tipping the cup upwards, Isabelle used the new angle to survey her reflection. Thankfully, her practised courtier's face looked back at her, carefully smooth of any emotions. In fact, she even looked bored.

Jace was off chasing some girl who looked like easy quarry, and Alec likely trying to ingratiate himself with some more important people.

She supposed she could have done the same, but she was loath to leave her spot.

Because the Princess was now seated in front of the huge yawning fireplace, she and her ladies could enjoy the heat while also occupying a prime vantage point, peering through the door that led back into the main hall. From here Isabelle could get a good look at almost everyone.

She could see her brother stuttering his way through a round of pleasantries with Helen Blackthorn's father, the Duke of Lyn, and the Crown Price lounging against a pillar and grinning wolfishly at a dark-haired boy if his own age. Isabelle thought might the Verlac heir.

Prince Jonathan made her curious. There was something about the confident roll of his shrugging shoulders and expression of careful indifference that seemed familiar. Isabelle gaped, realising that she had been watching her brother's best friend don the same affected complacency for years.

With the thought of Jace came the realisation that he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Isabelle hadn't seen him all evening. The thought was soon accompanied by a dizzy swell of relief.

The Idrisian wine in her mouth suddenly tasted of triumph.

From what Izzy gathered from the snatches of her companion's arguments, Jace had already made the mistake of getting on the wrong side of the King's secretary. That had been a setback, but if Jace failed to make an appearance here very soon it would be fatal.

Watching a shift in the line of ambassadors that did not include Jace as another moved forward to flatter the princess, Isabelle allowed a celebratory smile to herself.

"What's so amusing?" Kaelie Whitewillow demanded from her shoulder. Isabelle glanced at her fellow lady in waiting and widened her grin.

"You want to share the jest? I was just thinking of what a tragedy it will be to have to return to Adamant."

"You're going home already? But you just arrived."

"Yes. Pleasant as my sojourn here has been it seems to have regrettably come to an end." She gave Kaelie another beaming smile. The little blonde threw a glance at the Princess to confirm she was engrossed in her conversation with the Imperial Ambassador before leaning toward Isabelle, "Not the Dauphin?"

"Not without the ambassador, and he's nowhere to be seen. I must admit it'll be a nice change, not to be the family disappointment."

Kaelie's wide blue eyes were confused. "Why are you so eager to leave?"

The square neckline of her green dress swelled outwards while Isabelle forced herself to take a deep breath. "I'd get to go back to Paris, you ninny. Where everyone dresses better and flirts better. France is a cultural centre of Europe while Idris is, well- a kingdom of sheep farmers. In truth, I think it might be best for our dear, delicate mistress if she loses out on a marriage to France's darling prince."

Not that Clarissa Morgenstern was truly delicate, as a glimpse at the way she managed the Spanish Ambassador, Señor Santiago, would attest. Clary might look fragile, but Isabelle was willing to wager that some real steel lurked beneath the seemingly porcelain skin. The rather disappointed way in which the clever and charismatic young Spaniard departed suggested he had not found an easy conversation with the young royal which would leave her firmly enthralled and his victory assured. Isabelle could sympathise, having initially underestimated the little spitfire herself.

However spirited the girl may be, there was still a lot of work required to make her the paragon of womanhood and marriage that her father commanded she be. Her current dressing habits and stiffly awkward posture would have to be the first to go. Not, Isabelle reminded herself quickly, that she would be tarrying at this court long enough to help Clary Morgenstern do so.

The Idrisian court was not at all what Isabelle had imagined; she had helped several ladies of good and royal breeding prepare for marriage before, but she had never seen anything like this. King Valentine was standing over his youngest child, one hand placed firmly on the intricately carved back of her chair and subtly monitoring her every move.

Isabelle wondered why there was so much pressure on the Princess. True enough, she was the King's only daughter, but she was not his only child. The King was behaving as though some great matter of inheritance was hanging on the match. Isabelle had tried to voice her curiosity to Alec, but her brother remained stubbornly unconcerned. He insisted it was normal for the King of Idris to want to make his daughter a dazzling match, given she was the only girl he could use as a bargaining chip in a political alliance.

Beside her, Kaelie turned her head so that the seed pearls in her headdress would catch the light as she smiled at some approaching courtier. She tossed her next sobering words out the side of her mouth carelessly, "Yes, but you won't leave, even if your brother does. Not now you have a position in the Princess's household. You're one of her ladies now, whoever she marries. You cannot go until Her Highness releases you."

Dread plunged to Isabelle's stomach at the realisation. That would not be true. There was no way Alec and Jace would justleaveher here. None at all.

But her father would. Robert would happily leave her at this bizarre, dull court until she made a bizarre, dull marriage just to find aught todoand eventually grew old and died here. She added this entire ploy to the list of things she would never forgive her father for.

Isabelle felt an indignant flush warm her cheeks. "To hell with him." She muttered mutinously, swallowing back more alcohol defiantly, before she shot an indecently seductive smile at a passing serving boy.

There were still boys here she could use to call her father's bluff. She could flirt and encourage every nameless knave in Alicante until her father panicked and ordered her home.

Isabelle Lightwood had no intention of settling down like a good, boring girl and relinquishing what little freedom she had.

Following Kaelie's enthusiastic gaze, Izzy caught a familiar golden gaze and realised that Jace had after all decided to do his duty after all. He was trailing in as the last envoy to make himself known.

He even looked disappointingly sober as he lowered himself into a respectful bow. This was a pity. When Jace Herondale set his mind to do something he did it.

It seemed that he had just set his mind to making Clarissa Morgenstern the future Queen of France.

-00000000000000-

Jace had ridden in jousts, risking life and limb, with less nerves than this.

As he bowed before the King of Idris and his daughter, he let go of the fleeting hope she wouldn't remember the boy who had flirted shamelessly with her and teased her about a lack of clothing.

"Excellence."

Jace carefully straightened up and met her flat stare. Even her careful greeting could not fully disguise her surprised recognition, which was quickly settling into annoyance.

After his epiphany, Jace had taken himself for a long walk through the palace courtyards to strategize in peace. He now anticipated several possible scenarios. The first, and most unlikely he realised now, was that Clary would immediately turn to her father like the petulant child she had been when he had last known her and tattle on him.

The alternative possibility was that she would fly at him with whatever blunt instrument she could lay her hands on. Jace feared her jewelled goblet could do significant damage. This was his greatest fear; the Lord had seen fit to give him a handsome face. He subsequently felt it was only good manners to try and preserve it from the wrath of insulted Idrisian royalty.

It was not coming to those sorts of blows.

One glance at Clarissa Morgenstern's freezing smile banished whatever minuscule hope Jace had of her having forgiven his blasé flirtation on the basis of his most charming smile. He supposed he'd have to scrape out a pardon one way or another. He'd best start with a reverent kiss on the back of her hand.

"Your Highness I must apologise."

"Pray do so."

Jace could feel Valentine's keen gaze on him.

"I must confess I allowed myself to be convinced that the tales of your beauty had been much exaggerated. My eyes now show me otherwise."

Clary emitted a wry laugh and withdrew her hand, allowing Jace to rise and fully appreciate her expression of contemplation which bore a startling resemblance to her father's.

"I think you go too far, ambassador." A tart little smile accompanied her words.

So that's how you want to dance?

Being fully aware that the sensible thing to do here was to bear the just reprimand in silence, Jace couldn't bring himself to be humbled. That sharp tongue and proud wit demanded an answer.

"My lady I do believe I could go further."

She straightened up in her chair. He recognised this from their previous encounter as her automatic response to such audacious innuendo. The Princess did not blush and baulk, but determinedly squared her shoulders. She was as prepared to surrender as Jace was.

"Your Excellency, I assure you, there is no further you could go." The remark bit in and Jace had to stifle a smile.

Each word the duo exchanged was so weighted with sarcasm he could imagine their discourse falling like stones through the floor.

"Perhaps you underestimate me." Recalling the King's looming presence, Jace hastened to clarify, "In France I developed an inexhaustible supply of ways to compliment a lady. Although, I never did find much use for them prior to this evening."

Clary's nose twitched and an eyebrow raised marginally as she pierced through his shallow flattery. She looked like she blew her nose on empty compliments. Oh, this girl was not what Jace had expected at all.

"I am sure you will find plenty of opportunities to refine your skill at compliments. And a host of other ladies ready to hear them."

Jace had to hide a snort. He kept smiling at her. "Madam, I desire naught but to serve you. I shall exhaust myself singing your praises to anyone who will listen."

Apparently, this was enough to satisfy His Majesty. Valentine wordlessly decided the section of the evening in which he had to deal with foreign diplomats had concluded. He moved away to speak with one of his other courtiers. Leaving Clary and Jace together.

Jace's smile slipped, and they regarded one another with matching stony stares for a long moment.

Clary broke the stare, but only to summon her ladies. "It has grown late. Let us retire." As though the few minutes of Jace's company was as much as she could bear.

The lady rose from her seat, and Jace was thoroughly amused to rediscover that however great a personage she may be, Clary Morgenstern did not even reach his shoulder in stature.

Clearly Isabelle had relished the stand-off from her stance behind her mistress. Izzy was struggling to contain a grin as she passed by Jace. The girl beside her was the one he had been talking to earlier, Jace realised, offering her a belated smile which she received gratefully with a quick curtsey before falling in step behind the princess, who paused only to receive what was surely a fond goodnight from her father before she exited the hall.

The double doors swung promptly shut on the bright blue tail of her gown leaving Jace alone once again to assess the damage.

-000000000000000-

Isabelle didn't get far. No sooner had she reached the Princess's chambers than she had run into Lady Penhallow. Being a Marchioness and one of the senior ladies had been sufficient for Valentine to name Lady Penhallow Chief Lady of the Bedchamber. This endowed her with the unfortunate responsibility of having to oversee all the other ladies. This left the Marchioness of Edgehunt the lone voice of reason amongst a crowd of giddy girls.

Isabelle was dispatched to the kitchens for some sobering fruit cordial. It appeared several of the girls had partaken of a tad too much wine.

Isabelle undertook her errand readily. It was always nice to know her years of wild living in France had left her with a useful set of skills, one of the most foremost being her retained ability to disguise a state of intoxication.

She didn't notice that she acquired a shadow until he stepped out from an alcove and blocked her path. The apparition of an unattended Prince Jonathan before her left Isabelle too startled to curtsey.

He removed his cap and gave her an appreciative nod, "My Lady Isabelle."

She wondered how in the name of God the Crown Prince of Idris knew who she was. "Your Highness." She dropped her head too late and sank into a delayed curtsey.

The Prince had already noted her suspicion, "You really think I would feel the eyes of the prettiest girl at court on me and not procure her name?"

Isabelle met his eyes and allowed herself to take in the undoubtedly handsome face. The combination of clear, fair skin, straight nose, and high cheekbones certainly marked him out as an aristocrat. His marble flesh reminded her of the busts of a Roman emperors she'd seen, calmly surveying the world he owned with a proud expression. The pale blond head and stormy dark eyes fell in perfect contrast. Jonathan Morgenstern seemed to be a good recreation of paintings Isabelle had seen of his father in his youth. All in all, he was far from difficult to look at.

"You flatter me." She spoke softly, causing him to lean forward slightly in order to catch her words. Isabelle was more than capable of encouraging the advances of handsome men. Still, she had never attracted the attention of a full-blooded royal before.

The royals of France did not offer much temptation. King Francois was an infamous womaniser, but well over forty and Isabelle was not interested in being another in a long list of discarded mistresses. Then there was the other Francois, his son the Dauphin, who was the right age and certainly fair enough of face. But his experiences as a prisoner of war in Madrid had left him a dourly dressed, solemn young man who wouldn't raise his eyes from a book long enough to notice any girl. Meanwhile his younger brother Henry, despite being just seventeen years old was already inseparable from a mistress twenty years his senior. As far as Isabelle was concerned an attachment to a Valois prince was only slightly preferable to the plague.

Rather unusually, all the Morgenstern matrimonial hopes had been pinned on his younger sister. Isabelle had heard of neither a betrothal nor an affair when it came to Jonathan. So, she let herself to boldly meet his stare and gave him some consideration.

If she was going to sabotage her father's plans, Jonathan could be useful. Isabelle suspected even her father would struggle to find a willing bridegroom for a royal whor*, even a suspected one. Rumour was oft more powerful than veracity.

Jonathan flashed his teeth at her in another smile, "Think kindly on me Lady Isabelle." He spoke in a low growl, making it sound like both an invitation and an instruction.

Quickly, Isabelle grasped her skirts and swept off to one side, darting past the Prince and beginning her descent to the lower floors.

She threw him one last glance over her shoulder and saw his smile had vanished though his eyes remained hungry.

"You'll have to be much kinder than that if you expect kindness in return" she informed him loftily and then hurried down the stairs towards the heat of the kitchen.

-000000000000000-

The clatter of the pen against the ink pot filled the otherwise still air of the study while Jace raised his pen, considered a moment and then laid the nib against the paper for the third time.

An angry black dot bloomed out from the point of contact like a bruise.

Groaning in frustration, he threw the writing implement down and snatched up the half-finished letter. He had been trying to phrase his thoughts into adequate words for over an hour and still he couldn't seem to finish his letter satisfactorily.

As the evening faded to night proper, the meagre orbs of golden light from the surrounding candles grew. Jace couldn't help but think of his rooms in Adamant, which were larger than those he had been granted to facilitate his studies at court. He tried to make do as much as possible, crowding every available surface including the window ledge with rolls of parchment and books.

They were his secret treasures. While Isabelle spent every spare ounce of gold on fine clothing and jewellery and Alec seemed to hoard his, every penny of Jace's wages and his grants from the Earl went to the Printhouse. They had done ever since he was a boy. The printing press had been mankind's greatest step forward since they'd discovered fire.

The Lightwoods had laughed at him, hauling his precious papers over the border with him and barking out strict orders on how they were to be treated every step of the way. People were dismissive, but Jace knew he was surrounded by a small fortune in print. This was his Alexandria.

And for all that learning he still couldn't manage to finish one damn letter to the King of France.

Jace had left the hall soon after the Princess, like all the other envoys. Yet he expected every other account of the lady had been dispatched long ago.

Tonight Jace was struggling to convey his thoughts in a way he never had before. Perhaps the stress was getting to him. He had never been at the helm of an embassy himself before. This was the defining point in his career.

If Jace Herondale, at twenty-one years old, could successfully negotiate this marriage and bring King Francois the alliance he wanted for his son he would return to France in triumph. He was sure to finally be granted a good position at the French court. And if the marriage went well, he could likely expect even further rewards. As a new bride in a new land, Clary could well lean on him. Royal influence was just a starting point from which Jace could gain lands, possibly even a title. This embassy could change the course of his diplomatic career, but also his life.

He was not like Alec and Isabelle, guaranteed a future through their inheritances; Alec would succeed his father and Isabelle would (eventually) be secured a dowry and a husband. But Jace wasn't legally the Lightwood's son. However much he loved them as family, they could not give him anything.

Jace's father's titles and possessions had all been forfeit to the Crown of Idris once he'd been arraigned for treason. Stephen Herondale had died and left his son with nothing.

By the time he'd turned sixteen Jace had realised his avenue to fortune was royal service.

Contrary to his Idrisian roots,becauseof them he had chosen to serve the royal family in France. Within the space of a few short years, Jace had come far.

Perhaps he had peaked too soon.

Here he was, supposedly at the pinnacle of his prowess, and already he had let the Morgensterns get under his skin and ruin it. Jace angrily shoved his hand into his hair and tried to swallow past the furious lump in his throat.

Really, he was as much to blame for his own obnoxious behaviour as they were but nonetheless it was exasperating. And dangerous. His father's fate was warning enough of what happened to Herondales who felt their reigning cousins treated them too unjustly.

But Stephen had been a fool. Jace was not. So he refused to react again, no matter how much it pained him to watch Valentine parade around with the family that did not include the little boy he had sent away so long ago.

No more rising to it, no more goading the pert Princess. There was too much at stake. Sparring with her and besting her quick tongue might bring some satisfaction in the moment, but Jace needed to keep his eye on the months and years to come.

Clarissa was supposed to be a malleable innocent fresh out of a convent. Doe-eyed and bleating. That would have Jace's job much easier. But no. Clary couldn't have been further from that.

Did he really hate her? Did he really hate any of them?

Evidently not enough to decline the opportunity to return here when Francois had offered it to him.

Jace tossed his head back and pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes.

Just his luck. Spend years faithfully serving France to escape Valentine and his reward? Getting sent back to Valentine.

All these years spent running away, and he'd only been chasing his own tail.

It suited a life which had always been a huge contradiction. The boy with royal blood and the taint of treason. The man whose only skill was the clever things he could say, while the same mouth forever turning him into trouble. Jace Herondale would forever be his own worst enemy.

Jace forced his thoughts to return to his crumpled and stained attempt at a letter. He tossed it to the edge of the desk to join its predecessors.

There had to be something he could say:

Your Grace,

I am pleased to report that the princess is neither repugnant nor deformed as I had feared.

I also am obligated to warn you that she may find it her pleasure to have me knifed in my sleep.

I wish you luck in your war against the Spanish.

Your faithful servant, Jace Herondale.

He doubted if that would suffice.

His fears took a solid form in a strained and nervous Alec stepping into the room after a rapid knock.

"What the hell did you do?"

"What makes you think I did anything?" Jace tried to look insulted.

"Isabelle looks as though a host of angels have come down and crowned her queen!"

"And so? Are you not pleased your sister is happy with my success?"

"Because she wouldn't be happy with your success" Alec stated slowly, blue eyes cloudy with foreboding. "Christ Jace, I thought I could at least rely on you to do this right? When so much depends-"

"I know!" Jace interrupted tersely. "I am still working!" He gestured to the heaped documents under his hands.

Alec swallowed and removed his cap, twisting it in his hands in his agitation. Finally, he choked out a few garbled, reluctant words, "If you were to tell me what happened…perhaps I could…you know I was called upon by the King…and he raised you, he would be sure to forgive…if I interceded…"

"Alec, Alec you don't need to do that," Jace hastily soothed, seeing how obviously uncomfortable Alec would be to have to address the King on his behalf. "It's not that bad. I have spoken out of turn with the Princess and then been stubborn about it."

He sighed and ran his hands along his jawline before leaning his elbows on the desk. He rested his chin on his hands and emitted a short laugh. " I doubt that it's of any great consequence at any rate. It doesn't look as though she will complain to the King. And he decides who she marries."

Clarissa was just a girl and every girl, no matter how displeased or defiant, would ultimately be governed by her lord.

"Whether she likes me or not her father rules her as surely as he does the country. If Valentine wants her to be queen of France, then that is what she will be."

-00000000000000-

Rebecca's careful fingers drew through Clary's hair as she separated the heavy red strands for braiding. Though Clary had several maids and ladies to wait on her now, she still preferred to ask Rebecca for the more intimate duties.

She had known Rebecca all her life. Rebecca and Simon's mother had been Clary's childhood nurse.

When Jocelyn revealed her daughter was permitted, nayexpected, to bring a lady's maid to court, Rebecca had been first choice for the position.

After all, Rebecca had years of practise when it came to arranging Clary's unruly locks into something suitable.

Once her hair had been secured in its customary plait, Clary made her way towards the bed. As she approached, she passed Isabelle Lightwood who had finished stowing Clary's gown in the wardrobe chamber.

The French girl had been unusually cheerful all evening and her fair features were still arranged in a smug expression.

"Would you sit with me a while, Lady Isabelle?" Clary requested softly.

"Of course, Your Highness."

Clary was determined to secure her first court supporter. Mayhap even her first friend. She had been surrounded by other women at the convent, but there had been no novices her own age. And of all the ladies in her household, Isabelle was by far the most interesting to her.

A few conversations had revealed a little more about Isabelle, her previous experiences at the Valois court and her intentions at the Morgenstern court. An unconventional arrangement was springing up between the two young ladies. With Isabelle's expertise in such affairs, she could help Clary get a husband that would not turn her stomach. In return, Clary may be able to assist Isabelle in avoiding a husband of any kind.

A girl's powerlessness didn't mean to say there were no ways in which she could manipulate the system. And Clary was a quick learner. Under Isabelle Lightwood's tutelage she was starting to see the wonders that a smile here and a promise there could do.

Together, they pulled their stools over to the huge fireplace opposite the foot of the bed.

Clary stretched her fingers towards the glowing heat of the low flames and tried to arrange her thoughts into a set of coherent questions.

"You survived the presentation," Isabelle noted, an attempt to prompt Clary to do some thinking out loud.

"Just about. I don't think I managed to make a fool of myself."

Isabelle's black eyes reflected the dancing firelight as she surveyed Clary, "Can I ask what happened between you and Jace? I'm at a loss, you know. From what he's told me you were a child the last time he saw you. I doubt anyone could hold a grudge that long. What could he have possibly done, stolen your toys?"

Clary felt her brow crumple into a confused frown, "A grudge? How could I hold a grudge? Who's Jace?"

Isabelle rolled her eyes impatiently, "The French ambassador you were so quick to put in his place? I think the King calls him Jonathan? To us he has always been Jace."

"Oh." Her agitation sparked. "That one," She acknowledged her comprehension reluctantly.

Clary was in no way willing to detail the events that had led to their paths crossing, not when she expected Isabelle would greet her account of a homesick girl creeping around in search of a friend in her nightclothes with a scolding. Sympathy was not in Isabelle's nature.

"We did meet briefly. It was long enough for him to insinuate I was a whor*."

"He did that?" Isabelle demanded incredulously. Then understanding dawned, "He had no idea who you were and tried to sweet talk you into bed didn't he?"

"More or less." Clary told her shortly.

To her surprise her companion laughed throatily, "Well he's a man! What do you expect?" Her laughter finally lapsed into silence. She leaned in to catch Clary's wrist, pressing her lips close to her ear. Isabelle whispered as though she was imparting state secrets; "They don't think with what is in their brains, but with what is in their breeches."

Clary jerked away as a hot wave of embarrassment rushed over her, "Isabelle!" she barked out a horrified reprimand.

"You're not in the convent anymore, Clary!" her friend finally managed to speak past another outburst of her laughter which took a moment to pass. "At home it likely would have worked." She concluded drily, moving to pour them both some ale.

Clary sipped in silence for a while, working to replenish the warmth that the alcohol she'd drunk at dinner had lent her. Then her mind snagged on another of Isabelle's comments. "What do you mean I was a child the last time he saw me?"

Isabelle's threw a shocked glance at the girl beside her. "He's Jonathan Herondale." She responded as though it settled the matter, only for her surprise to deepen at Clary's blank stare.

"He grew up here, at court. In the royal nursery.Yournursery."

Clary could only blink, astounded. "But-why?" she demanded.

Isabelle gave a languid shrug of her shoulders, "His father was the last Duke of Broceland. A distant cousin of the King. After the Duke's disgrace and death, Valentine took pity on the orphan left behind." She fixed Clary with a rather penetrating look. "You must remember him! He didn't come to Adamant until he was ten."

"No, I…" Clary stuttered off into silence as a wheel of her jumbled childhood memories came back to her.

She did remember the third boy. The other Jonathan.

She had memories of strong hands pulling her back to her feet when she had fallen, those same hands unclasping to reveal stolen sweetmeats. And a head full of blond curls bobbing before her as she clung to him as though she were a limpet and he a rock, carrying her on his back because her legs were too short for her to keep up.

She had shared her 'magic' lantern with a boy with gold hair.

She had always assumed it had been her brother. But she'd since reunited with her brother Jonathan, and now Clary could separate the memories of him, the boy with hair like silver and eyes like onyx.

The more recent image of that bowed head of tangled bronze curls kneeling before her leapt unbidden to mind. Clary slammed her cup down on the table, relishing the dull thump as metal struck wood. "As a matter of fact, he did steal my toys."

-00000000000000-

Chapter 4: Penitence

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Penitence

Early May 1536, the Gard, Alicante

As usual, Simon was the last to know. Everyone else knew exactly the state of affairs by the time First Mass was over but oh no, it took until well after dinner for anyone to see fit to tell him.

"Do you think he'll pack her off to some nunnery? Or will it be some creaky old castle with a damp problem like he did with the last one?" Eric asked him as they walked back towards the Princess's rooms from their own meal. Simon just frowned at his fellow musician in the hope that would lead to an explanation. "We're taking wagers, me and the other boys. Matt swears she'll pitch herself out the Tower window before she'll let him send her away. That other boy with the harp swears nothing will happen to her at all, that's why she's locked up laughing."

"What in God's name are you talking about?" Simon demanded, his patience snapping.

Eric shifted the weight of his own lute on his shoulder and blinked at him in astonishment. "The English King? He's finally grown tired of that whor* he insisted on crowning."

"Got tired of?"

"Henry has had his beloved Queen Anne packed off to the Tower of London hours after he sat beside her at a mayday joust! Now she's locked up there laughing and crying and we're all waiting to see what it is he's going to do with her. I heard he's already got another wife lined up."

"But he can't just lock up an anointed queen! She's his wife!"

Eric snorted "So was the last poor lady until he decided otherwise. She's only queen because he made it so, now he's making it not so. Such is the displeasure of kings. They're calling her witch and a whor* and everything in between. A whole host of men locked up with her too." He peered at his companion suggestively.

Simon shook his head disbelieving, "That can't be true. He split from Rome and risked war with the Spanish Emperor to have her. He wouldn't go to all that bother only to set her aside."

"It's true" Eric insisted, wickedly mournful.

With each passing day Clary's rooms got more and more full, a growing inconvenience now that the court had moved into the smaller royal apartments of the city Gard. The two boys had to push their way through a crowd and wave their instruments to the men at the doors to her privy chambers to get past.

Now that Clary had been fully acknowledged by her father, she was becoming a very public person, which left her hard pushed to find places for all the young ladies who wanted a space in her train. And had her struggling to find reasons to push petitioners away. Her father had strictly commanded Clary to avoid all requests; while she was to be every inch the princess when it came to foreign policy and marriage prospects, the King did not want interfering in internal affairs.

Clary had borne the frustrating and contradictory request in silence, but Simon could tell she was seething. She hated having to pretend indifference when her mother's gruelling lessons had supplied her with a more than competent set of skills to help her deal with the troubles of her countrymen.

Today there was undoubtedly a subdued atmosphere among the women in Clary's inner rooms and it seemed that the uproar at the English court was the topic on everyone's tongue.

Simon moved to take up his usual position in the corner, catching Clary's eye with a nod as he waited for her command to begin playing. To his surprise, upon spying him Clary promptly laid the book she was reading aside and beckoned for him to approach her.

Laying down his lute with confused curiosity, Simon moved to follow his friend away from her attendants and to an alcove by one of the windows.

"You've heard?" she enquired once they had their modicum of privacy, "About Anne Boleyn, that is?"

"Only just. Why am I always the last to hear these damned things?"

Clary tutted impatiently at his irritation, "I first heard of it yesterday." Her hands drifted to smooth over the rope of pearls her mother had given her, Simon had noticed that in the past few weeks it had become a nervous habit of hers. But she seemed particularly agitated today, her white skin even paler than usual against the deep forest green of her gown and its gold embroidery.

"King Henry is going to kill his wife, Simon. He's accused her of having half his court and magically seducing him into an unjust union." She paused, nibbling on her lower lip in thoughtful apprehension. Then she loosed a brief, bland laugh that startled him, simultaneously beating out a frantic rhythm on the patterned carpet under her tapping foot. "That's what a woman's desire is to men, is it? Dark magic?"

"I'm sure Henry had his reasons-" Simon began uneasily, astounded at the strength of her feeling. He failed to see why she would invest so much anxiety in something irrelevant happening far away.

"Had his reasons?" Clary barked incredulously "You honestly think his queen committed the sin of adultery withfiveother men? She lived like me, Simon!" She flung an arm behind her, gesturing to the busy room surrounding them, "Where would she find the time, let alone the privacy?" Tugging at the stones looped around her neck once again, Clary suddenly sank into the window seat, the strength of her panic flooding out of her and heat pouring to her cheeks. "She lived like me". Clary repeated, her eyes boring into his.

Eventually Simon understood and moved to the seat beside her, "Clary…" He didn't know what he could say to soothe or distract her.

"Oh, Henry Tudor has his reasons. She miscarried his son you know, less than four months ago. A queen is nothing without a prince. Nothing is easily disposed of. Her husband despaired of ever getting a son from her, so he invented some lies so hard to believe no one will think to disbelieve them.

'This is the woman he has loved to distraction for years, who he swore he would do anything for and promptly changed the world to suit her. Now he's going to have her killed and put one of her ladies in waiting in her place". She spoke rapidly over her friend's stuttered protestations, "There's no way Anne will survive this.

'What does that mean for me? She was the wife of a king, and they still destroyed her. What will make me safe, when I'm the wife of a king?"

"Clary, Clary!" Simon clutched at her wrists to stop her wildly wringing hands, "That could never happen to you! Listen to me; not every prince in Christendom is Henry Tudor! And Anne Boleyn is a friendless commoner, you are a princess by blood. No one would ever harm you for fear of insulting your father. Being locked away in these rooms isn't good for you. Come, walk on the green will clear you head. Come along.""

He had meant to calm her, but his comforts only served to inflame her further, she snatched her hands back from his immediately, evidently unconvinced by his assurances. "Being a princess by blood did not save Catherine of Aragon when her loving husband decided he could send her away and swear she had never been his wife at all. And there are plenty of men like Henry Tudor." She gave another shallow laugh. "You should take more heed Simon. One of those men they accused with her, Mark Smeaton? Another friendless commoner they're currently twisting a confession out of in the torture chamber? This time last week he was her musician."

-000000000000000-

Valentine Morgenstern inspected the glimmering edges of the broach in the light filtering through the chamber's narrowly arched window. Lips slowly coiling into a smile he lowered the gift and nodded his mild approval to the young diplomat before him. "You must tell your master I express my sincere thanks for his gift."

Raphael Santiago bowed graciously in response, seemingly unfazed by the somewhat frosty response of the King of Idris and the presence of his apathetic son, who was thoroughly engrossed in what was happening beyond the window.

"Your Majesty, both King Maximillian and his brother the Holy Roman Emperor are eager for your friendship to continue to grow."

"And his supplies of gunpowder," Jonathan muttered under his breath, just below earshot of the Spanish Ambassador.

It was no secret that the Emperor Charles was primarily keen for a friend like Idris to assist in the latest of his protracted (and to Jonathan's eyes tedious) squabble with France over Milan and Northern Italy. Not that the threat of looming war was acting as a deterrent for the head of the Idrisian Church, Cardinal Enoch, who openly favoured the Imperial match.

"And we have so much in common already! Namely, the strength of our faith and our zeal in protecting it." Santiago reminded His Majesty silkily, with a pointedly subtle incline of the head to his ally in clerical scarlet.

Enoch's gaunt white face leaned towards his King with encouragement. He moved so quickly that the jewel crusted crucifix at his chest thumped the back of Valentine's throne. It clattered there with each eager breath the Cardinal took.

Jonathan seized the chance distraction to release the yawn he had been holding back.

He was weary of watching these diplomats dance around his father.

He was especially tired of watching them play the Catholic card as though it were not the ace that several other parties were also holding.

Jonathan could admit to a personal admiration for the Spanish methods of ensuring the devotion of their people to the Catholic Church. He openly relished the prospect of a similar Inquisition taking flight in earnest in Idris. But Santiago was failing to make the pursuit of infidels and heretics preferable to the observance of the group of young ladies currently filtering out into the greenery outside.

Seeing that the King's audience was coming to its natural, supercilious end, the Prince peered out the thick panes of the tower window once again in earnest.

His sister had finally made an appearance for the day.

Clarissa's stilted adjustment to life at the centre of court, albeit right at the heart of his kingdom, should be beyond Jonathan's interest. But he could not help but have his eyes follow her when she entered a room, monitoring her every move and waiting to see something he recognised.

The sister he had seen so little and heard even less of was one of the few enigmas in Jonathan's life. He wanted to crack her open like one of those new intriguing clockwork machines and survey the cogs within. Sadly, the opportunity had yet to present itself. The Princess still preferred to keep to herself and to her own rooms, even now that they had moved to the Gard.

If the King's court was the heart of Idris, then the Gard was the heart of Alicante. Clarissa showed no interest in any of that, or mayhap it was rather that Valentine had no intention in letting her have any interest. Watching her cross the green in swift, irritated steps, Jonathan decided to help the opportunity he had been waiting for present itself.

Raphael's dismissal and the Cardinal's tactful departure forced Jonathan back into his father's pondering.

Valentine rose and removed himself to the private rooms behind the presence chamber, tossing the gifted broach on the table before him with a soft scoff. Then he faced his son, who had followed him expectantly. "If we did not know better, that Santiago would be convincing."

Jonathan lifted a solitary brow, "Even with such shameless bribes?"

"And bribe he might as well! Now that Francois has allied with the Turks Charles will have a fleet of Ottoman ships causing him real trouble in Italy before the year is out." The fat, milky pearl on the table top shone despondently at the prospect.

"So, it is preferable to side with Francois and his hoard of heathens?"

Valentine spread his arms and leaned forward on the palms of his hand, stooping over the papers that had been laid out there for his attention. The King's mind never stayed on one matter for very long.

Nonetheless, his father lifted his gaze and scrutinised Jonathan at the comment "You have become most defensive of your faith of late."

Jonathan forced himself to return the stare with equal boldness, wondering if Valentine was being sarcastic. "At least France is willing to offer us a Prince." The King reminded him, "Whereas the Emperor is quick to involve his brother and would have Clarissa palmed off on his nephew instead. Apparently, Idris is not so desirable an alliance, and your sister is not good enough to for his own heir."

Good God. Of course not. Only a lunatic would presume that little Idris, who just about managed to hold her independence and monarchy would ever be regarded on anything close to equal footing with the might of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire combined. Only a lunatic like Valentine Morgenstern, it seemed, whose ambition clearly knew no bounds.

"Of course, it is preferable that we wed Clarissa to France. We would find ourselves in a position of power immediately, rather than having Clarissa play nursemaid until Maximilian's boy prince comes of age and of use."

The King fluttered the sheets before him with agitation great enough for Jonathan to refrain from commenting further.

After a moment, Valentine calmed slightly and continued to mutter to himself, only half speaking to Jonathan. "But we are not about to reject the Hapsburgs out of hand. They are, we must remember, the most powerful dynasty on this continent."

"But they have no chance?"

"Yes, they have a chance! Christ! The situation in Italy could change in a heartbeat! Or Maximillian could die within a month of the wedding, making that boy prince a King and your sister his Queen! That is much better than Dauphine!"

Jonathan shook his head in exasperation, "Clarissa's marriage will always carry risk, Sire."

"Every move carries risk! And with such high stakes…" Valentine trailed off into silence, leaving Jonathan stunned. Nothing more than an alliance hung on his sister's wedding, did it not?

Before he could make any inquiries, he was being waved away. Valentine seemed perturbed by his lingering presence, "You may go Jonathan."

"Go? We are finished for today?"

"Pangborn!" his father yelled in response, summoning the secretary from whatever damp corner he lurked in when he was not shuffling around in the King's footsteps.

Jonathan happily retreated to the door, wise enough to know better than to challenge this opportune early freedom.

Opportunity indeed.

-000000000000000-

"I did not steal the horse, Princess."

Clarissa Morgenstern only scowled, utterly determined to see him persecuted.

"You did!" Came another shrill accusation, "He was my little ivory horse, with the carved mane and painted hooves and saddle. He was my favourite and I adored him, but you insisted on stealing him away."

Jace snatched in a brief breath and tried to embellish his defence, but she was relentless. Clary turned her proud cheek and pointedly focused on where some of her ladies were rambling with their puppies on the lawn. "I don't see how you can expect us to be friends when you refuse to admit that you stole my Snowy."

The ambassador rolled his eyes and ran his fingers over the fur trimmed edges of his coat, "If the best name you could come up with was Snowy, I daresay I did the poor fellow a favour."

That earned him another cutting glare, but at least it made her look at him.

"I must say, I preferred it when you were insulted by a real insult."

She scoffed, "CarefulExcellence,you are far from forgiven for that. This is just another way you have wronged me."

She truly was in stormy spirits today. There had been similar taunts about his past misdemeanour ever since they had left Princewater Palace and the Princess recognised her old playmate. Today she seemed to truly be in foul temper.

The real cause of her upset had thus far eluded Jace, but Clary was certainly using his past grievance as an outlet. Unfortunately, he was not the only one who seemed to have noticed. That insufferable musician she seemed to take comfort from was immovable at her shoulder, albeit without his instrument, and the signs of her aggravation swiftly brought Alec gliding over.

"Is all well, Your Highness?" Blue eyes scanned Jace and he discovered he was quite sick of accusatory looks.

"No. Monsieur Herondale refuses to admit to his malicious crimes." She declared, but she seemed to have moved from real affront to mirth once again. These mood swings were starting to make Jace feel dizzy.

The jest however, escaped Alec. "What have you done?" he spun on his best friend, "Apologise to the lady at once!"

Jace smirked in response, "Would that I could, but I sadly have no recollection of the horse theft."

"You. Stole. A. Horse?" Alec demanded in slow, dawning horror. Jace gave a sombre nod, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the Princess raising a sleeve to her mouth as she visibly fought laughter.

"I am thus accused," he corrected blandly, "I have no memory of the event. "

Alec looked as though he were on the verge of consciousness, "Holy mother of God! How drunk were you?" He snatched at Jace's arm and cast his eyes around for an escape route. "They'll hang you. And when Mother and Father find out I let it happen then they'll kill me. And then we'll both be dead because of you. Christ have mercy, why do youalwaysget us killed!"

"Peace, my lord!" Clarissa choked out eventually, sympathy quenching her amusem*nt, although her eyes still held a soft sparkle. "He only stole my toy horse. I cannot hang him for that."

Alec swayed on the spot and then looked at Jace as though he might strike him. Then, remembering he was in the presence of a lady he took a decisive step backward, although Jace's ears already ached from the future lecture.

Now that all nerves were suitably soothed, the princess was quick to return to the heart of the matter, "Admit it."

"I cannot remember any fault," Jace reasserted stubbornly.

"If I can remember it, you must be able to. You are older than I."

"You make it sound as though I am ready for a walking stick," Jace complained.

She snorted, "You're able bodied enough to steal my favourite toys."

"How do you sleep at night?" that damned musician interjected, somehow finding the audacity to narrow his eyes at Jace in affected disgust. On any other occasion Jace might have taught the insolent commoner a lesson for speaking out of turn, but as he stood beside Clarissa, and she was openly laughing now there was no possibility.

He wasn't going to spoil her mood again when they were now getting on relatively well, in between barbed words and subtle jabs. Jace didn't know if the two of them would ever like one another, but at least they were now only at each other's throats everyothersecond.

It seemed that not only were his talks with the King finally starting to head in the right direction, but Valentine's positive consideration of the French suit also had the benefit of securing him more quality time with the princess. Time he was supposed to be spending filling her emerald sporting ears with good words on the heir to the Valois throne. However, more often than not, Jace found himself allowing the conversation to stray from the Dauphin and into whatever silly or interesting thing Clary had on her mind currently, which today appeared to be Snowy the vanishing horse.

Beneath their vantage point on the sloping stone steps the young ladies of the court laughed with delight as one of their carefully trained lapdogs mastered another trick. Their mistress showed no interest in frolicking about with them, which was probably a wise decision.

Isabelle, meanwhile, had found another kind of dog to play with. She was engrossed as she was in what was sure to be a fascinating conversation with Raphael Santiago, the Spanish Emperor's Ambassador. If Santiago was hoping to wriggle some information on the Princess's habits and personal goings on in her rooms, he could not have picked a worse informant. Isabelle had learnt from the best courtiers in Europe the most tactful ways to keep her mouth shut. She had been rehearsed in presenting flattering lies as soon as she could talk. But she was smiling prettily at Santiago throughout her evasion, so Jace suspected her interrogator would not be entirely disappointed.

As ever, he couldn't go long without letting his gaze stray to the hulking, bleak stone structure of what the common folk were in the habit of calling the Black Tower. Only its peak was visible from the lawns and buildings around the royal lodgings. The kings of Idris did not like to dwell on the fact that those who had been caught threatening their rule were lodged at the other end of the building, however brief their stay.

Of all the Gard's rooms and turrets, the Black Tower had the most morbid fame. It housed the most sinister criminals. It was well known that once you were a prisoner there you would only leave by way of the axe or sword. For the past three centuries it had held the worst of Idris's murderers and traitors.

Some twenty-one years ago it had held Stephen Herondale.

Jace wondered what it must have been like for his doomed father. He knew that as a noble the Duke would have been housed comfortably, though Jace couldn't begin fathom what it must feel to look out of your window every morning and into the courtyard where they were building your scaffold.

Had Stephen squinted out from the mere slide of heavy glass onto the stage provided for his death and thought of his wife and unborn child? Or were his thoughts in his final days devoted to the King he had once called his friend?

More than anything, Jace longed to stop dwelling on his father's demise but he doubted that a single day in his life had gone by without something drawing his attention to his parents in some way. Only in his earliest childhood had he been ignorant of their spectacular fall from grace. Stephen's treason was the inescapable guilt Jace had been born to and could never grow out of. The waters smudged on his brow at baptism may have washed away original sin, but they could not cleanse him of his cursed name.

Staring up at the tower Jace felt the usual chill creep over his skin. He wished to God he would soon far away from this godforsaken place.

An unexpected disturbance amongst the girls on the green jolted Jace back to the present. The ladies were hastily rearranging themselves and donning their most becoming expressions as they each sank into their obeisance.

They parted to reveal the form of Jonathan Morgenstern striding across the neat grass towards the small stone parapet his sister had placed herself on.

He gave her a bow and a smile before sweeping an unimpressed glance on her companions. "Clarissa." He spoke softly and sweetly before reluctantly turning his attention aside, "Lord Alexander Lightwood" he lowered his chin slightly in acknowledgement "and Monsieur Herondale, isn't it?"

Jace managed a terse agreement, deliberately holding his most bland expression, "Highness."

"Nice for us all to be together again, is it not?" Jonathan proclaimed, full of apparent joy. " Here I am, a king in waiting while Clary's a royal bride in waiting and you- " he paused for dramatic effect, teeth flashing as he smiled at Jace and as dark eyes danced over bright, "well- a diplomat. A French one, no less!" He shook his head in satisfied disbelief, "Whoever would have guessed?"

He directed the last remark at Clary as he reached out to grasp her hands and pull them toward his chest. Creating the perfect tableau of the Morgenstern siblings at play. Jonathan continued with his ardent praise of his sister and Jace was left trying not to glare too obviously at the Prince's scarlet clad back.

Message received:There is us by the throne and then there is you, in the dust.

"Come now, it is wrong that we should live under the same roof and see so little of one another." Jonathan lamented to his sister, who was looking up into her older brother's face with curiosity.

Jace supposed it must be strange to come face to face with the brother you remembered so little of after so many years. He quickly quelled the beginnings of any pity he felt for her. Even if she did feel she deserved it, having been flung into the midst of strangers who were going to plan out her life for her, Clary Morgenstern would spit in the face of his pity.

As though his thoughts had reminded her of his presence Clarissa tilted her head to the side as her attention flitted between the prince and her other companions.

The Crown Prince did not spare them a second glance, "You can leave us now." Jonathan's imperious dismissal rolled of his tongue and over his shoulder with ease, smacking Jace square in the chest.

That was one of the things about Jonathan Morgenstern Jace had always hated most: he seemed to constantly forget that he wasn't wearing a crown yet.

He had no option but to remove himself. Their small party reluctantly descended into the yard below. The lute player lingered at the bottom of the steps. Jace kept moving, pulling Alec with him on his hurried journey onward.

Forever failing to escape the shadow of that tower.

-0000000000000000-

The barge surged over another swollen wave. Clary felt her hands fly out to the smooth wooden sides to steady herself.

"Are you alright?" Her brother asked her with a half-smile.

"Yes. I am just not accustomed to water travel." She muttered back past her mortification. Clary wished she could recline back on the embroidered cushions provided and look every inch the royal the way Jonathan did, but she was too preoccupied with her imminent drowning to make much of an effort to look stately.

Thoroughly unconcerned with their vessel's distressing rocking, her brother flipped a corner of the barge's curtains aside to peer out onto the river. "Forgive the secrecy, but our father would be beyond displeased if we were to be spotted. Well, ifyouwere to be spotted."

Thus they struggled downtown with the tide in what was not the more comfortable and probably safer royal barge. Jonathan insisted it would be immediately recognised.

"Why all the secrecy?"

"Because His Majesty likely has a whole state entrance planned for you. Just as he has everything planned out for you, sister. Father won't have a second of it done otherwise."

Clary blanched at the mention of a state entrance. To her mind that entailed a great deal of people staring and many opportunities for her to fall flat on her face and disgrace the whole family name.

To her relief Jonathan laughed, "I am joking, Clarissa! About the state entrance, anyway. At least I think I am." He muttered the end of the sentence a touch sourly and allowed the curtain to fall back into place. With them drawn, the interior of the barge was coated in a greenish light.

"Call me Clary." She requested on impulse.

"Why?"

She wanted to sayBecause only the King calls me Clarissa and I do not think he much cares for me.But she felt that would be inappropriate, so instead she shrugged and replied, "Because I've always been Clary."

"Clary," her brother sounded it out experimentally.

"Whydoesthe King have so many plans for me?" Jonathan would know, for he was always with the King when he was at court. And during his absences, he would have many friends to fill him in anything he missed. The King's heir was probably the best informed person at court. He would be an excellent source from which to glean what might await her.

"I know not." Jonathan deadpanned gloomily, much to Clary's surprise, "He insists it is all done to find you a husband." He looked so bitterly downcast that Clary trusted he was telling the truth. "Personally, I fail to see why he is making so much of a daughter he's going to pack off in the next few months."

Blunt as his speculation was, and flatly as he stated the prospect of her imminent exile, Clary knew it all to be true. Once they found her a suitable foreign husband she would be sent to live with him. And it was unlikely she would ever return to Idris. "Perhaps that's why he wants to make such a fuss, because he is sending me away. This could be the last he'll ever see of me. "

Clary realised that the possibility of never seeing Valentine again unsettled her. He was both the biggest and smallest part of her life; she had always been the daughter of the King of Idris and that had decreed how her life would be lived from the second she had been born. Yet he had barely spent more than a few hours total with her in sixteen years. That was what made her most uncomfortable; the thought of leaving without ever really knowing her father, or he ever truly knowing her.

"Perhaps." Her brother sounded unconvinced. "I think it's because you remind him of Mother. He has a portrait of her that he keeps to himself in his rooms. It must have been painted soon after they married, for she is not much older than you in it. And you are an almost perfect likeness."

Now that was a surprising titbit of information. Jocelyn had refused to ever speak of Clary's father at the convent, she avoided touching upon him in conversation, she did not keep any portraits or letters from him. She had stripped their lives of Valentine as much as she feasibly could, so Clary had assumed the King must bear a similar animosity. That he would have his palaces swept clear of any signs of Jocelyn's existence.

Could he love her still? Was Valentine's ceremonial embracing of their daughter intended as an olive branch? Was all this some elaborate scheme to reconcile with his wife?

If that was his hope Clary feared he would be sorely disappointed. When Jocelyn truly turned her heart against you nothing in the world could make her turn it back. Yet somehow the possibility made her father seem more human.

"Whatever his reasons we can't resist him." Jonathan closed the subject with far from cheerful resignation. Then the dark cloud over his mood lifted and he grinned at Clary again with devilish conspiracy, " Well at least not on the bigger matters.".

"Would he be terribly angry if he found out we left the Gard?"

"Yes," her brother told her simply "Which is why we must take care that he doesn't find out."

Despite herself Clary couldn't stop smiling back. This forbidden excursion reminded her of the times she and Simon had pilfered the orchards surrounding the convent. It brought the breathless, swelling excitement of previous mischief flooding back to her.

"It is a far greater crime to keep such a lovely girl cooped up!" Jonathan continued, "For even the loveliest of birds will lose its nice plumage if it is not allowed to stretch its wings every once in a while. It would be a terrible shame for you to see none of your capital before you must leave it."

Clary wholeheartedly agreed. After weeks of being locked up looking at the same faces every day she was desperate for some kind of diversion. She couldn't settle into her new life of noble idleness. All through her girlhood at the convent she'd always had some kind of task to carry out for the nuns, or had lessons overseen by her mother. Now that there was none of that to occupy her, Clary struggled to find any contentment in the menial occupations a woman of her station was supposed to pursue. She could feel her brain shrivelling up with every line she stitched.

It hadn't taken much persuasion for her to plead a headache to her ladies and disappear into her bedchamber for a 'lie down' only to creep out again minutes later with Jonathan. She supposed she would suffer the rather treacherous voyage in what was not the royal barge for a few hours of freedom in the city.

Her optimistic spirit fled, and Clary started once again as the barge collided with something solid.

"Be calm! We've just docked!" Her brother reassured her with some amusem*nt. Clary nodded and swallowed her heart back into her stomach.

She stood up and quickly brushed down her skirts. Beside her Jonathan also rose from his seat. After a short consultation with the boatman, he offered her his arm with another pleasant smile. "Let's go see our city."

-000000000000000-

The next few hours passed swiftly, as only time thoroughly well spent could.

Clary couldn't remember the last time she had enjoyed herself like this. It made a pleasant change to walk down streets where no one knew her name or stopped and whispered when the saw her.

They wound their way through streets of wood and stone, watching the sun sink behind the thatched roofs and stony steeples, looking on the boundless variety of people. Clary's ears were filled with the noise of horses clopping, women gossiping, men brawling and dogs barking. Vendors fearlessly hollered their wares over everyone else's noise. And then there were the bells of so many churches, a seemingly constant chiming, a soaring song of city life. Clary's eyes darted between the modest homespun garb of servants and workers and the glamorous colours and cuts of more costly garments, all blending together on the streets. Her head swung back and forth like a pendulum.

Meanwhile, her nostrils were assaulted by the smells of sweating horses, human filth and the appetising aroma of some of the bakeries and food sellers. Seeing her enthrallment Jonathan bought her one of the pies, so hot and fresh that it burnt her fingers and tongue, but melted delightfully in her mouth.

Her brother then hired them a litter and took her to Angel Square to see the huge statue of their supposed ancestor Raziel catch the light in his tarnished bronze surfaces. Jonathan pointed out the steeple of St Mark's Cathedral, where the kings of Idris were crowned and laid to rest. He even took her by the river to see the alabaster and marble curve of the buildings where the Clave would sit to discuss and pass the King's laws. Jonathan proved generous too, laughing at her heated decline of his offer to take her to the tailors and instead bought her a selection of sweetmeats and indulged her request to visit the printers, where he purchased for her some promising love poems she spied.

This afternoon was the closest she had come to being carefree in what felt like a very long time, and Clary found it possible to pretend she were just an ordinary girl on the cusp of seventeen enjoying a day out shopping and sightseeing with her brother, a brother who was not the future King of Idris. She could even forget about the fact that in the very near future she would have to leave this country and marry whichever king or prince had been chosen for her. It all just seemed like a surreal and distant dream, while there were the more immediate and tangible events of life in a lively city playing out right before her.

Jonathan, who had just been engaged in an animated discussion with a solemn looking man, returned to the litter and beamed up at Clary, a new excitement iridescent in the charcoal depths of his eyes. "That was one of Blackwell's men I just spoke to. I know it's getting late but there's one last thing I wanted you to see and we're in luck. One last stop at Domaine de Cendres."

"Domaine de Cendres?" Clary echoed the strange name. Jonathan merely nodded with another mysterious smile, shot out more orders and then they were on the move again.

Even with her limited knowledge of the outlay of Alicante, Clary could see that their destination appeared to be on the edge of the city, where the buildings gave way to what looked like some sort of green, not unlike the one in Gard. Only much bigger and much more crowded. She dismounted the litter with some assistance from Jonathan, who hastily paid for and dispatched their transport.

"We're late." He remarked with some disappointment, hauling Clary by the arm, "No matter. Come on"

"Late for what? Jonathan, where-" Clary was ignored, Jonathan towing her none to gently after him through the crowd. The assembled people were just as impatient as her brother, shoving and cursing around Clary. Thankfully, Jonathan's grip on her was as tight as shackles. He caught the eye of a stout, bald man, who gave the Prince a thrilled wave and beckoned for some men at arms to assist them. Soon they were surfacing from the throng.

Clary greedily gulped in a lungful of fresh air as she was steered onto a kind of makeshift platform.

"Your Highness! I was led to believe you would not be attending."

"Aldertree." Jonathan greeted their new companion with a brisk nod, "I happened to be in the area, too close to miss it."

"Excellent, my lord" Aldertree enthused, his attention turning to Clary as she knew it eventually would. "And who might this lady be? I am sure you look familiar my dear, I just can't place a name."

"It doesn't matter who she is" her brother interjected, staring off with an expression of obvious impatience. "It should have started by now."

As if in response to his complaint, the crowd before them coursed forward with renewed vigour, chanting and bellowing.

Clary strained her eyes trace the epicentre of the commotion. She had a moderately clear vision of what seemed to a series of poles. Three of them, assembled in a rough circle, surrounded by rubbish and spare bits of wood.

Comprehension sank through her as an icy weight, spilling a chill through her tightening chest and into her stomach.

"Jonathan," she turned to her brother, her voice strained, "I don't want to-" She trailed off as she realised her brother was utterly deaf to anything she had to say. He was focused entirely on the grotesque scene unfolding before them.

The clamour of the crowd peaked as there was some movement around the foot of the stakes. A group of rough soldiers hauled the guilty forward while the crowd fidgeted in a violent frenzy of weeping, swearing and jeering.

There were three of them, shapeless sacks in the substitute of clothing covering their starved and broken limbs. Each had their heads pitifully shorn. Two had the appearance of being male but the third- oh dear God- the third was a girl, scarcely older than Clary.

Breathlessly bordering on hysteria, the Princess clutched at her brother "Jonathan!" she pleaded with a quiet wail.

"Be quiet! He hissed at her, shaking her arm off anxiously. Clary's stomach capsized, but her eyes couldn't be wrenched away.

The accused were briskly secured with ropes. As though they could run, none of the poor wretches looked fit to stand unaided! One of the men was frantically muttering to himself what in what must have been prayer. The other wept unashamedly and with complete abandon. The girl was stony eyed and utterly silent as she was bound.

By now Clary was shaking all over, "I can't watch this. They can'tdothis!" a strangled protest finally escaped her stinging throat.

Knowing that certain practices happened and witnessing them were two very different things.

"They are heretics who have denied the authority of the Church in Rome, my dear." Aldertree told her cheerfully, "The flames give them a taste of hell. A final warning for them to repent before they perish."

"They're lighting!" Jonathan announced with dark glee. The surrounding kindling caught fire. Clary tried to avert her gaze, only to have her turn away hindered by Jonathan's hands, grabbing at her face. "Watch!" he commanded, "Look upon it well. What becomes of disobedience. Heresy must be dealt with like any other pestilence! Youburnit out!" His fingers bit into her soft skin. Clary struggled in vain, feeling her stomach twist painfully once again and the sugared fruit she'd eaten earlier rise as acid bile in the back of her throat.

The cries of the dying seemed to excite the crowd more than before and they surge together, bodies packing tight and, blocking from Clary's sight all but the tips of the heretic's heads and the glow of the climbing, punishing flames.

But the thick press of bodies could not drown out the screams.

-0000000000000000-

Upon return to the Gard, it transpired that Clary's absence had been noted.

Letting herself back into her bedchamber Clary encountered Simon, halting mid-pace to frown at her, "Where have you been?!" he demanded, striding over to her and contradicting his angry words with a tight embrace.

For a long moment Clary just clung to him, revelling in his familiar soap and resin smell.

"I was out with Jonathan," she stated numbly when she trusted herself to speak.

"Without so much as word?" Simon shook his head incredulously, "Clary we've been beside ourselves! We didn't know what to do or say! We were sure a report to the King would buy us a guaranteed trip to the gallows." A guilty glance confirmed his story, poor Rebecca certainly looked as though she'd been crying.

"I am sorry," she apologised feebly "Jonathan told me not to tell anyone or we would surely be caught." She reached for Rebecca's hand and gave it a despondent squeeze. Rebecca squeezed back, quick as ever to forgive.

Simon was still studying her with puzzled concern. It was times like these she wished he didn't know her so well. "Clary, what happened?"

She looked at Simon and thought of him lighting his Sabbath candle where no one could see, saying his prayers where no one could hear. Simon, whose people were all supposed to have left Idris decades ago under royal decree. Simon and his family, who had always loved Clary like their own, however contradictory their beliefs.

They weren't a pestilence. They were just a people.

And yet the church courts would make no distinction between Jews and Lutherans. Heresy was anything beyond the boundaries of what the Cardinals and the King believed.

"No. Nothing happened. I'm just exhausted."

"I had some supper saved for you, that should see you somewhat revived" Rebecca said, running her hands over her cheeks once more to dry them before striding out in search of food. Clary swallowed her protest that she wasn't fit to eat a bite as she watched the door swing shut in her wake. She managed to deflect Simon's further questions about the day's events while they waited for Rebecca's return and settled herself reluctantly at the table, decisively sitting with her back to the fireplace.

Minutes later, the elder Lewis sibling returned bearing a plate. Clary lifted her cutting knife only to pause mid-air. On any other occasion the tender cuts of brown meat would have looked delicious. Well-cooked, slightly burnt even, exactly as she liked it. Tonight, the smell of the charred black edges sent a wrench to her gut.

Clary just about made it to the privy before she emptied the contents of her stomach.

Chapter 5: Steps

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Steps

Road to Chatton House, South of Alicante, May 1536

As the court began its summer progress, Clary came to realise that the perilous not-royal barge was not so bad after all. She would sooner take her chances in it than ever place a foot in the stirrups again.

She'd thought that her days of travelling would be over when she had reached the capital, at least until she would have to depart with a trousseau and dowry intact. But the King always spent his summer months on progress; touring his kingdom with all the pomp and ceremony his royal treasury would allow, visiting with some of his most favoured subjects. Given Clary held the coveted position of first lady at this court, she was expected to join in the expedition.

Now her thighs ached, having been clenched in panic around the sides of her mount for hours.

Not only was Clary struggling to keep her horse on course and herself on its back, but she had the honour of doing so right behind the King at the head of the train.

It was growing increasingly difficult to keep her tears at bay.

The court left Alicante and the order of the procession began to slip. As more time passed by, Clary realised that there was a notable gap growing between her father and herself. Valentine's attention had waned and seemed to have forgotten about her once again. Once the citizens of Alicante had caught the necessary glimpse of their princess there was no need to keep her quite so close.

The King's cunning companions and ever-opportunistic lords soon filtered in to take her place. Jonathan had gone his separate way, galloping off with a small group of select companions some half hour ago. Not that Clary would be sad to see him go. She could not think of her brother without thinking of that burning, and his fervour for it.

Valentine would likely worry about Clary and her brother again only when they reached their destination, Chatton House.

In a soft crunch of hooves, Lucian Graymark drew level with Clary. He had barely spoken to her since her arrival in Alicante. Their verbal exchanges had been limited to insisting she call him Luke and enquiries as to whether she had slept well or had enough to eat.

Luke did not seem to know what to say to her any more than Clary knew what to say to him. She had deduced he was a friend of her mother's and learned Luke had once been considered for her father's Lord Chancellor, many years ago. That had certainly held her attention. Lord Chancellor? The most prominent lord in the realm and her father's right hand, carrying the seal of state and issuing commands on the King's behalf? None of that seemed to fit with the dusty riding boots, untidy brown hair and kindly blue eyes.

Clary had not thought the prospect of Chancellorship was something one lost and managed to recover from.

She had tried to broach it with Luke, "Ah it was a long time ago" he told her with a sheepish laugh, "Valentine thought he was doing a friend a favour. But we were both very young, and I was entirely unequal to the task. The King's more senior advisors all told him so. So I agreed to step aside in favour of a more experienced lord and spent some years in Italy instead, making the most of my lost burden." Clary could hear the details being omitted, but she had judged it prudent not to press on with an interrogation.

As he greeted her with a nod and a smile Clary quickly motioned he ride beside her. She could do with the company.

"Fear not." He told her softly, "This court would test the resolve of a saint."

Clary surrendered to a pained smile, "Is it so obvious?"

"A little, but one could not blame you. It is best to remember that all of us here were new at a time. We have all made blunders we would rather not recall. For instance, I once put the elder Duke of Broceland's hair on fire at a feast when the Spanish ambassador was visiting, all because I was trying to draw his attention to a gravy stain on his sleeve. I'd wager you have not humiliated yourself so greatly."

"Perhaps not to that degree. " She admitted with a chuckle.

"Now that my dignity is gone you must tell me your woes."

Surprisingly this time conversation sprang up between them easily. Clary hadn't realised until she had started speaking how grateful she was to have someone who listened to her just because she wanted to talk. Even better, for once her mare seemed entirely content to march along by Luke's own horse without mishap, leaving her free to properly engage in the discussion.

Engrossed as she was in this easy new companionship Clary was nonetheless diverted from their conversation by a disturbance at the head of the train. "Is something wrong?" she enquired of Luke. "No, Your Highness I believe we are nearing a village. It is likely that some of the commoners have turned out to see the royal progress."

Sure enough, it was not long before Clary found herself drawing level with some of her father's loyal subjects lining the road. She had seen such folk before of course, laypeople had come to the convent often enough seeking employment, shelter or sanctuary. On her journey to Alicante, she had seen peasants hard at work in the fields, but this was the first time Clary had encountered such a mass of common country people. The sight surprised her more than it should have. The crowds applauded and called their approval as the royal party passed by. It sounded hollow.

On their departure from the city the roads had been lined with cheers and frequent cries of 'God save the King' amongst other blessings, but the crowd in Alicante had been comprised of plump merchants and thriving tradesmen with their wives, children and lucky apprentices. Now Clary moved alongside groups of men dutifully docking their dusty caps or rough straw hats, lowering their stern, smouldering gazes to muddy, hole riddled boots. Their women spread rough brown skirts and dirty aprons into the required curtseys. Bare-footed, filthy children scampered beside the procession in coarse, makeshift clothes that tended to be either too big or too small.

Clary became more acutely aware of her new ivy coloured travelling cape and supple leather gloves at the sight. There was a perceptible hostility in the displays of submission, Clary was sure of it. Though the labour cracked hands now waved greetings and their bony limbs made no move of aggression, one glimpse at the seething eyes flipped her stomach. Upon noticing that Luke had pressed himself closer to her and a line of armed men in royal livery were currently forming a wall of flesh and metal between the peasants and the court members, Clary realised this was no paranoia.

She turned to Luke and murmured desperately, "What ails them so? What grievance could possibly warrant such enmity?" She had trawled through her mind to conjure an answer to her own question and could not find one, unless there had been a war or some natural disaster no one had told her of.

"Many grievances Princess." Luke informed her sorrowfully, throwing her a meaningful look to hint at a fuller explanation to come.

Indeed, once the village was behind them and roads were clear once again Luke cleared his throat. "A series of bad harvests, Your Highness. Not enough to cause any great catastrophe but such misfortune always precedes hardship."

Clary was not pacified, "Those were not the expressions of hardship. That was hatred."

Luke shifted uncertainly in his saddle and glanced over his shoulder. Clary forced her expression to thaw. "Speak plainly, sir. If I am to represent the needs of my country abroad then I ought to know what those problems are."

Luke seemed to start at her words, and to her astonishment he took one look at her set jaw and determined gaze and burst out laughing. "Dear God, you are the very picture of your mother when you look like that." He hastily recollected himself and smiled at her again awkwardly, "With respect you are to be a wife, not an ambassador."

"A wife can be far more effective than any ambassador in promoting her country's interests, I believe."

"Well said. And I quite agree. Nevertheless, I dare not speak to plainly, Madam." his voice dropped.

Clary was not for giving ground. Once the court halted for a brief respite, she swung her aching legs out of the saddle and cornered Lucian Graymark again. "Now we are quite alone" she stated, having waved away a groom with her horse, "And we can conclude our conversation without worrying of eavesdroppers."

"I realise I will know no peace until I relent."

"Correct."

"I must ask, my lady, that you refrain from having similar conversations with anyone else and exercise the utmost caution in repeating what I tell you."

Clary nodded impatiently at his warnings.

"As I said before, the harvests have been bad and the people find themselves with smaller yields. You surely know that agriculture is the cornerstone of Idris's wealth. The city merchants trade in what grows here and on what can be provided by the livestock that grazes in our fields. The lords live on the rents their farming tenants offer, that and the profits they can make on what grows on their land."

Clary cast her mid back to the dark, envious stares she had just ridden through.

"And regardless of what does or doesn't grow on their land, lords are not willing to make many concessions on how they live. They want the same lifestyle they have always had, the same lifestyle their fathers and grandfathers had."

"Why should lords have to sacrifice anything. Is it not the lot of peasants to live modestly and be grateful?" Clary demanded wryly.

"Exactly. It has been thus for generations. But with recent crop failures, things have grown more difficult. It is a matter of ensuring the lower classes have just about enough to get by."

"But why? For fur cloaks and a new hunting horse? That's despicable."

"I agree. But the maintenance of luxury is not the sole reason for this policy I fear." Her informant certainly looked on the verge of what he recognised as potentially a very bad decision. Clary blinked and waited. "On top of the rent there are taxes to the Crown. The ultimate insurance of poverty."

The new gold chain around her throat suddenly seemed to tighten its grip, as if to strangle her. "To keep the Crown in all its glory?" She asked in a brittle, cracking voice, swamped in guilt.

"Amongst other reasons. His Majesty is quite firmly of the opinion that repression is the best form of protection." Luke visibly struggled to keep his tone mild, she could trace the disapproval rippling underneath his nonchalant words.Careful Luke,Clary thought,you're lucky I agree with you.

He fixed that penetrating blue gaze on her once again, reading the appalled shock writ clearly there. If she wasn't mistaken his response was one of approving relief.

"It has worked, of course. The peasants cannot bear arms, nor meet for anything other than religious services and gatherings are closely monitored. Every penny one can spare and even those that cannot be spared are scraped out for the royal coffers and no one pays any attention to how the figures so meticulously inked into the ledgers got there. If the result is another lowborn child starving to death, then it is no great tragedy. One less to worry about."

"And the Church? Surely with all their influence they could put a stop to it?" Clary demanded, thinking of how the nuns of the Holy Cross had never shirked from helping those in direst need, giving alms and taking in desperate families. She could clearly conjure the kindly face of the Mother Superior, extolling the need for Christian love and compassion to her novices and to Clary.

Luke shook his head grimly, "Those who receive sizeable tithes and donations from the Crown do not ask questions."

-0000000000000000-

The rolling gait of the horse underneath him was a welcome relief to Jace. After being stuck in that hulking Gard he would have been glad of any escape, but it was good to be back in Wayfarer's saddle. As though he too was relishing the new freedom, Wayfarer tossed back his head, powerful muscles rippling in his dappled neck. He truly was a fine animal; Jace suspected he had cost the Earl of Adamant a small fortune but when the time had come to send his boys away to the French court, Robert had insisted they needed good horses.

If Alec had ever been slightly resentful that his father was treating Jace on an equal plane to his true son and heir, he had never shown it. In the years they had grown up together Robert had often singled out Jace to praise his superior learning and swordsmanship, but Alec never spoke a word of dissent. He had certainly never done aught but encourage Jace's successes. The world needed more Alec Lightwoods.

Admittedly in the beginning there had been surly expressions and muttered curses, but within weeks of his arrival at Adamant Jace had decided to spurn Mayrse and Isabelle's willingness to cosset and nurture him in favour of Alec's solemn dislike. Over the following months it had gradually dissipated into a solid friendship. Years later, the two were just as inseparable. Jace was sure that Alec was the only person in this world he could unreservedly trust.

Presently that was truer than ever. He was in the King of Idris's train and surrounded by courtiers who, now that the surname 'Herondale' had leaked out, tended to squint at him as though he were some sort of exotic beast in a menagerie. Currently it was Lord Aldertree who was considering Jace with curious calculation. Realising his shameless observation had been noted Aldertree's lips lifted in a half-apologetic smile, though his watery eyes never left Jace's face.

Swallowing roughly and digging his heels firmly into Wayfarer's sides, Jace urged his mount to pick up the pace.

So far, the summer progress had not been very progressive. The court would be spending the summer months drifting around the countryside in order to avoid the plague and rising stench of human dirt that the summer heat brought to the city. They would visit the King's various country estates and those of the lucky noblemen whom the Valentine was willing to bestow a visit on. From what Jace had seen on their progress thus far, the cost of housing and entertaining a royal court could very easily bankrupt the family favoured by His Majesty's attention.

Attention that the French party were fighting hard to catch and keep. Valentine was far from a fickle man. Yet as far as his daughter's marriage was concerned, he seemed keen to hedge his bets. He never allowed his attention to linger on one diplomatic party for very long.

Mysteriously Alec's company was still very much in demand, today he was riding at the head of the party with the Morgensterns themselves. Jace got the feeling that Alec's cluelessness for the attention was somewhat affected. But he also knew pressing Alec would never yield any answers. He tried to stay confident Alec would open up when he was ready.

His worries were not helped any by the sight of Prince Jonathan approaching him at a sharp trot with Sebastian Verlac on one flank and Alec on the other. Jace sincerely hoped that the Prince could just ride by without a cutting comment or better still, pitch forward over the horse's shoulder and land spectacularly flat in the dirt. As ever, save bad luck Jace had none at all.

Riding obnoxiously close, Jonathan circled his horse by as though he were impatient to move away as quickly as possible.

"Herondale," he sneered with the usual lack of courtesy. "You'll be pleased to know I've finally found a use for you."

Struggling to refrain from sighing aloud, Jace waited. The Prince's companions lurked nearby, Sebastian Verlac looking bored and Alec looking apologetically awkward.

"I await instruction with anticipation." Jace offered dryly.

"Have you seen my sister?"

Jace raised an eyebrow in surprise "She was with you and your father at the head of the party last time I saw."

"She fell behind some time ago. My father wants to know what's delaying her. Go and fetch her for us, would you?"

Behind him Verlac snickered as though Jonathan's idea was some sort of genius. Even as his stomach burned and hands shook slightly with the desire to help the Crown Prince off his horse with his fists, Jace kept his face what was hopefully blank. It wasn't as though there was a small army of pages and servants in the train who could fetch the Princess, oh no, Jace was the one who had to degrade himself to do it.

Clever snub as always, Your Highness.

He could feel Alec's silent pleading and realised he could possibly work this prospect of seeing the Princess alone to his advantage.

"It would be an honour, sir" Jace said with carefully measured sweetness and turned Wayfarer to canter back the way they had come.

The soothing pound of hooves along the cropped green grass of the main road edging Broceland forest soon made Jace's temper cool. He could almost pretend that he was still at home in Adamant and taking the usual afternoon ride with Alec and Izzy. Pretty as Alicante had been, the rolling green fields of Idris were beautiful.

The kings of Idris may wear all kinds of jewels, but their real treasure was the fertile farmland they ruled. One glance at the abundant emerald glow of the surrounding fields was confirmation enough of how Idris had managed to prosper and hold its own as a European power despite its small size. Today especially they made a pleasant sight, the sky peeking playfully through the soft patches of cloud was a perky blue, and bright sweeps of sunlight wavered and danced on the hills in the distance.

Jace happily rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension of the past month as he revelled in the warmth of the sun on his back and the brisk breeze that bounced across his cheeks, heavily scented with the comforting scents of rain-soaked leaves, wildflowers and the rich tang of horse sweat.

A happy mood that could only deepen at the sight of a struggling Clary Morgenstern by the roadside. Her horse must have decided that it preferred the bordering shrubbery to the open road, leaving its mistress stranded and grappling with the plants pressing against her. Clary was in a state of disarray; her face was cast in the shade of an overhanging tree and there were streaks of mud on her smart travelling cape. Her cap was also crooked, and some leaves had taken up residence in her hair.

From the glimpses Jace had caught of her thus far on his travels she was not enjoying the journey half so much as he was. He spied her clutching at the reins desperately and feet floundering in the stirrups as she tried to stay on the horse's back. The horse, of course, only pranced and jerked at her lack of control, seemingly as baffled at her incompetence as Jace was.

Beside her Isabelle was barking some futile orders, cutting a sharp contrast to her mistress from her perfect poise in the saddle.

"Heels down, Clary! Down! That's more like it, now sit up straight!"

"I am!" the Princess cried, huddled in the saddle like a hunchback.

"No you're not," Isabelle informed her with unchecked exasperation, "I thought you said you could ride?"

"It's not my fault Isabelle! It's this stupidmule!"

"First off, the palfrey has been the chosen mount of noblewomen and queens for centuries. Secondly, it is not her fault. She's just excited to get fresh grass under her hooves. And thirdly will you please shorten your reins? They're like washing lines."

Clary wrestled frantically with the strips of leather between her fingers. In return the pale grey mare released a tremulous whinny against the bit clattering in her teeth and tried a half-hearted rear, lifting her forelegs a few inches in the air. It wasn't enough to unseat the Princess, but it was enough for her to emit a breathless yelp that only startled the poor horse further.

The beseeching look on Isabelle's face and the white fear on Clary's made Jace draw Wayfarer to a halt.

"It does indeed seem that I did Snowy a great favour. It would be a favour for any horse to be liberated from your care." He called over.

"So, you admit you stole Snowy!" Clary retorted through gritted teeth. Jace was both impressed and frustrated in equal measures at her unwavering pride.

"Kick!" Isabelle rang out another command upon despairing of Jace's assistance and Clary flapped her legs obediently but uselessly. She loosed another little shriek as her mare lurched forward a stride, only to swiftly change her mind and retreat several steps. The mare's pearly rump pressed dangerously close to Isabelle's bay whose nostrils flared warningly. The two horses churned against one another for a dreadful moment until Isabelle managed to steer her steed away before it could buck.

"Are you going to help or not?" Izzy snapped at Jace, eyes flashing with fearful anger.

"I thought only to mock and gloat, but since lives are clearly in danger…" he sighed and edged Wayfarer closer to the Princess, where he was astonished to note that her eyes had taken on a glossy quality and her lower lip trembled marginally.

For Jace there was only one thing he sought to avoid more keenly than a girl with the pox, and that was a girl on the verge of tears. It was almost enough to send him in the opposite direction at full gallop. Then he recalled this was not the first time he had seen Clary cry and continued his resolute approach. Once upon a time he gladly tended to her scraped knees and dried her tears.

"Go away!" she ordered, but the venom was significantly diluted by her obvious distress.

"Princess-" he started.

"I don't need your help!" The words were poorly punctuated by a sorry sniff. Jace guessed it wouldn't be long before the tears she was barley holding back started to fall in earnest. For the first time Jace looked at her and stopped seeing Valentine's precious and haughty daughter. He started to see a bitter and frightened young woman, just weeks off her seventeenth birthday.

She'd just been thrust into a cut-throat game of power with no preparation and no friends, where she was nothing more than a prize.

Jace drew close enough to see how brightly the copper flakes of her freckles stood out against her blanched cheeks, and that there was a red rim around her eyes. He leaned over Wayfarer's neck and took a firm hold of her reins, stilling her horse momentarily.

Clary sniffed again defiantly and refused to meet his gaze.

"Stop it" he told her gently but firmly, "You are starting to sound like Pangborn."

Despite herself, she laughed shakily. Then she sucked in a breath and lifted her head, fixing Jace with a now dry-eyed stare. "I don't need your help," She repeated, this time more steadily. "I've given up. I'll walk."

"Your Highness, I fear I must tell you that Chatton House is miles away and you don't know the way."

"I'll just follow the court."

"The court is long gone. In fact, I suspect at this rate you've even missed the baggage train."

"Then I'll…let the sun guide me"

Jace merely raised an eyebrow. "Madam, much as I am willing to obey your every wish, I am not only here to provide you with the treat of my company. Your brother sent me. His Majesty is waiting for you."

He thought for an awful moment she was going to remain obstinate, but the stubborn set of her shoulders finally slackened.

"Come on." He urged her, in the same firm but encouraging way he had helping Max Lightwood find his seat on a horse. "Sit up, shoulders back. Just as you would at the dinner table."

She stared at him incredulously.

"They may not have taught you how to ride but I know they taught you how to sit like a lady."

Slowly, she mimicked his command. Clary unfurled from her curled position, an uncertain flower blooming.

"There we go. Now relax, Princess. Your unease makes your horse nervous too." Tentatively Clarissa released the tension in her small body and gradually the horse's fidgeting subsided.

"It worked!"

"No need for that amount of disbelief. I always know what I'm talking about." Jace released his hold and drew Wayfarer back. "Now, no big kicks, she's a gentlewoman's pony not some beginner's plodder. Just turn your heels in, quickly but sharply. That should get her going without startling her."

Complying, Clarissa managed to successfully manoeuvre her mount forward a few paces without catastrophe. With only a few more words of encouragement and advice he managed to persuade both horse and rider back onto the road to where Isabelle waited. "Thank God!" she greeted them, sweeping a low hanging branch out of her face in irritation as she trotted over to them. "I was beginning to despair of you in earnest!"

"Never an ounce of faith" Jace muttered under his breath as they made their way down the road, the princess bobbing along tentatively and flanked by the French.

Jace suspected if Santiago or any of the other ambassadors saw this they'd have fits. The thought thoroughly amused him for a time, then he really began to feel their agonisingly slow pace and the impatience set in.

He sensed that Isabelle felt the same way, mostly because she voiced her frustration. "Why didn't you just tell them you couldn't ride in the first place? They would have happily supplied a litter you know" she paused to let her words sink in before adding in a not altogether quiet undertone, "Then we'd be at dinner already."

"I can ride!" Clarissa retorted. "At least I thought I could" she stated sullenly.

"And that means…?"

"It would appear my mother only ever sanctioned the most reliable of mounts. The kind that struggled to go at any sort of speed and preferred to just trudge along reliably. She likely sought to minimise the risk, keep me as safe as possible. My mother was like that. Is like that." She corrected herself abruptly. "Now that they've given me a horse that isn't mindlessly obedient," her horse accentuated her point by veering off the road to seize a mouthful of the hedgerow before Jace caught hold of the bridle and pulled it back, "I can't quite manage" the Princess concluded sheepishly.

"Well at least now we have the opportunity to fully appreciate the Idrisian scenery" Jace pointed out.

"Yes. Just look at all those fields. Extraordinary. It is hardly as though they look just like every field in France, or indeed Europe!" Isabelle enthused with her usual sunny temperament.

Jace had no choice but to respond with all the pretentious humour of an older sibling. "They are not like every other field in Europe. In truth the fields of Italy and Spain are not nearly as green."

Isabelle threw him a disdainful look, "I'm sure to be eternally grateful for the knowledge."

The Princess's mount swerved rapidly of course again, effectively cutting off the rising argument. Clary, who had previously been watching the banter with a strange curiosity blushed fiercely. "I am sorry for… this" she volunteered with evident mortification as she had to be rescued once again.

"Fear not, Your Highness, if the King asks what kept you so late and you are too embarrassed to recount this tale, you can always tell him Monsieur Herondale pulled you off your horse and dishonoured you in a ditch." Isabelle smirked with pitch black humour.

"Isabelle!" Clarissa coughed out with deepening horror.

"That isn't funny," Jace told her sharply. Her only response was a pert little shrug, but she did fix her gaze straight ahead and lapse into silence.

The discomfort stretched on for some time as none of the party endeavoured to speak, until at last Jace cleared his throat again and sighed, "Well if we're going to be here for a while. We may as well make some use of it-"

"You may not have me in a ditch" Clarissa interrupted before he could proceed.

Jace's head whipped round to look at her in disbelief, only to see the usual challenging gleam had returned to her eyes. Her lips flickered in the beginnings of an expectant smile as she regarded him.

"Of course not. A lady of your position must have standards. How about behind that tre-"

"Your Excellence, I do not think it is in your best interest to complete that sentence." Clary was truly back on form. Then she uttered an airy little laugh, "Very well. There will never be a more opportune moment, I suppose."

Jace spared a second to consider whether a 'Lucky tree' comment would be fatal. Thankfully the Princess pushed on herself before he could make a truly detrimental decision.

"Tell me all about your Prince. Not the things I usually hear about my suitors, how much land he owns, how politically strong and masculine he is. I want to know what he is really like. What his interests are."

"Ah the Dauphin. Francois, the Duke of Brittany. Well for a start he is only a year your senior, and I do believe you have much in common."

"Like expert horsemanship?"

She managed to startle a genuine laugh out of Jace at the last comment and seemed pleased with herself for doing do.

"As it happens you do! Francois is not much of a sportsman, although he is skilled enough to be so. He prefers his studies. An avid reader. A bookworm like you. He had a difficult childhood but has grown into a very strong and serious person. He is not a complete dullard, neither is he vain or frivolous like other princes his age. He is well read, well informed and a good debater. He listens well and is not too proud to allow himself to be dissuaded or swayed by a good argument. He cares what those around him have to say. That is important in a Prince. I believe he as all the makings of a very fine king, but also a good husband."

"And he's handsome" Isabelle informed her mistress "Even more handsome than his father, they say, and they speak true. He's tall and sturdy, with blue eyes and golden-brown hair. He has a rare but a nice smile, the sort of smile that makes you want to see it on his face again and again. He's the joy of his parent's lives, and he is kind to his stepmother. People who ought to know say that is something to look for in a prospective partner."

Clarissa grew increasingly thoughtful as they spoke.

"You know him well?"

Jace considered the thoughtful but charismatic young man and the nights they had spent sitting up into the small hours, enthusing and critiquing their latest reads.

"Would it surprise you to learn that we are friends?"

"Somewhat. Then I trust you will answer my next question honestly with the happiness of a friend in mind: do you think we would be a good match?"

Unexpectedly, it was Isabelle who answered, "I think you could love him. And it's quite possible he could love you. He is the sort of boy it would be easy to love, if you were willing to open your heart to the possibility. I think he would be faithful in wedlock, because has seen was his father's hordes of mistresses have done to his stepmother and heard what they did to his mother. He would not do that to his wife."

The Princess nodded, slowly absorbing their words, only the little crease between her eyebrows betraying how she was likely tearing apart all they had said for a deep analysis of the man who could be her husband.

The man whom Jace was determined to make her husband, he reminded himself.

-0000000000000000-

There was only the lonely thump of hooves on the path and the occasional chirp of wind as the dreary trio trudged toward Chatton house.

With every passing minute Clary stayed stuck in the saddle, Chatton sounded more and more like a paradise. All she wanted was a warm bed and a hot bath to soothe her aching limbs.

But there was still no sight of the manner.

And with every passing minute the silence grew heavier. Clary almost wished for her horse to start playing up again just so that someone wouldspeak.She suspected that Isabelle had dozed off on her dawdling horse. The ambassador wasn't going to talk to her.

For Clary, the amount of time she had been left stuck inside her own head was becoming unbearable. Lately, such periods of reflection sooner or later lead to her reliving those terrible moments stood over the stakes. The stench of burning flesh and sound of dying screams rolled around and around in her head and echoed in most of her nightmares.

"You seem unwell." The envoy's voice chimed through her inner tumult, "What's the matter?"

"Have you ever seen someone die?"

Jace Herondale blinked at her, his gold eyes darkly curious as he weighed up her question. Part of Clary wanted to reel the words back in and insist she hadn't meant to speak at all, but the larger part of her genuinely wanted an answer. She wanted to scratch the surface and see if this boy truly was vanity and arrogance the whole way through.

"Princess, I have seen hundreds of men die." Jace Herondale told her after a considerable pause.

Her breath caught at the admission, she didn't know what she had expected, but it certainly hadn't been that. "What?"

She watched his throat bob as he swallowed. "I was at Gavinana."

Clary wracked her brains, trying to recall the history and politics lessons her mother had given her, frantically mouthing Gavinana to herself as she tried to place the familiar name. "Gavinana! Yes that was- outside Florence was it not? Several years ago."

Jace's brows raised, surprised at her knowledge. He coughed rapidly to clear his throat before continuing. "It was. Six years ago."

"You fought at that battle?" Clary echoed with shrill disbelief, "But how- I thought that it was fought between the Spanish Emperor's army and people of Florence themselves! France promised an army yes, but to the best of my knowledge it never arrived. So how could a Frenchman have fought at that battle?"

His amber eyes flashed. Mayhap from a mixture of astonishment at her knowledge and offence that she'd all but called him a liar.

"I spent hour after hour being versed in the politics of Idris and all the other main European powers. Such events have been carved on my brain. Do not presume to spin tales to try and impress me."

Her response struck at a hollow silence. Then the ambassador's inflamed temper sparked up. "You know your battles; I'll give you that Princess. But you do not know my story and I'll thankyounot to presume you do." Upon conclusion of his snapped reply, Jace turned away from her in a rather sobering parody of her own demonstrations of offence from the previous weeks.

There was something about his very sincere and quiet umbrage that made Clary check herself. It was as though he'd opened the doors just a crack to her and her haughty response had made him slam them shut so abruptly she could practically hear the bang.

Quelling her pride and shifting uncertainly in the saddle Clary tried again. "Perhaps if you-"

"Perhaps if I what? Would you have me tear open my clothes and exhibit the scar across my chest I earned there for you, and you could study it and decide on its authenticity? God help me Madam! I have been many things, but a liar was never one of them."

The bitter anger swelling and all but spinning off him promptly sealed Clary's lips.

"I am sorry." She said quietly, only half expecting him to hear her, filled with humbling guilt.

He laughed bluntly, "Never fear. I ought to be used to the prejudices by now."

Clary decided to file that comment away to think on later and she spoke again, this time with greater care. "Why were you at Florence? And what was it like?" His expression grew glassily pensive and just as Clary was beginning to despair of ever receiving answers he began to speak.

"The Earl of Adamant sent me. I was with one of his men and we were supposed to be meeting with some bankers. You'll find quite a few of those in Florence, the city's famous for them." He couldn't resist a little sly humour before continuing his tale, "I was just a boy. The timing was terrible: the Roman states were at war and the city fell under siege at the end of the month. We did not get out in time."

'The man who was supposed to be supervising us fell ill of a fever and expired after five months. After that it was just the two of us, Alec and I. Two boys who were not supposed to be there; two boys alone and trapped in a city under siege.

'You cannot imagine what it is like, in a siege. At first there's that air of stubbornness and defiance; that determination that theywillnot take your city. Then the food starts to trickle out. Now it's the waiting that becomes hard, interminable in fact because now you're hungry and you just want something tohappen.This builds until the anticipation and the desperation hangs thick and heavy in the air like a putrid smoke.

'It's bad enough being trapped in a city like that but when you're foreigners? Worse than that you'reFrench. You're one of those lying, faithless bastards whose king fills Florentine ears with promise of an army and aid and soon but never delivers. Soon we were scared to unlock the doors at all.

'The Prince of Orange gathered an army. When someone knocks on your door and offers you a sword and the opportunity to prove yourself it's hard to refuse, especially when you've longed for this to happen for so long. Almost ten months we were locked in that city. We marched out with dreams of glory and a real life game of heroes.

'I was fifteen years old.

'I can still feel it now, you know, the unforgivable heat of the sun and the jostling and swearing of the men around me. Because they don't care that you are the son and the ward of the Earl of Adamant when you're French, so they sent us out with the infantry along with common labourers and the lowly tradesmen.

'There's a reason they call what they teach noble boys in the practice yard swordplay. That's all it is: play. The real thing is just blood and fear. Blindly swinging a weapon and praying you aren't destined to die among foreign dust and the blood of strangers. At one point a fellow soldier spotted me and my reluctance. "What's the matter boy? Scared to die?"

"No" I told him. "Just scared of dying here"

"Why, where's better for you? What have you got that's so worth living for?"

'And I couldn't quite answer him. There was no great reason for me to want to live, other than fear of what lay or didn't lie on the other side for me. And this profound sense that I couldn't die before I had found a reason to live.

'In the beginning we were winning. Apparently. I was barely more than a child and terrified out of my wits. Then reinforcements came for the Imperialists, and we started losing. In the end there is no honour in a warrior's death. Men die pleading for mercy, or calling out for the Mother of God. Mostly they call out for their own mothers. It's pitiful and its plaintive, though by then you're wading through gore and guts trying to avoid the same fate and you can't spare too much sympathy.

'After a few hours I was cut down. Remarkable I lasted that long. Devil's luck cut off by a knife right across my chest. Alec was nearby, we had stuck close together through the whole fiasco. He had my attacker dead and was at my side in seconds. The last thing I remember of the field is Alec grasping my hand and forbidding me to die in that superior manner of his. He staunched the blood with his own hands and got me back to safety. How he did it I'll never know. He saved my life.

'For the next few weeks we lay low, I was quick to become Idrisian again and Alec became my cousin. Thankfully no one looked twice at the two of us. It was nearly another month before I had recovered enough for another of the Earl's men to get us out of that godforsaken city and home to Adamant."

Once his story was complete, Jace seemed to struggle join Clary in the present, shaking himself slightly as if waking from a bad dream and regarding her numbly, as if he couldn't quite believe he had just told her all he had.

Clary couldn't quite believe it herself, staring at the troubled young man before her with stunned ears and new eyes.

Perhaps he had not been the only one to draw an incorrect conclusion from their first impressions of one another.

Jace dipped his head for a moment, as though trying to collect himself. Clary could only stare at him, struggling to come to terms with the fact that her old playmate may not have grown up into the conceited and blindly ambitious person she had thought he was. But she didn't know this scarred young man any more than she had the last one.

Then Jace lifted his head and his mouth was balanced into a more familiar sarcastic half smile, only now she had a glimpse at the effort required to put it there.

"Shortly afterward I decided to dedicate my life to diplomacy. It is marginally less dangerous."

"Even serving me?" she inquired faintly, determined to play along for now and try and decode Herondale later. Jace exhaled beside her quietly.

"I did say marginally, Your Highness."

Unable to muster any kind of witty response, Clary fell back into silence and let the click and crunch of hooves on the empty road fill the noiseless evening once again. Although now that they had turned a corner Clary thought she could see the glimmer of lit windows through the growing gloom.

-000000000000000-

The flames danced on the gold band of his signet ring as Jonathan slowly let the reflection of the firelight slide off his ring on its return journey it to its rightful place on his right index finger.

He cast another bored glance over his shoulder to where his father was seated behind the huge beech wood table from which he was conducting the Crown's business for the duration of their stay.

With each passing year Jonathan found himself sitting in on his father's meetings more and more. Receiving an increasing number of dull lessons in kingship. All of this was truly unnecessary in his opinion. Jonathan did not need to learn how to be a prince. He had been born one. That was the point.

Valentine swiped his quill over the current document, etching in his assent with a flourishing signature. "You will ride to Alicante as swiftly as possible" he informed Alexander Lightwood who was stood on the other side of the desk with his usual grimly sombre expression and his legs planted a few feet apart. Bracing himself for impact.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Upon arrival you will give this" he passed the freshly sealed letter over "And the accompanying package to Magnus Bane and only Magnus Bane. As we discussed."

"Yes, Sire." The Lightwood boy bowed and began to back out of the room before halting a few paces from the door and peering up at the king as though he had something to say.

"Is there a problem, Lord Lightwood?"

"Not at all. I merely wondered if your Majesty was sure I will not needed here."

"Oh no, Alexander. I can spare you for a few days. It is hardly a difficult task. When you return you will still have a place amongst us, although what that place will be depends on the outcome of this little mission."

"Of course but I-"

"You," Valentine interrupted behind the rim of his raised glass, "Work for me now. For as long as you reside under my roof and follow in my train you defer only to me. You make yourself mine to command and in return I extend my friendship not only to you but your entire family. That much you remember Alexander." The King's words were perfectly airy, but they had the dark edges of any brewing storm cloud. Clearly, they were sufficient for Alec to absorb the magnitude of what had just been said. He dipped into another bow and swiftly completed his retreat.

Jonathan didn't bother to turn and watch him go. He remained lounging against the carved mantelpiece, drumming his fingers against what looked like a lion engraved into the warm stone. Only the rapid scratching of nib on parchment told him that his father had resumed shifting through his various documents. He wondered how long he would have to stand here waiting for attention. Then he wondered if something had happened. He couldn't think of any reason for his father to be displeased. Jonathan had fulfilled all the duties he had been given, even the especially boring ones. More or less.

Perhaps it was praise then. Aldertree had complimented his zeal in protecting his faith of late, mayhap Valentine wanted to reward Jonathan's newfound religious fervour. Although it was of little consequence to Jonathan, he would burn heretics with or without his father's explicit approval.

"Jonathan." the King spoke at last, rising from his seat and beckoning for him to approach. Jonathan moved away from the fireplace and crossed the room to where Valentine waited. As the natural light crept away through the windowsill, the light supplied by the freshly lit candles grew and bathed the room in a soft golden glow. Their light caught the green and gold in the patterned tapestries over the walls.

"Look out there. Tell me what you see."

Jonathan peered through the thick glass pane. From here he had to admit the view was quite impressive; he could see out onto the stretching lawns and gardens down to the road they had arrived by earlier.

That was when he saw what he assumed his father intended to draw his attention to, through the huge stone gate his little sister was plodding home with that idiot traitor-spawn Herondale on one shoulder and the much more pleasant form of Isabelle Lightwood on the other. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the fine form of Isabelle in a rather figure-hugging velvet riding habit.

However easy that was on the eye, Jonathan doubted it was what had snared his father's interest. This was to be about Clary then. Everything these days was.

"My sister is home safely. Thanks be to God. You could not possibly be here to complain that I didn't fetch her back myself. Clearly the escort I sent completed the task sufficiently."

"No Jonathan, I am not going to complain of you. On the contrary, I am glad you sent the escort you did." Valentine said enigmatically.

Jonathan waited, watching the trio approach with the falling dusk. If he was about to hear how great a son Jonathan Herondale had been he was also about to lose his temper. He glanced at his father to say as much, but the King's expression made him hold his tongue. Half of his father's face was shrouded in the evening shadows. There was no way Jonathan would risk uttering a syllable of speech until he felt he could predict his father's reaction.

"Look closer." Valentine commanded.

Jonathan tried again, "I see my sister surrounded by the French. I suppose I can assume that she is to go to the Dauphin. From what I hear he is the most likely suitor. I had half assumed that anyway."

Valentine smiled to himself as though he had just been told something amusing. "A worthy guess Jonathan. But not what I wanted you to think. Perhaps you need some more direction. Tell me about the line of succession as it stands today, this very hour."

Jonathan frowned. "I am your heir, first in line to the throne."

"Yes, and then?

"My heirs."

"At this very hour" Valentine repeated crisply. "You have no children. Meaning that your heir is…?"

"My sister." Jonathan stated slowly, speculating to himself what would follow and hating what he presumed.

"And who then follows Clarissa? Who is third in line to the throne of Idris at this very moment in time?" Valentine demanded.

Jonathan gritted his teeth. "I haven't thought that far ahead."

"Liar. Speak, for you know it as well as I do. You think on it more than I do."

The Prince offered a disinclined shrug, "Then I suppose it would have to be the Herondale boy."

"Yes." Valentine said shortly and sharply, "You suppose correctly." The King pointed out the window again to where the small party of latecomers were on the edge of their field of vision. "So I want you to think of him as he is right now, at this second: quite simply one, short step behind your sister."

An incredulous laugh burst from Jonathan, "He is supposed to be a threat to me? To us? Not since we lopped off his treacherous father's head. We have degraded him so much that now he comes to us as a glorified messenger, practically a serving boy. He is a nobody!"

"He is a Herondale." Valentine corrected his son briskly. "Never forget it."

"The Herondales haven't been a force to be reckoned with for almost a hundred years."

"Yes, but they share the same blood we do. Ithuriel's blood, the blood of his great dynasty. King's blood. After all this time I suppose we are overdue a Herondale that will prove a decent threat.

'Oh, you have heard the stories too Jonathan. You know all about the Herondales, how they with their golden smiles and their golden charm sat on thrones while our ancestors trekked the muddy war fields of Europe. The Herondales, with their famous beauty and their famous honour. How the people loved them.

Believe me, Jonathan, that boy is not his father. He will not be dispatched so easily. Jonathan Herondale is a contender for our throne by sheer virtue of his surname, and a serious contender because he inherited every ounce of the Herondale nature along with the name. For that there are many who would raise a banner and unsheathe a sword. He may be a glorified messenger now, but your great-grandfather was a glorified soldier, one who got lucky in battle and killed a king. Then got even luckier and persuaded a Council to crown him.

'The Morgensterns have a crown by conquest and the common folk have little love for us. There will always be those who mutter that their crops grew better, or their hens laid more when the coronet rested on the brow of Ithuriel's other heirs."

Valentine drew in a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders as though the speech had been weighing on him. "You see, my son, now my greatest fear is that there are those who will become accustomed to seeing Herondale around the throne. So accustomed that they may begin to think of him beingonthe throne." He paused for affect as the last slice of daylight disappeared from the room. "You know what they do to deposed kings and their families." Valentine concluded with soft dread.

"That will never happen" Jonathan vowed in a low growl, dropping his hand to where his sword hung on his hip. "Besides, soon you can conclude this whole marriage business and pack him off to France again."

Valentine scratched at his beard on again, moving back to settle himself in his huge chair. His eyes grew clouded and thoughtful as though he hadn't heard his son's last words at all.

Jonathan tapped his fingers on the metal hilt impatiently, "If Herondale troubles you so much why not just get rid of him?"

Valentine slammed his goblet to the desk with a bang that set the whole structure quivering. "Did you hear nothing of what I just said? Why must you always be full of ignorant wrath boy! Have I taught you nothing? You must learn to think before you strike!"

The prince flinched at his father's anger and then scrambled to make some kind of amends. "I hear you!"

"Then answer your own question. WhyisJonathan Herondale still breathing?"

"Because there are those who would draw swords for him simply because of who he is." Jonathan began, trying not to stumble on his words. "He could persuade them to do things they would never have done if it were a Morgenstern who had asked them. That could be a valuable weapon.Hecould be a valuable weapon."

Valentine simply nodded to himself, suitably pacified. He lowered his chin and propped it up in his hand, brow furrowing. "The boy has crawled away from the doors of death more than once. I once thought that if I could simply orchestrate a case of the boy being in the wrong place at the wrong time, God would favour our family. Instead, the Lord saw fit to deliver him. Jonathan Herondale is evidently a weapon God intends for us to have. But how to use that weapon…" Valentine mused in an undertone to himself. After a long moment his eyes rose to Jonathan's once again. "I am the King of Idris. Some of my subjects love me and some of them hate me, but they all obey me. You know why that is Jonathan?"

His son nodded, looked Valentine squarely in the face and recited the first lesson he had ever been taught, the one he knew as well as the Lord's prayer: "Because they fear you, Majesty. And fear is more effective than love when you want to encourage obedience."

-000000000000000-

Chapter 6: Smoulder

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Smoulder

Chatton House, Broceland, May 1536

Because Simon needed both his eyes, he decided to look at Isabelle Lightwood the same way one would look at the sun: not for any great length of time and never directly.

So far this carefully distanced admiration had gone unnoticed, not because Simon was particularly subtle (he feared the opposite were true) but simply because Isabelle would never spare someone as lowly placed and mundane as a musician a second glance.

This indifference hadn't wounded Simon in any way. He'd grown to expect such treatment from the nobles. And even if she was a serving wench, he still wouldn't have had a chance. She was too beautiful.

He could now perform his set well enough to avoid investing any real concentration in his performance, which left him free to allow a fleeting glance at her now and again. Just watching her walk through the room was enjoyable, thanks to that sultry little sway of her hips. Watching her sew was even more agreeable, because she would lean forward in a manner that complimented-and at times accentuated- her bosom.

Not that Simon was entirely shallow, but what could he do? The girl was a mortal Aphrodite and Simon was a seventeen-year-old with eyes.

Isabelle's beauty was not all he liked about her. He had watched her going about her duties as Clary's lady in waiting for almost a month now and she had made quite the impression on him. She was no falsely mellow maiden like some of the others and her head was filled with far more than ribbons and dresses. If she had something to say, she said it. If there was something she felt needed to be done, she did it. Feisty, practical and quick witted: she was everything Simon liked in a girl. It was all perfect, save one small complication: there was more chance of an invading army of rabbits conquering Christendom than Isabelle Lightwood ever returning his gaze.

Clary had noticed within days, of course. She hadn't actively discouraged it or betrayed him by telling Isabelle, but she hadn't encouraged it either.

"You know she'll run you through if she notices" was in fact all Clary had sing-songed cheerfully on the subject.

As though she were one to talk.

She was courting the company of that handsome ass of a French ambassador too often to judge the inappropriate imaginings of others. And Clary had the audacity to call it good politics.

Simon refrained from being too harsh on his friend. When the news arrived from England that their former queen had lost her head, Clary received it in a grey-faced silence. All she'd said on the matter was that it was what she'd expected, but it was obvious that she, along with the rest of Europe, was struggling to believe that an anointed consort could fall so easily and so spectacularly.

Simon was willingly led out of his sombre reflections by Isabelle's briefly chiming laugh.

This was not the first time he had invested such admiration in a girl.

For just over a year, he had been choosing the most unobtainable girls he could find to admire. Any stranger at all would suffice for him to toss his attentions at, starting with that young novice Marie at the convent of the Holy Cross and moving on to Anna the baker's daughter from the village.

Anything that would distract him from the way in which Clarissa Morgenstern had obliviously yet utterly broken his heart.

Nearly fifteen-year-old Simon should have known better than to fall in love with a Christian Princess who also happened to be his best and only friend. Sadly, Simon never had been very good at making sensible decisions. On one of those long summer afternoons when Clary could to run through the forest with him, they had settled themselves in a patch of flecked, leafy shade and Clary had confessed that she had never been kissed. Simon had pointed out that it was hardly surprising, she had been raised in a convent, and he hadn't been kissed either. Clary had pouted then, her stern little rosebud mouth sulking with her insistence that she wasn't going to be a nun and she was sure all other girls her age had already had their first kiss.

So commenced the first of their afternoon kissing lessons. Well, they had been more explorations than lessons, neither of them had known what they were doing. Really there had been naught but an awkward crushing of lips, some mumbled apologies, severe laughing fits and on more than one occasion banged foreheads.

Last summer had passed much the same as all the others had, only now Simon was more aware of how Clary had started to grow into a woman's body. And occasionally their normalcy was thrown over in favour of another kissing session. Over the months there were more and more stolen moments, stolen kisses and in the end a stolen heart.

Only one.

By the time the last hay season was finished Clary pulled away from him and told him with a laugh and a blush that it was too strange, like kissing her brother. Simon smiled back with hasty embarrassment and agreed. And that had been that. As far as he knew Clary had yet to find another subject to practise on.

He had patched himself up as best he could and told himself it was better that it had ended before it had started; a doomed love. He decided to heal himself by falling in love with someone else as soon as possible. Admittedly, at one point in the distant past this flinging-his-heart-at-someone-else- who-wouldn't-want-it-any-more-than-Clary-had strategy had been a failed attempt to make her jealous.

Things had progressed (or regressed depending on how you want to look at it) from there.

On the bright side, now that he had a new beautiful and unobtainable girl to pine after he also had a muse, therefore he was bound to become a successful musician. Isabelle's sweet apathy could flavour his songs for years if he kept this up.

Which is how Simon found himself gazing wistfully at her while she engaged Aline Penhallow in a not so lively game of cards one rainy afternoon. Isabelle adeptly shuffled the cards with nimble fingers before laying them out on the table. As she bent towards Aline each time she dealt a card, her bodice would meet the rim of the table. That the little gold and pearl crucifix dangling from her square neckline brushed the tablecloth, and plump curves of flesh were pushed upwards quite alarmingly.

Simon tried and failed to focus on the pendant. His fingers fumbled at the strings and then fell off them entirely. Beside him, Eric's voice quavered like a twelve year olds.

Guessing at the cause of their distraction, Isabelle's head whipped around. The dark waterfall of her hair rippled down her back at the movement and her eyes flared accusatorily. Dealing with the peril as tactfully as always, Simon panicked and flung his lute out of his arms.

What he intended to do next he wasn't entirely sure.

Throw his hands up in surrender and beg for mercy? Fling himself at her feet and worship her with his face squashed into the carpet and arms stretching across the floor?

Upon the unholy clang of his instrument striking the floor, the eyes of not only Isabelle but everyone else in the room were on Simon. He began to drown in a series of burning waves of embarrassment, falling to his knees and floundered after the instrument.

There was only one thing which could have made the situation worse and, naturally, it happened.

"I hope for your sake you play it better than you hold it. Otherwise, I would advise you to seek out an alternative livelihood."

Simon reluctantly lifted his eyes from a worn pair of boots to a distinctively superior gold gaze. Trying to quell the desire to warm the ambassador's head with the lute he had failed to reclaim at the cost of his dignity, Simon struggled against a scowl.

"I hope for your sake you speak to the Princess with more courtesy than you do me, otherwiseyouwould need to consider an alternative livelihood."

Jace Herondale's eyes flashed dangerously, and Simon's attention caught in the silver hilt of the dagger that peeked out at him from the leather at the ambassador's belt. Before he could fully form an intelligible thought, or reach anything close to regret, there were a pair of hands at his collar and he was being pulled half a pace forward into the ambassador's face. "What did you just find the audacity to utter to me?"

Reliable as ever, when the danger got serious, Simon got stubborn. But, having filled his stupidity quota for the day, and recognising Herondale was much bigger than him, Simon's obstinacy stopped short of suicide. He remained silent.

To his surprise, Jace laughed at the lack of a forthcoming retort.

"Not as stupid as you look then. I'm afraid I don't have a moment to spare to knock some manners into you just now, commoner. If you think Clarissa Morgenstern's opinion of me will hinder any of my plans for her, you can think again."

"If you honestly think that the Princess will be mindlessly steered into anything she doesn't want, thenyoudon't know who you're working with."

"Ah. The amusing little parrot has found his tongue again."

This is how it endsSimon thought dully as the fabric at his throat twisted.

Unexpected salvation arrived in the form of Kaelie Whitewillow. "Her Highness is not here," she informed the ambassador cheerfully, before realising her tone had been a touch to familiar and added "Excellency" a heartbeat too late.

Jace loosened his grip on Simon at the diversion and the musician managed to suck in a trickle of air.

"Where is she?"

"With the King" the little blonde informed him sweetly, "Perhaps I could escort you…?" The suggestion lingered in the air.

It was widely known in the Princess's rooms that Kaelie had an old and dying husband far away in some country estate. She had recently set her sights on a handsome young envoy as a substitute. As for Herondale, well Simon would wager he was hardly a model of either chastity or propriety and would happily succumb to such a dalliance. Having watched them flirt in these rooms when they thought no one was looking, Simon would even be willing to bet that they had already given into temptation.

A treacherous little corner of his heart rejoiced at the notion of Jace spending his sweet words and kisses on Kaelie, for then at least he wasn't Isabelle's sweetheart. Simon had nurtured fears to that effect ever since he had first laid eyes on the two gorgeous and haughty Frenchmen. Isabelle onhisarm, Isabelle riding withhim, pullinghiminto a corner for some passionately heated discourse; the sights had plagued him for weeks.

It would hardly be unexpected if it were revealed they had some kind of relationship. They had the same sort of fire about them. They moved and talked together as a team in a way none of the other diplomatic parties did, like they had been together for years. Which Simon had since discovered they had.

Nonetheless, there was something more profound than a political acquaintance between Jace and Isabelle and Simon simply prayed it wasn't romance. Now that the insufferable ambassador was courting another girl, that was no longer a serious fear. He still hated the man, of course, as it was plain to see that he thought himself God's gift to mankind and that Simon was just a piece of everyday dirt on his shoe. Being a nobody at court, Simon was used to being treated as barely tolerable, just one step up from a servant.

But the way that knave spoke to Clary? She was far from disposable, yet on more than one occasion he had watched his friend fly about her rooms in a temper because of something the ambassador had said or done. Simon knew how much Clary hated being treated as a bargaining chip that would be pushed from hand. That was exactly how the presence of the diplomats like Herondale made her feel. There was no need for Jace to so persistently add insult to injury.

Watching him drift off after Kaelie's cheeky smile and flicking skirts, Simon felt a fresh surge of loathing. Angrily, he jerked his clothes back into place after the tussle and met Eric's wide-eyed gaze. Simon must have coped with the near death experience in a more admirable fashion than he had thought.

Sadly, now that the confrontation was over the eyes of Isabelle and all the other ladies had flittered back to whatever feminine task had occupied them previously.

Which left Simon to retrieve his instrument from the floorboards and slip back into obscurity.

Without a noble's attention he was just an instrument once again.

-00000000000000-

Clary rushed up the steps to the great hall and anxiously brushed a stray curl back over her shoulder. She cast a final review over the flaring skirts of her best blue gown and tried to compose herself.

Late as she was, she knew that her father would hate for her to arrive looking flustered. Her mother had impressed upon her all her life that a lady always kept her composure.

It was, sadly, the lesson she had always struggled with most. Arithmetic and Catechism? Very well. Languages and History? Easy. But Jocelyn had once told Clary that her face never could hold a secret. And she knew that of late she had been letting her emotions run away with her.

It was dangerous for any girl to let her feelings govern her, but in a princess it could be fatal. So, praying she at least appeared to be the master of her features, Clary neared the entrance to the hall and gave a nod to the doorman.

She lifted her chin and walked into her father's audience in what she hoped was an acceptable manner.

Each of her footsteps echoed off the tiled flooring as she approached the King. She registered the extravagant flooring clicking under her heels as she moved. Such brightly coloured patterns underfoot must have been expensive, she automatically associated painted tiles with churches rather than houses.

Aside from the ancient rooms of the Gard where the Kings of Idris resided before state ceremonies and made a concerted effort to display their wealth and power, even the floors of royal abodes tended to be wooden or carpeted. She hadn't realised that the Carstairs family, the current residents of Chatton house, were so affluent or prestigious.

Curtseying to her father she merely had a second to appreciate the glimmering patterns beneath her that her artist impulse longed to properly study. Valentine's hands cupped her chin as he lifted her face and bid her to rise.

Her father smiled at her as she straightened up. Thankfully, her tardiness seemed to have been overlooked.

"Clarissa." he offered by way of a greeting, tucking her arm in his, "Come here."

Thoroughly curious, Clary followed his lead.

For the very first time she could remember, she was completely alone with her father, save the men at arms outside the closed doors behind her. There were no lingering servants or hovering clerks nearby. Clary wasn't sure she was pleased with their new solitude. Ever since that awful outing with her brother she had been approaching the King with an increased trepidation. She had learnt the hard way that she should have been exercising the caution her mother had urged her to from the beginning with these men.

"I wanted to keep you abreast of the developments of your marriage negotiations."

Yourmarriage negotiations Clary corrected mentally.You are the one who wants the marriage, who will arrange it to your benefit and desires. I'm just the bride.She didn't voice any of her discontent, of course. But she did feel the smile slip slightly from her face.

Valentine failed to notice, pressing on with whatever meagre details he felt it necessary to provide her with. "After Cartwright completed his portrait of you I had it dispatched to your most likely suitors. The response was good. Very good." He continued, brimming with noticeable self-satisfaction, and his daughter could not quite dispel the mental image of a smug cat licking its lips.

Cartwright must have flattered her if these lords were eager. Clary knew from her looking glass that she had not inherited nearly as much of her mother's beauty as she would have liked.

"Because of the pressures from reformists both outside and within our borders it will have to be a Catholic prince. We must defend our Church and maintain its influence." Valentine declared, confirming what Clary had already known.

"Therefore, I have narrowed the field to three. I have procured a portrait of each in return for you."

Now Clary was paying full attention. One of the three men in the paintings before her would be her husband.

The thought sent her stomach lurching and nervous expectation throbbing through her. The past two months had given her plenty of time to reconcile herself with having to wed a stranger, and she had heard the names of those vying for her hand hundreds of times. But that was all these men had been to her. Names. Today she would get faces.

Rationally, Clary had always known that her father's marriage plan was real, but part of her had been able to go on thinking it was just a game, a feint, a pastime. The small swarm of diplomats clutching at her skirts and trying to drop a good word or two about this prince or that lord had all been quite amusing. But it had all felt a play pretend.

Clary corrected herself. This was indeed a game, just one with alarmingly high stakes. She was simply a piece on an intricate board of politics and power. Insignificant as a person yet priceless as second in line to the Idrisian throne.

These men were real people, and they wanted to marry her.

The King was still talking but Clary had gotten lost in the pounding tumult of her own thoughts, until Valentine moved closer to the canvases and towed Clary along numbly beside him.

"Firstly, we have Maximillian Hapsburg, nephew to the Holy Roman Emperor. He is not the Emperor's heir, but he is a Hapsburg- a member of the most powerful family in Europe. Any connection to them would be beneficial for Idris, both financially and politically. His father is King of Hungary, Croatia, Bohemia and Archduke of Austria." Valentine emitted a soft laugh, "One day the boy will have an impressive inheritance."

Father and daughter paused by the sketch of a young, round-faced boy trying very hard to look important.

Clary had to sink her teeth into the tender flesh on the inside of her lip to stop her bubbling laughter. Her father drew her onwards after a silence that had likely been intended for a moment of serious contemplation while Clary struggled not to double over cackling.

It seemed that in the King's eyes his daughter was better off only learning of the pros of each suitor. No matter, Clary knew the cons herself.

Maximillian, for instance, may be from the dynasty that ruled most of Europe. What her father neglected to mention was that a marriage to him would also mean a marriage into the Emperor's recently rekindled wars with France; a military expedition Idris would doubtless have to help fund at least, or worse, actively participate in if their snubbed neighbours in France decided to retaliate and send troops into their new enemy Idris. Clary hoped her father knew better than to provoke the powerful nation that they shared a border with. That wedding would virtually wage war on France, and that was not a war little agrarian Idris could hope to win.

Nor had it escaped Clary's notice that Maximillian was nine years old. She hoped her father had addressed this alliance first because it was the least likely; she had no burning desire to marry into the role of nursemaid. There was no way in Heaven or Hell she could take the Hapsburg suit seriously.

Clary was diverted from her amusem*nt by the much more series threat of the slender, grave-eyed and bearded man in the next portrait. "King James V of Scotland" Valentine introduced him as, "As King of the Scots, a marriage to him would immediately make you a queen."

Weak caseClary reflected, without pity. True, she would be a queen but of a faraway northern country where she heard the weather was miserable. Moreover, James Stuart was constantly poking at his neighbour Henry of England by sending swarms of Scotsmen over their border. Meanwhile there were the rumours he was more seriously courting a French princess. Not that this was to be unexpected or even discouraged. There was no reason for James to exclusively pursue Clary when he too had other potential allies to consider. It would also be hypocritical of her to condemn him for it, as she currently perusing three potential husbands.

But unlike the youthful and charming Spanish and French ambassadors, the Scottish representative was a small, grizzled old man whom she struggled to understand when he spoke to her in his densely accented Latin. Plus, he smelt strange. He was not the sort of man that could make the prospect of living out the rest of her days in draughty castles and enduring harsh northern winters appealing. Clary was sure she did not want to be Queen of Scotland.

So that only left… "Francois de Valois, Dauphin of France, Duke of Brittany."

Clary allowed herself to look at this portrait properly, Isabelle's words floating back to her. "Very handsome," She'd said, "Easy to love."

Clary was not naïve enough to look for love in a political match, but a girl of almost seventeen could dream. She needed to hope for some happiness and affection in her marriage. Otherwise she would pitch herself off the battlements.

Before her was indeed a pleasant looking young man with broad shoulders, gleaming armour and what looked to be clear eyes and an honest gaze. He seemed regal, naturally, but not unapproachable. Until now, Jace Herondale had been the face of the French suit and Clary found herself scanning this strange prince's features and silently lamenting that he had a weaker jawline than Jace. Nor could she help feeling disappointed that his eyes were a boring and ordinary blue and that his nose was shorter and more snub than Herondale's longer, aristocratic one. Her prospective husband was nowhere near as handsome as his ambassador.

Clary took a quick step back from the oil painting. She was being ridiculous. Of course he looked nothing like Jace Herondale, why should he?

Francois de Valois, she mouthed to herself instead. She connected the name with the young man before her and banished any thoughts of Jace. She found that it rolled off her tongue quite nicely, befitting the detached but not altogether cold face that regarded her in return.

"As the eldest son of the King of France, he will one day inherit his father's kingdom, one of the most powerful on the continent. He is eighteen years old, just a year your senior. With his lands bordering ours and our faith and interests much aligned already, this alliance would be of mutual benefit. " Valentine paused again to allow the completion of her review.

Clary considered the unspoken drawbacks to the match. This marriage would still bring them into war, and the King of France was notoriously faithless in alliances. She'd lost count of how many times he had jumped between England and Spain over the last few decades. Not that he was to be especially blamed for only honouring a treaty when it was of immediate benefit to him, Clary suspected most kings acted thus. Francois was just more obvious about it.

Tearing her eyes away from the Dauphin's, she scrutinised the King. "Your Majesty, if I might ask, who do you favour?"

Valentine's lips quirked into a smile, "At the moment, I pledge myself to none of them."

Still anyone's game then, Clary pondered, but did not drop her gaze or the question. "You must have one you consider more closely than the rest."

"Not necessarily," Valentine remained evasive as he tucked Clary's arm back under his. "Is there one you suspect as being preferential Clarissa?"

"The Dauphin." Clary answered immediately.

"How so?"

Clary tried to order her thoughts, unsure if she could explain them, uncertain that she should. Was her father really the sort of man who would take her personal feelings into consideration? She doubted it, but a little thread of hope began to unfurl inside her.

Clary did like the French suit best.

There, now she had admitted it to herself she could act on it.

"You have had several audiences with the French ambassador this week, more than you have had with the other envoys. You favour Lord Alexander and keep his company. And geographically speaking, the advantages to that match are more immediate."And he is the one closest to me in age, and closest to home, and I already speak the language. France is the most similar to Idris. Please don't send me far away to a country whose customs and people I will not understand.

Valentine's only response was to nod as his smile grew. "A girl with her eyes open," he mused. "Each possibility brings its own profits Clarissa," he added at length.

Then he turned away from her, back to the row of princes.

"We shall have these removed to your presence chamber" he announced, peering at the portraits with a secretive smile, as though there were some joke here that he alone knew the punchline to. It certainly set his daughter on edge again, Clary could feel the waves of foreboding tugging at her as she contemplated her father's contemplations.

"And we can dismiss the outstanding diplomatic parties. We only need these three to proceed."

-000000000000000-

Thoughtfully, Jonathan Morgenstern tipped his weight on his elbows and pressed himself against the smooth marble balustrade. Peering down from his vantage point on the balcony he watched his little sister scurry along the gallery on the King's arm, inclining her head upwards to catch whatever it was Valentine had to say.

The young prince watched the duo's progress with a peculiar sizzling in the pit of his stomach.Meetings with Clary and not me, Father?He brooded as Valentine's silver head and Clary's copper one slipped out of his peripheral vision.

What on earth could his father have to say toherthat was so important it had to be done in complete privacy behind closed doors?

Rattling his fingertips against the creamy stone and delving deeper into his turbulent musings, Jonathan discovered he was struggling to keep his temper buried. That would never do, the King was always so critical of his rages.

Why then does it take an explosion of wrath to get your attention father? The best reaction I can hope for from you is exasperated disappointment before being banished back into exile.

Jonathan's father had always seen discouragement as the best method of encouragement. In many cases, it worked. Valentine had curbed the discontented mumblings of the commons, and the well-used scaffold on the Gard's green kept the nobles reluctant to engage in any hostile action.

If only that policy could have claimed the same success with his son.

In recent years Jonathan had decided to give up bending over backwards for the parental approval that would never come; if his father would never be impressed by his pathetic bids for a simple gesture of approval then he may as well indulge in the savage satisfaction of watching Valentine's anger. The end result was only ever going to be displeasure and condemnation. Jonathan may as well be damned for being himself rather than the faint ghost of the heir his father wanted.

The heir his father wanted.

Valentine had always hated him, and Jonathan knew it. But until recently, he had lived happily in the bubble of thought that the King's personal hatred would never touch his position at this court.

Until a month ago, Jonathan had believed his title was unassailable, his person completely untouchable. He was Crown Prince of Idris by virtue of his birth. Nothing and no one could ever change that. Whether Valentine loved or hated him, he was his one and only son. Only Jonathan could succeed him as king. That was his birth right.

His father had never been one to let his lovers or enemies dissuade him from the course of what he perceived to be his duty. He had gone to great lengths to impress upon Jonathan that the Morgenstern name and legacy was paramount. It was Valentine's duty to preserve and forward his line, namely by ensuring that when he was called from this world his crown of Idris rested on the brow of the only surviving male Morgenstern.

Besides, what other option did Valentine have?

Until now, the only other living Morgenstern had been a forgotten girl.

Forgotten by King and Council, mayhap, but never by Jonathan. He had held fast to his garbled recollections of a little freckled face demanding to go wherever he went. He had allowed himself to nurture the hope that his sister would prove to be another Morgenstern disappointment, that they would have this and much more in common. He would never admit as much out loud, but he had been so sure that when his sister came to court, he would at long last have someone who properly understood him. Someone who would be just like him. That he would no longer have to weather the storm of his father's disillusionment alone.

Again, foolish. For weeks Jonathan had felt the imposed distance between himself and the King grow. Each time Valentine's eyes rested on him with a preoccupied glaze, or he was tactfully swept out of a royal meeting, Jonathan could practically feel hundreds of potently indifferent hands shoving him away from the throne and his future.

Do you really hate me so much father?The Prince questioned of no one, leaning over the stone barrier and contemplating the ornate ceramic floor far beneath him.

Then he grinned to himself, holding back a bitter chortle.I suppose there is no limit to your hatred, not for me.

After so many years, Valentine's cold abhorrence of his son left Jonathan burning.

It seemed his father had recovered of late, having found the perfect consolation in the form of his reclaimed daughter. It must be thoroughly thrilling, having Jocelyn restored to him through in some way. Thrilling enough for him to schedule unannounced meetings and sneak off to see Clary in secret. God knew what they had to discuss. Jonathan was willing to wager it was not the weather.

Having despaired of finding a kindred spirit in his younger sister, Jonathan was now keen to see her packed off with a ring on her finger. Preferably as far away as possible from their father's guilty affections. But the thought of Clary as someone's wife far away was no longer as comforting as Jonathan would have liked.

The image of her perched on a foreign throne was not a pleasant one, especially when one contemplated the nameless, faceless monarch at her side. What man with an ounce of ambition cherished a wife breathing down the neck of an unpopular heir and did not think about giving his beloved bride an encouraging shove forward to claim him another crown?

Jonathan's hand flew to his waist and gripped the hilt of his blade. In that unhappy turn of events, he would be reliant on Idrisian reluctance to be governed by a foreign power to lend support to his own cause.

Yet with all things considered, Valentine was hardly rushing to get his daughter to the altar. Jonathan had lain awake for many nights trying to decipher what it was about all these marriage negotiations exactly that made his hair stand on end and sent his gut twisting.

Something wasn't right here; he could sense it.

Adding to these worries was the reappearance of Jace Herondale in Alicante. Now the previously undisputed succession of Jonathan Morgenstern was shadowed by the return of both Valentine's adored daughter and his once preferred son. The observation set hot, stinging envy writhing through Jonathan's system and his temples pounding in the quiet of the empty gallery.

No one drifts out of relative obscurity at twenty-one to take the frontline on negotiating a royal marriage, even if they were technically a native. Suspicion had been forefront in his mind since he'd first glimpsed Herondale's head bent over Clarissa's petite hand for the necessary kiss.

Jonathan had been right. Smoke equalled fire, though today's discovery had given him absolutely no satisfaction.

The Prince decided to seize Valentine's discreet meeting with his daughter to deploy his own investigation in the King's abandoned rooms. During his search through some papers in Valentine's cabinet he had found exactly the sort of thing he had been looking for and prayed he would never find.

A letter from France, marking a willingness to adhere to the wishes of the Idrisian King which were so explicit: Jace Herondale, ambassador in Idris by special request.

Jonathan clenched the fist that wasn't resting on the harsh metal of his knife. What the devil was his father playing at? And why in hell did it all leave him floundering in dread?

The only reason he could command wealth and live a life of pleasure-the only reason he could command the company of dozens of well-bred and rich friends- was his royal inheritance. It would all be worth it then, his mother's absence and father's hatred. Jonathan could excuse and bear it all, if it meant that in the end he had some great destiny. That he would rule.

Without the crown Jonathan would have no followers, no admiration, no future. For the boy so completely alone in the world and loathed by all those who ought to love him, the promise that he would be King was all he had in the world.

He would do anything to ensure it.

-0000000000000-

Canal Street, Alicante, May 1536

Alec wasn't sure what it was he had been expecting, other than it had not been this.

The name Magnus Bane and the reputation of the person who was said to be the richest man in Alicante conjured the image of a grey bearded and stern-faced old man who had committed his life to making a fortune and was determined to keep it all in his miserly twilight years.

That was the sort of self-made man Alec was accustomed to. So to find his barge bobbing and scraping to a halt outside a magnificent townhouse and struggling to find a place on the crammed waterfront to dock was, to put it mildly, a surprise.

On closer inspection it seemed that every window in the house was illuminated, and each pane tossed out coins of glimmering, dancing light on the surface of the trembling inky canal water.

From the open doors a raucous cacophony of laughter and shrieks echoed into the stars, a racket abundant in the kind of hedonistic mirth that only the very wealthy can afford.

"Right Midas this one," the boatman muttered himself as he worked furiously on the ropes.

Alec longed to order the barge to turn around and take him back to where the horses waited and then to gallop back to the court at Broceland and forget the whole endeavour.

He dared not. He pressed his right hand to his belt, where the letter and package from His Majesty sojourned in his purse.

In his present state of mind there were two kinds of scenario Alec wanted to avoid. The first, and one that had always been the case, was any kind of social gathering. With his awkward fumbling phrases and perpetually surly face Alec knew for a fact he was never to be the life and soul of any party. He had long ago committed himself to sticking by Jace's popular shoulder and letting him exude enough charisma for both of them. Generally, Alec clung to the outlined etiquette and kept his interactions strictly, he was a brutally honest and shy courtier. Irony was not good to him.

Secondly, given his current and secret dilemma the last thing he wanted to deal with was anyone as disgustingly wealthy as Magnus Bane and this party guests.

He supposed he could come back later when the place wasn't crowded with drunken revellers, but it had taken a great deal of self-bullying for him to summon the will to come here at all tonight. Moreover, he was on a time-sensitive mission. King Valentine had instructed him to re-join the court in a matter of days. Not to mention Alec dreaded to think what sort of trouble Isabelle and Jace could get up to in his absence. The sooner he got this little mission over and done with the better.

Tightening his shoulders brusquely, Alec paid the ferryman and stepped off the boat.

He marched up to the nearest door trying to make himself look as purposeful as possible and brought his knuckles firmly to the wooden frame. It veered open upon the contact.

Apprehension rising, Alec nudged his way around the unlocked, open thoroughfare and encountered who he supposed to be the doorman, slumped against the wall. Drunk, with a wineskin drooping in his hand and leaking pattering, garnet like drops onto the floor. The poor fellow slurred what could have been a greeting, but Alec did not linger to converse, pushing his way further into the house before he lost his nerve altogether.

It seemed the entire house had been constructed to mock him. Everywhere Alec turned affluence struck him. His feet encountered exotic looking rugs, the walls were panelled with glossy wood and gaudy plaster, and at one point Alec turned a corner and found himself face to face with a painting he could have sworn was a da Vinci. Each table was piled with pewter plates and every candelabra his eyes touched upon was towered with beaming candles, the base of every one of which was draped with jewels, real jewels. Pearls, diamonds, emeralds, rubies and gold and gold andgold.

Not that the ostentation of Bane's glorious hacienda could have known the dire state of the Lightwood family finances, but it nonetheless felt a personal slight that anyone could go so out of their way to prove that they virtually breathed wealth. Stomach rolling alongside the wild climbing music, Alec struggled through the tide of eager guests and forced himself not to gape like some peasant boy encountering money for the first time.

Although the life of a peasant boy may well be his future.

Stop thathe chastised himself, untangling his body from a very determined and very drunk young women who clung to his sleeves and spilled her drink all over him. All could still be well. His parents had managed to conceal the growing canker of their poverty thus far.

But the facts remained; his mother's inheritance was running out, while his father's debts to the King of Idris were growing. With his wife no longer speaking to him, Robert could not hope for her intervention with her native monarch. The Lightwoods were dangerously close to desperation and the last thing they needed was Valentine Morgenstern calling in his loans.

Hence Alec had been informed of their plight and told that he needed to accompany Jace to Idris. The heir to Adamant needed not just to prove himself useful to the King of France, but to curry the favour of Valentine too.

For more often than not, the kind of royal goodwill that came with a successful marriage alliance was followed by advancement. And with advancement came lands and much needed money.

If only Alec could confide in someone, anyone. Tell his sister why it was so important she make a respectable marriage to a wealthy husband, and soon. Or to enlighten Jace as to why he was adding to the pressure on him to bring the desired royal wedding about. No, his mother had been most clear: the easiest and most effective way of keeping up the pretence that all was well, was ensuring the rest of the family genuinely believed all was well.

God. Alec needed to find Magnus Bane and get out of here quickly, before he lost all integrity and started to smash up the exquisite furniture or cram his purse full of the scattered jewels and bolt for the exit.

Finally cornering a man with a deplorably crooked cap who seemed to be the closest Alec would get to a sober person on the premises, the young lord gave him a firm shake. Raising his voice above the clattering and cackling of the senseless celebrations, he announced "I'm here on the King's business!" He waved the royal seal on the letter before his acquaintance's alcohol clouded eyes, " I'm looking for Magnus Bane."

"Over there," the fellow gestured with a tremoring hand, "Don't expect him to be receptive, he won't want to talk business mid-party."

"He'll talk business" Alec insisted gruffly. He strongly suspected a man with Bane's economic success had a nose for money. And everything about Valentine's assignment smelled of a large payment. Shouldering his way back into the fray, Alec crossed the room to where he had been directed.

He finally got a glimpse of the mythical Magnus Bane.

From all that he had heard in the tendrils of gossip surrounding Magnus Bane, Alec had dismissed over a half of it as pure fantasy. The man seemed to have made his fortune through a number of worthy investments, trading in spices, wool, strawberries, silk and much more. The eclectic mix of merchant connections with a number of indistinct dealings with court nobility had evidently paid off.

Paid being the operative. Magnus's sudden soar to money and influence had captured the imagination of Alicante's population, Alec had heard of Bane's links with several murders, dozens of spells and magic, and many illicit and financially beneficial affairs.

The man now lounging in front of Alec was both extremely ordinary and extraordinary in equal measures.

Long limbed, dark haired and tanned, there was nothing about his basic appearance that suggested this was the man who had so many tongues wagging on the city streets.

Then again, extraordinary because he was a man that could not have been more than halfway through his second decade. He was dressed in an extremely bold shade of pink, lengthy limbs draped languidly across the armrests of an ornate chair while long, tapering fingers glittering with coloured rings played with a chain of opals and gold around his neck. He appeared to be in the middle of an intense struggle to dislodge the beautiful young women resting in his lap. She was not wearing anything other than a pale chemise, smooth white shoulders coated only by her light blonde ringlets.

"Magnus Bane?" Alec questioned, abruptly self-conscious that his dull black attire stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the guests. He averted his mortified eyes from the lady's state of undress.

"Depends on who's asking," The host answered in perfect French, with the edge of an accent Alec could not place.

"The King of Idris." Alec tried to declare confidently.

A single dark brow rose and a gold and green flecked eye glittered. The dancing hazel gaze fixed on him sent a peculiar fizzing through Alec's veins.

"Not unless he has drastically changed his appearance in the last year."

"Er- no." Alec blundered, "I- you- we- no." He forced some air into his lungs and tried again. "I'm the King'srepresentative."

Magnus Bane smiled in response, showcasing a set of unusually gleaming white teeth, though there was no trace of mockery in the grin. "I know that. I also know that I am not in the habit of leaving a perfectly good party to talk about work. They say mixing business and pleasure is a grave mistake." He waved away Alec's protestations before he could voice them, "But then again I am helpless against the allure of a grave mistake. And for those blue eyes I'm more than willing to make time."

Alec's breath caught in his throat and heat pooled in his cheeks. Thankfully Bane did not seem to expect a response.

Instead, he nudged the girl in his lap, "Shoo, Camille. Hear you not that I have important work to do? And you are making the king's man uncomfortable. I fear no one here is interested in what you have to showcase."

The blonde made no move at all, "You'll regret this later Magnus," she claimed in an amorous voice, trailing her arm down his.

"Later is later. I'll deal with it then. I daresay you will find another victim for your attentions somewhere here."

Camille rose from her perch with a surprising amount of grace considering she was half naked and pirouetted to face Magnus once again. Alec longed for the sweet embrace of death upon the very personal conversation the couple continued to have in front of him. "You cannot expect me to come running back next time you find yourself in an empty bedchamber."

"I know, it is just that I no longer care."

The affronted woman spun on her heel, gliding off after a single predatory assessment of Alec. Probably in search of what Magnus had aptly termed another victim.

Once she was gone, Alec struggled to recover from the mortification of what he had just witnessed and fought against making eye contact with Magnus, painfully aware of how far he had infringed upon the man's privacy.

"Fear not." Magnus told him in a low rumble, fetching a wineglass, filling it and then passing it over. Alec took the offering gratefully. "Lady Belcourt thrives on the drama of it all. And, if we are to be honest, I am not averse to the attention either. Her only regret from tonight will have been that she did not get a larger audience for her latest grand exit from my life. Hopefully this performance will have appeased her enough to keep her away for another five years. One never knows with her. It truly is exhausting, all of this breaking and never mending anything."

"LadyBelcourt?" Alec had no recollection of having encountered her at court.

Magnus gave him a vulpine grin. "Not of the kind of lady you are used to."

Alec refrained from mentioning he was not used to the company of any lady, nor did he ever expect he would be. He didn't know what to say beyond that which would be grossly inappropriate (more so than parading around in one's undergarments) and also had the possibility to stir up a great deal of trouble.

He retreated to the safety of his duty and handed the letter and package over. "From the King. I believe it is some kind of payment?" Bane barely glanced past the wrapping before nodding to himself and turning to the letter, "And my next charge." Then he tossed them both to one side and fixed his attention back on Alec, "If I might ask the name of the messenger? Charming as Blue Eyes is it is a tad too casual for one I do not have the honour of knowing."

"It may not be worth knowing" Alec said with a nervous laugh, completely unaccustomed as he was to this sort of attention from any man, especially one as good looking as Magnus Bane, "I am, as you say, just the messenger. But Alexander Lightwood. Alec."

"Well then, Alexander," God his name sounded so exciting, so sensual on Magnus's tongue. "You can tell whoever is returning to His Majesty that he will have all he asks for, as ever. My southern abode is at his disposal, as he requests. I will leave tomorrow and ride there in order to make the necessary preparations for his stay."

"You're heading south? To join the court?"

"You didn't read the letter?" Magnus sounded genuinely surprised.

"Of course not. It was addressed to you!"

"There are very few people that would have stopped. My God, a courtier with a sense of honour, who would have guessed?"

Alec fidgeted slightly, "I only meant that if you are going to join the court's progress then we could travel together." He felt hot colour bloom in his cheeks, down his neck and into his doublet. "I am going that way too.Iam the person riding south. I'll understand if you do not want to-if there are other…"

Magnus smiled at Alec as though his stammering and embarrassing attempts to gain his company were somehow endearing.

"Alec, I would be honoured."

Alec spared a moment to wonder how he was supposed to keep up an entire journey of conversation when simple sentences confounded him, but then some words from earlier came floating back:Later is later. I'll deal with it then.

He was so sick of fretting about every potential consequence. He thought, for once, he could try living in the moment.

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Chapter 7: Two Birds, One Stone

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Two Birds, One Stone.

Chatton House, Broceland, June 1536

Walking through these colourfully opulent rooms and hallways, it was not hard to see why this house had been the seat of power for the Dukes of Broceland.

After the first Morgenstern king, the current King's grandfather Jonathan VII, had seized the throne the remainder of the deposed royal family had happily departed the capital, settling thereafter for a Dukedom. For the next century, they continued to live like princes in their palatial home here at Broceland. A king's ransom had been paid to dissuade any of the royal cousins from making a bid for actual kingship, money Jace's ancestors had happily gobbled up like the greedy fish in the garden pond. Mouths constantly gaping open in the hope of more.

Honestly, Jace could hardly blame them. What manner of man refuses the chance to enjoy the lifestyle of a king without having to shoulder any of the responsibilities? Archaic luxury in huge carved fireplaces and bare stone walls in the older parts of the building blended with modern decorations; patterned rugs, panelled walls, and pillars shrouded in gleaming gold leaf latticework. It made Chatton House every inch the palace.

If only it weren't so filled with ghosts.

Despite all of the tasteful comfort, Jace had only managed a handful of restful nights since they had arrived. His restfulness only accentuated by a troubling conversation with the house's present resident, Lord John Carstairs, the Earl of Chene.

They had been wandering the gardens after one of the King's meetings and Jace had politely stopped to admire the craftsmanship of the nymphs and other creatures carved straight out of myth and into the huge stone fountain at the front of the house. He had made the mistake of broaching the topic of the Carstairs's residence here.

"We are the guardians of Chatton House," the Earl had corrected him with a smile "We do not live here. I have my own house, Hendonne, just south of here for my family. The house my father built. Though my wife oversaw the recent refurbishments here, we never stay at Chatton here unless as a part of the court. To do otherwise- it would not feel right, nor honourable."

"Naturally, it is a royal palace." Jace had agreed quickly, sure that comment would close the conversation.

"Yes, but it is more than that. No Carstairs would pretend entitlement to what belonged to a Herondale."

Jace battled with his shock and finally managed a laugh. Better he made out Lord John's words were ludicrous. If he exhibited any approval, he would condone a statement that was dangerously close to treason. Jace needed to find the dark humour in it all or he'd go to pieces, "Surely a wise decision, since it is filled with dead men. Perhaps Chatton House is haunted. Most things belonging to the Herondales are. It is one thing to lose a crown, quite another to start losing heads. Divine will cannot get any clearer than that. Chatton is much better of with the master it has." Valentine.

Lord John's expression had held disappointment the. But what was Jace supposed to say?An excellent idea sir, let us seize the house and then launch a rebellion! For Herondale, the rightful King, hurrah!The thought alone was deadly.

Even forcing himself to stride confidently to the Princess's apartments later that day, Jace suspected he wasn't seeing what people expected him to when he looked around the timeless grandeur of the palace.

He did not see what he had lost, nor did he see something he might hope to gain. He merely saw everything he had been running away from for the past eleven years, evidently not fast enough.

Nodding to the guards at the doors, he stepped into utter chaos. There were women flapping about everywhere, carting dresses and jewels and furniture about and trying to stuff too many things into their trunks. One of them even flew past dragging a tiny, ferociously growling dog on a gilded lead. Jace hoped she stopped short of trying to squash it into her trunk as well.

Amid all the shrieking, arguing and fighting with lids and locks, the Princess herself seemed completely calm. She was perched atop trunk that had been successfully sealed and completely engrossed in the battered pages in her lap.

Jace approached, knowing better than to wait for a herald in this anarchy, and cleared his throat before her.

It took another cleared throat and then a lengthy wait during which the ambassador's limited patience was sorely tested before a pair of green eyes were raised to his.

"Excellence, I have it on good authority there is no room for any of your own gowns amongst my belongings."

Jace rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. Honestly, the damn women sapped away more and more of his professionalism every day. He needed to reclaim it and learn how to retain it around her if they were to pull this off.

"What are you reading?" He asked her.

She flipped over the book to allow him a look at the worn title page of Mallory'sMorte d'Arthur.

"Ah, you seek courtly love, chivalry and romance?"

"One must find it somewhere."

"Your own courtly experiences are not what you expected, then?" Jace grinned.

"On the contrary Monsieur Herondale, they have been exactly what I expected," Clary peered up at sagely before snapping the book shut. "Anyway, I fail to see how the events at Camelot embody the spirts of either chivalry or courtly love. A queen unfaithful with her husband's most trusted knight? How romantic. Where is the true love supposed to be anyway? Guinevere and Arthur? Guinevere and Lancelot?"

"Even Guinevere did not seem know the answer to that."

The comment made the Princess laugh, bright little head dropping forward with mirth. Jace took a hasty step back and halted the spread of an accompanying smile of his own. He wasn't supposed to enjoy the sound of her laugh.

Her merriment subsided and she laid the beloved copy on the trunk beside her, folding her hands over her stomacher and made a show of appearing queenly. Jace had to stop the progress of another smile.

"So then, Your Excellence. I doubt you've come here to discuss the work of Thomas Mallory. You got my message?"

"Yes." Jace confirmed, bemused. He prided himself on not being easily shocked, but being cornered by Isabelle first thing in the morning and told that the Princess wanted to see him as soon as possible was unexpected. Not the King, the Princess.

"Forgive me the makeshift summons, I couldn't find an official messenger to spare." She flashed him another proudly impish smile. Both of them new perfectly well the last thing the princess was permitted to do was hold audiences, especially not with foreign envoys. "But I doubt there will be a better time," she gestured to the surrounding tumult of bickering and cramming, "This way I doubt we'll be overheard, everyone is far too preoccupied to even realise you are here." She sounded far too pleased with herself for Jace's peace of mind.

"You're interfering," he informed her, "How unacceptable."

"He says having responded. I must also note that you are still standing here."

"Curiosity is an exquisite downfall."

The Princess tucked a strand behind her ear and nudged the curved headdress in the process. She must still be adjusting to the business of jewel studded half-moon hoods. Clary struggled to hide a wince of pain and rolled her shoulders back, chin lifted. "I have a proposal with regards to your proposal. Or rather, that of your master."

Jace raised an eyebrow, inviting an elaboration. "I am seeking an alliance, and where better to look than where there is mutual benefit?" Now all traces of amusem*nt were gone. The ambassador was drawn in earnest to whatever schemes the girl had hatched. Jace was on a never-ending journey of discovering what exactly lay underneath those pretty, russet curls. He feared he'd never complete the voyage to his satisfaction.

"What I am about to say must not go to your head, Herondale. Take it from me, that is quite big enough. And you are not solely responsible for my opinions."

"I am listening meekly, Your Highness."

"I favour the Duke of Brittany. Now, I am not stupid enough to presume that what I think or what I want in all these negotiations matter. But I fail to see my insignificance as a suitable reason to exclude myself from the proceedings entirely. I thought I might turn to you, the person who is King Francois's voice in all of this. The person who has, besides myself, the most to lose or gain from this marriage." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Just think,SirJace, a nice chateau in Normandy, coveted rooms at court…."

"Promising." Jace conceded, his inner haggler taking the reins, "But not convincing."

The Princess of Idris straightened up and appraised him. "Mayhap Lord Herondale then. And a chateau in Brittany to accompany the one in Normandy."

"And a town house in Paris to accompany my new coveted rooms at court."

"You know I don't have to agree to any of this. You'll make it your business to bring about the Dauphin's success with or without a Parisian townhouse."

"You don't have to buy my willingness to promote the French cause to your father, that is true. That is merely the immediate future. What happens once you are successfully wed and can call yourself Dauphine? You will find yourself at a foreign court where everyone is so very suspicious of your accent and the different way you dress. I could well be a lone voice of support for you then, Princess, and the closest thing to a friend you have. You may find yourself wishing I had a lordship. The higher I am in the pecking order, the more my opinion matters. The more useful I become to you.

'And, as Your Highness has agreed, I am quite capable of bringing this about by myself. I have the friendship of the Dauphin already, and with it the likelihood of advancement. So why would I require your assistance, Princess?"

Clarissa Morgenstern nodded pensively, "Your success is far from assured. I could help with that. The more lords in the Council chamber sympathetic to your cause, the better."

"You don't control a single lord." Jace deadpanned.

"No, but I do influence their wives and their daughters." Clary sent her eyes gliding around the room to punctuate her statement. "Moreover, you make the fatal male mistake: never underestimate the power a woman can have. Yes, the Dauphin will advance you but how far? He might give his good friend a knighthood. A bride whispering in his ear could guarantee his good friend a chateau. Or several."

"And a townhouse." Jace insisted instantly.

His new ally lifted the corners of her mouth in a placating smile, "Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen."

Jace nodded, grinning at the girl dictating orders and playing princes from her perch on a trunk of dresses. "You may enlist my help."

"We may enlist one another's help." Clary clarified briskly, jumping to her feet. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must go ensure my Cicero is not abused by this manhandling."

"Cicero?" His stunned question exploded as he whirled to face the dainty woman shouldering past him, "How the devil do you go from Camelot to Cicero?!"

Clary beamed at him. "You didn't imagine my thoughts were entirely devoted to knights in shining armour and damsels in distress, now did you?"

"Not for a moment," The ambassador muttered to himself at the sight of her fleeing to the defence of her Latin, shaking his head and making good his escape before Kaelie could corner him.

Jace's interest in her coy smiles and increasingly shameless vies for his attention was rapidly waning. All attempts to let Kaelie down gently thus far had been hastily surrendered in the face of her insistence, but Jace knew that sooner rather than later he would have to properly break things off between them. What he had seen as a harmless flirtation she had been viewing as a serious courtship. She didn't expect her husband to survive the winter, and she hoped to have a new one by Spring. Too late, Jace realised that she had caught sight of him and was dumping what seemed like a jewellery box on a nearby stool and was starting to hurry towards him. Jace turned on his heels and all but bolted for the door.

-000000000000000-

"Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen? Those are the exact words that were spoken by my sister to Jonathan Herondale?"

Aline Penhallow nodded, fidgeting on the spot before her Crown Prince. Even here, in the quiet corners of darkened hallways, one had to be careful what one said and to whom. The girl knew it well. The mixture of the cool, shadowed air and tension had her trembling faintly. "Yes, Highness. But there was a lengthy conversation, that was just the part I heard."

Jonathan Morgenstern was already striding away, "Believe me, my lady, you heard enough," He threw over his shoulder, beckoning impatiently for Sebastian Verlac to leave his cousin's shoulder.

Sebastian hurried to Jonathan's side, the feather in his cap bobbing along with his hasty movements, "I told you what she heard was useful!"

"The usefulness will depend on what we do about it, naturally."

Verlac waited, dark eyes fixed on the Prince's eagerly, "So what are we going to do about it?"

Jonathan and his companion marched out into the courtyard where their mounts waited, lowering the brim of his hat against the patches of sunlight breaking through the clouds. There was the unmistakable heaviness in the air and trace of rain in the wind that warned of a coming storm.

Jonathan paused by the side of his great bay stallion, mind whirling. This had to be done quickly and effectively. He doubted he'd get a second chance. Jonathan had two birds to strike and only one stone to hand. But he was beginning to see a way the field could indeed be cleared in one fell swoop.

Carpe Diemas his old tutor Master Starkweather was fond of muttering as he shuffled about in dusty robes, looking incapable of seizing anything. Appearances could be deceptive, for all his apparent harmlessness he was possibly the greatest mind in the kingdom and so Valentine had gone to great lengths to get the man firmly in his pocket. Starkweather, now advanced to the post of Lord Chancellor, was the ideal man for the job. He had all the genius to put the King's ideas promptly into action, and none of the integrity to voice any complaints.

That considered, Jonathan should really have known better than to take his sister at face value. The supposedly innocent and fragile maid hid her ambition and scheming well. Perhaps his sibling was not unlike him after all.

"My father has already departed, yes?" he demanded of the groom still clutching his horse's reins.

"Yes, Highness," the boy yelped in response.

Jonathan pushed his foot onto the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse's back with practiced ease. He gestured to Verlac, "You are going to find my sister and introduce yourself as her escort for the journey south. Then you will locate and send the French ambassador to me. We are going to divert our course slightly. Let's show my little sister the scenic route. I do think she's missing out, fond as she is of shortcuts. Clarissa ought to be in the care her brother anyway. One must be careful on the roads in these turbulent days."

-000000000000000-

Oldcastle, Broceland Forest, June 1536

Hours later the stench of the soldiers still hung in the air. The reek of trailing smoke, churned earth and cluttering dust was far from unfamiliar to seven year old Tom, who had been dreading the visits for all of his short life.

There were still those who remembered a time when life had not been snatches of feeble peace between the army's calls, like Old Tom, his grandfather and namesake, who was constantly muttering about how 'it never used to be like this.'

But Mama was forever shushing him, and telling her youngest son she'd smack the living daylights out of him if he repeated so much as a word of the old man's grumblings. In Tom's seven years times had always been hard. It had gotten worse since Papa went off in search of better work in the city and never come back.

Mam had tried to keep things going as best she could. But she couldn't work the fields by herself, and none of the boys were old enough to help her. They'd been forced to let the land go and move into Old Tom's crumbling cottage. Mam had even swallowed her pride and gone knocking at the shut door of the Church, knowing that occasionally during the worst days they could be persuaded to give some relief. Not even Tom's sallow, grimy face and his mother's pleas had been enough to prompt anything beyond the excuse that "Times are hard".

Times were always hard.

Now, crouched as they were in the woodsmoke filled gloom of the small cottage, the family could only wait, foxes in the surrounded den, for the worst of it to pass. The soldiers were long gone, but the dust stirred up in their wake showed no sign of settling.

Mama poked the flames in the grate, trying to warm the usual gruel over them and making no attempts to quell Old Tom's mutterings. "They have us half dead as it is. If they start coming during the hungry months, soon they'll have no one to beat the taxes out of!"

His words drew another sob from Tom's elder sister, Sybilla, who huddled in the corner tearfully, her baby pressed to an empty breast. She cast another terrified glance at her husband beside her, who was stiffly pressing damp rags on his bleeding and swollen limbs. This visit had taken the last of what they had. By winter there would be another family crammed in the hovel.

The hungry months spanned the weeks between the crops of the last harvest rotting or running out and the beginning of the new one; they were the worst days of any year.

The soldiers knew that, and the King knew that. They should have known there was never any point in scouting out grain or money from the people in these months. Even if they did have anything, they'd need it themselves.

"Oh, but they need a dowry. To hell with us, the Princess needs a pretty wedding dress." Sybilla's husband croaked angrily, The courtship of kings and emperors is a costly business, see. Clarissa won't be leaving Idris with anything less than the fortune her new husband demands."

"They can't take what people don'thave!" Tom started at the unprecedented savagery in his mother's tone. She never raised her voice or complained, no matter how bad things got.

"And I hear they tried to burn the mill! Seems those who won't pay their dues have to pay in other ways. Businesses that won't contribute enough soon find themselves out of business."

"Things will get good again when Papa comes back," Tom piped up to console poor Mama.

"Your Papa isn't coming back Tom," his mother told him bluntly, slapping her spoon against the side of the worn pot, "Even if he did, we couldn't feed him."

Tom stiffened and his grandpa prattled on. "But then what can you expect other than greed from ausurper!" A week ago those words, had Old Tom dared to speak them, would have been greeted by a horrified shushing. Today the silence that followed the outburst was one of grim agreement.

In the shadows cast by slumping walls and a patchy roof, all pairs of eyes glittered shared anger.

That was the danger of leaving people with nothing left to lose.

Last winter Tom had lost his little sister, Lott. He glanced around at his starving family, his weak siblings and the limp nephew Sybilla so desperately clutched. He wondered which of them would survive this winter. If any of them would.

The frantic beat of running feet outside broke the spell.

Mama seized up the poker and Old Tom struggled to his unsteady feet, the younger Tom diving behind him in fear. The battered door creaked open to reveal their neighbour Henry, peering inside and breathing hard. "Riders!" He panted out rapidly, "To the North."

"Dear God!" Sybbie whimpered, "Not again!"

"No! Not the soldiers. It'sher. The princess."

For the longest time no one spoke, the quiet only pierced by Henry's hard breathing and the faintest whimper from the baby. The hatred surging within the room pounded in even Tom's young body.

Hours after her men tried to scorch the town, she thought she could parade through and showcase the pretty jewels and gowns Valentine's subjects were starving for? Without consequences?

"Bitch." Sybilla's husband spat with utter loathing from the floor.

Then he threw the rags aside and got to his feet.

-000000000000000-

Today seemed to be the day for Morgenstern sibling surprises. Watching Jonathan warily from the corner of his eye, Jace adjusted his weight in the saddle so that his elbow bumped against the hilt at his waist. He hoped it was an imperceptible movement.

Being this close to Jonathan would have been a frustrating and uncomfortable experience in any circ*mstance, but when the Prince was treating him nicely, Jace just about managed to surface from his astonishment enough to want a sharp blade in his hands. Unfortunately, riding alongside the heir to the throne with bared steel was at best impolite and at worst illegal. Considering the King's unyielding determination to maintain his family's supremacy, Jace suspected that the latter of his assumptions was probably true. His hands would not move from the reins however much they wanted to.

Ever since they had set out from Chatton House earlier in the afternoon Jace had felt niggling unease like a fishhook in his gut. The bad feeling alone was enough for him to well and truly put his guard up. Being his own primary protector since birth, Jace had long ago learnt to trust his own instincts.

Oblivious to his companion's suspicious discomfort, Jonathan continued to chatter on about the various tutors and servants they'd had as children. "Do you remember that ass, was his name Midwinter? He used to try to teach arithmetic."

"No. He never taught me." Jace replied tightly.

As the two boys had gotten older their rivalry had intensified into true animosity. Nips in the nursery had turned into broken bones in the weapons yard. After an eight-year-old Jonathan had broken Jace's wrist for the second time in two years, the King had decreed they were no longer to share lessons.

Jonathan had been pleased. He'd always resented having to share his governesses and tutors with the traitor's son. Especially when Jace was in the habit of showing him up in front of those tutors, mastering the more advanced lessons the Prince was taking despite being younger.

Jace had made no effort to endear himself to the Prince's playmates either. Upon reflection, that was because he had always been alienated from the group of other young noblemen in the making who had been selected to be the Prince's companions. Jonathan's games had always been rough, oftentimes borderline sad*stic given the things he could bully his acolytes into doing. Jace had preferred to be alone with his books. Besides, by that time the alternative of little Clary was there, babbling along beside the two older boys who fascinated her. While Jonathan had been quick to brush off his embarrassing, clinging little sister, Jace had significantly more patience for her. She'd adored him for it.

Even as a child, Jace had recognising that anyone else the Prince disliked was a good candidate for friendship. He had welcomed Clary's attentions, made up stories for her and invented games she could play on her own while the boys were studying. Perhaps friend was too far. In those days the age difference between the little girl and himself had allowed him to make her more his minion. He snickered to think of it now. While Jonathan Morgenstern had been surrounded by a crowd of adoring young men who would grow up to be the most powerful men in the land, Jonathan Herondale had a single supporter; a girl.

He still considered Alec to be the first real friend he'd ever had. Encountering another boy close to his age who had never met Jonathan Morgenstern had been a most heartening experience. Without the Crown Prince around to ensure he was only regarded as the court pariah, Jace had managed to secure himself a friend. As time progressed, Isabelle had managed to replace little Clary to an extent. Although, being slightly older and sharp tongued even then, Izzy had never matched Jace's previous standard of crony. Little Max would prove a far better worshipper as the years went by.

Jace's relationship with the Lightwood children had been the first thing Jace gained by himself. The first thing in his life that could not be taken away from him in a heartbeat on a whim of Valentine's.

Mayhap it had left him complacent. He was not blind, he saw the way Jonathan looked at Isabelle, as though she were a chunk of meat he wanted to devour. Nor was Jace oblivious to how often Alec had been at the Prince's shoulder in the days before his departure on a mysterious mission of the King's. Jace had been naïve to think there were things in his life that Valentine couldn't take.

Jonathan had given up any attempts at conversation by now. He urged his mount in a clipped trot onto a side road. Jace turned Wayfarer to follow without a word. In a corner of his brain, he wondered if Jonathan's separating the two of them from the rest of the court was stage one of his cunning scheme to assassinate Jace. Killing someone out of sheer dislike and a history of childhood quarrels was a real blow below the belt, even for Jonathan.

Jace bade himself not to be paranoid. Considering the rugged grey of the sky and the restless rumble of thunder in the distance, the leafy shelter of the alternative route was simply an attempt to avoid the coming rain. The Prince was sporting a rather magnificent hat, it would be a shame to see it ruined.

Jace loosened the muscles of his left arm and stretched the fingers on his dominant hand as subtly as possible. Even if this was a sinister plot and it came to a fight, he fancied his chances. Thinking back on the vicious blows exchanged in their swordplay practice Jace knew he had been a match for Jonathan then. He was surely a match for him now.

Eventually the path widened onto a hill with impressive view of the town beneath. Oldcastle, it was called, the largest town in the area. Named for the stone ruins of the ancient castle just a few miles away. Today the town was just a cluster of wooden buildings surrounding a squat stone chapel.

Not far from where they had halted the river Durre cascaded past the form of what could well have been a flour mill, currently cloaked in billows of black smoke.

"What happened there?" Jace demanded.

Jonathan ignored him, "Do you know why you are here Herondale? In Idris, that is." All traces of the previously affable companion were gone.

"Surely you have some idea of what my ambassadorial duties entail, my lord?"

The Prince laughed; his white teeth bared in what became more a gesture of hostility than amusem*nt. "Let us try another question, shall we? This one I am sure you can answer adequately. Who stands to inherit the throne after my sister, in the absence of an heir from either of us? Suppose the two of us die today."

Jace's stomach jolted. Had he really been brought all the way up here to have his family disgrace rubbed in his face once again? "I suppose then it would pass to the last of Ithuriel's old dynasty bloodline. The Blackthorns?" Jace had never given much thought to his other distant cousins. They were far enough removed from the House of Herondale not to have been troubled by the Morgenstern rise, both politically and geographically, tucked in their estates around Lake Lyn. Unlike the remaining Herondales, the Blackthorns had never caused the new reigning family any bother.

"No Blackthorn has sat on the throne of Idris, and none ever shall." He pointed out to Jonathan frankly. The only cause your father could have for complaint is that Andrew Blackthorn has plenty of sons where he does not.

"Not the Blackthorns," Jonathan returned equally brusquely, "you."

Jace's body seized up as though he had been flung in an icy river. "Me?" His own voice echoed in his ears, heart pounding in his chest like a hammer at an anvil. "That cannot be, Your Highness. When my father died-"

"When the axe fell you forfeited your lands and title, not your claim. The charge of treason gave the crown the right to absorb your title and take away your duchy, but not your name. And not your bloodline. No one can deny you the blood that flows in your veins. King's blood."

He graciously gave Jace a moment to recover, who could well have looked ridiculous staring back at the Prince in shock and dread. "So let me ask you again Herondale. What are you doing here?"

"None of that matters," Jace finally managed gruffly, struggling to speak as tactfully as possible, "I have both you and your sister ahead of me, so it will never matter. Once I settle your sister's marriage to the Dauphin, as I intend to, it will matter even less because soon- God willing- she will have a son for France and Idris to succeed her if the need ever arose. Which it will not."

Jonathan chortled again, steering his horse towards the thin trail that led towards the town. Carefully picking his own way down the treacherous slope after the Prince, Jace failed to keep at bay images of his conveniently mangled body at the bottom of the cliff and Jonathan's oh-so sorrowful face as he addressed the King, "A most terrible mishap, Sire. Fell right off, neck broken instantly, there was nothing I could do."

Jace had to admit the fall was likely not dramatic enough to provide firm foundations for that fear. By the time he had fully mentally embellished his untimely death, they had already survived the descent.

Yet the ride into the town had no positive impact on Jace's threadbare nerves. Weaving through the streets as the rain started to fall, Jace noted a chilling emptiness and drawn shutters. His fingers twitched, still gripping the reins and longing for a blade in hand.

Something was very wrong here.

"Your Highness-" he began to voice his unease to his companion, but Jonathan quickly waved him back to silence. Now Jace could hear an ominous commotion up ahead. The noise he had mistaken for thunder was in fact a stormy din of stamping feet and yelling voices, punctuated by the occasional screech which could have come from a human or a horse.

Pulling up to another unanticipated halt, Jonathan stood in the stirrups, yanking the brim of his hat out of his eyes and staring down the broadening street with pure concentration. Jace noted that this must have been the main thoroughfare and passage through the town, his companion had exhibited uncanny foresight in choosing the alternative route.

A moment later the figure of Sebastian Verlac approached at speed, his cap askew and his ragged coat slipping down his right shoulder. As he drew closer Jace spotted an ugly black eye and bleeding lip. Sebastian was clutching his reins in one hand and flapping about a strange metal contraption in the other.

"Verlac," the Prince snapped, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Mobbed," the young lord gasped out through gritted teeth, "Like a pack- of rabid dogs- the lot of them! Run mad."

"You were mobbed? Then where are the rest of you? Where is mysister?" Jonathan demanded shrilly.

Sebastian tried to form a reply.

Dismay sank its jaws into Jace's heart.

Clary Morgenstern was caught in the midst of rioting peasants. A shrieking, braying mass that had lords in ripped clothing staggering and riderless horses currently galloping past Jace and Jonathan in a frantic bid for the open road out of the town.

Wayfarer danced anxiously under Jace; he turned his heels inwards to drive the horse half a stride onwards.

The arrival of a heavy hand on his shoulder made him whirl round to face the Prince so fast his neck muscles wrenched with objection.

"Leave it!" Jonathan snarled, black eyes flickering between alarm and something that seemed a mere stone's throw from elation. "Herondale, your embassy is over. Reconcile yourself to the fact and do it quickly, for the love of God, before the rabble is onus."

"We can't just- she is your sister! They will kill her!"

"Not necessarily." Morgenstern spoke swiftly and with intensity, shortening his sentences with urgency, but never once stumbling on his words. Almost as though they'd been rehearsed. "Abandon your current ambitions, for this opens the way to new ones. All they need do is dishonour her and my father is one heir short. With her virtue gone, Clary will get neither husband nor crown. She'll never be a queen. This forces Valentine's hand. You'll be acknowledged, titled probably. Your days of diplomacy are ended. You are now second in line to the throne of Idris. Congratulations. Nowride!"

Jace shook his head, his world whisked upside-down so swiftly and without warning that it was accompanied by a surge of nausea.

The sensible thing was to ride away from here. Jonathan was right, though it pained Jace to admit it. Moreover, it would not merely be shrewd but beneficial for him to ride away.

No more days of kissing monarch's rings and pandering to their pretentious and patronising commands. Jace Herondale would be a prince again. The diplomats would be kissing his ring. No more being treated like an insolent child, no more being laughed at and snubbed.

He had been raised as Valentine's second son after all. Jace ought to be finally recognised as such.

But at what cost? He could still picture Clary Morgenstern's delighted smile from atop a closed trunk, the hope in her laugh. The warmth and strength in her surprisingly sturdy body as he pulled her to him in a darkened closet. How her each and every thought played out across her open face, how the clarity in her gaze and the sincerity in her voice marked a glowing contrast to the vanity and falsehood that surrounded them at her father's court.

It was high time Jace admitted to the impossibility of shaking off his fond memories of an even littler Clary staring up at him and laughing faithfully at every one of his jests.

He met Jonathan Morgenstern's eyes once again. There was no plea there, he realised, just contemplation and challenge. This was a test, a simple one, and it did not matter to the young man beside him that his own flesh and blood, his only living sibling, was in the gravest of peril a few short streets away. Jace was the case in study.

Before he knew what he was doing Jace was dismounting. He shrugged his way out of his dusty coat to free up his limbs and cast it over Wayfarer's flanks. He tied the horse to a nearby post. He bound the worn leather straps loosely, deciding he was safe enough from horse thieves with the town's entire population seemingly elsewhere. And he would have to make a speedy exit.

Striding towards Verlac at a pace brisk enough to counteract any change of heart he nodded to the instrument in his hand, "What is that? Some manner of weapon?"

Verlac nodded, casting an appreciative eye over the contraption himself. "It's a gun.*Some Eastern eccentric business partner my father had took an interest in such things. He sent me this, says it can be shot like a cannon but from hand. He also predicts it will alter the shape of warfare, but the man's a lunatic. It would probably do the man wielding it more damage than the target. But no one else has anything like it!"

"Fascinating story," Jace replied blandly as he held out an expectant hand. "Give it to me before you hurt yourself."

"You do not know how to use it!" Verlac protested feebly.

Jace made no effort to curb the stinging impatience that had replaced the foreboding in his gut, growling at him urgently, "I suspect you and I are on much the same plane of knowledge with regard to your strange new weapon, my lord."

No sooner had Jace completed his scornful observation than the warm, sleek metal was in his grasp. He gave a gruff nod to Sebastian and turned in the direction of the commotion.

"I recommend you make haste, Your Highness, before the life of another royal is endangered." He called over his shoulder, not waiting for a response as he moved rapidly in the direction of the strife.

With such hurried progress it would have been easy for any such reply to have been misheard or misinterpreted, but it sounded as though Jonathan sneered, "Oh the Herondales, with their famous beauty and their famous honour" at Jace's turned back.

Then and his friend galloped off for the preservation of their own hides.

Jace headed into the fray.

-0000000000000-

Clary had lost all sense of her bearings long ago.

In what had been either an exceedingly stupid or an ingeniously clever move, once she had realised that she was the primary target of the crowd's antipathy, she had swung herself off the horse and started to grope around for some sort of weapon.

Staying in the saddle on a horse close to white was making things a little too easy for her enemies, especially now they were throwing stones. Despite all those riding lessons she'd had with Luke of late, Clary had the feeling that even if she had managed to manoeuvre her way out from the wild throng, a gallop to safety would probably result in her falling off into their waiting arms.

Instead, she tried to conceal herself in the crush of angry bodies, fingers clinging to the leather girth and saddle so tightly that she could no longer feel them. Clary hunched her shoulders and curled herself into a body as small as possible, pressing her head down and fighting with her own slamming heart and ragged breathing.

She was going to die.

There was no point in screaming, for there was no one around to help. At the first raised voice and tossed pebble her supposed escort, Sebastian, had bolted and his men had all followed him. For Clary there had been no time and nowhere to run.

Hands jerked at her hair and yanked at her clothes while what felt like thousands of blows rained down on her.

The ferocious tugging at Clary's cape cut all the air from her throat.

For a terrible second she couldn't breathe.

Then the clasp holding her cape together broke, and the strangling pull on her disappeared. Before Clary could process any relief, there were more fists and grappling fingers in her hair.

The mob was an unstoppable tide and with each drag of the current the pins holding her hood to her hair were wrenched backwards painfully until at last the headdress too was pulled free. The agony on her scalp made Clary see stars.

This was too much. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She couldn't do anything but be dragged along in the riptide of fury and wait for it to be over.

Clary probably should have spared a thought for her poor mother and her wasted expectations. She could have considered her father and all his ambitious and now pointless schemes for her. But now that real danger was upon her, she couldn't do aught but panic.

As another well aimed blow to her spine sent a bolt of pain through her body, Clary felt her knees buckle. Instantly the terror disappeared. Forcing her stinging legs to straighten and hold her weight, Clary marginally loosened her grip on her horse.

She was the Princess of Idris, and the future queen of France, or Scotland or Austria or wherever the hell her father decided to send her! She was not about to die cowering behind her horse!

The blood of conquerors, perhaps even angels ran in her veins. Clary would not surrender without a fight.

Opening her eyes a crack, she forced one deep breath of air into her lungs and then another, slowly feeling the cool energy flow throughout her body. Her fury stoked up in her chest and spread a coursing, righteous heat with each decelerating heartbeat.

Clary risked raising her head high enough to scan her surroundings, blinking frenziedly past the raindrops coursing down her cheeks and clasping to her lashes. A merciful split-second gap between the scrambling, cursing flow of townspeople allowed her a glimpse at what seemed to be stone structure, not far to her right. There had only been one building of stone Clary had seen on the ride in and she had remarked on it; the church.

That was it.

She'd chance a sprint to the Church and once there she would claim Sanctuary.

Bold as these commoners had been to risk the wrath of their King in attacking his daughter, she suspected even they would quail at risking the wrath of God by spilling blood in His house. Clary had the right to claim Sanctuary on hallowed ground. Once she had done so none of them would touch her. After that- some kind of rescue party was likely already on its way.

Truly what happened next was of no consequence now. Clary's priority was to remove herself from her immediate danger. Clary released her hold on the mare entirely and flung herself headfirst into the rabble.

That they had not been expecting. She collided with body after body, but all of them seemed too stunned to lay a hand on her. Unfortunately, her element of surprise failed to last, before long she was being grabbed at yet again. Without pausing, Clary slammed her elbow into the face of one assailant and sank her teeth into the hand of another who tried to seize her from behind.

A punching limb smashed into her legs and almost drove her to the ground, but Clary writhed her way upright again, jabbing out with her elbows and kicking her way to the surface again. She forced herself to keep moving.

But it was becoming obvious that she was not going to make it to the church. Clary had sacrificed her meagre shelter in moving away from the shielding bulk of her palfrey. In blind desperation, she veered her course in the direction of what seemed to be a timber staircase of some sort, mayhap leading to a bell tower? Would that count as consecrated ground that might protect her? She simply had to hope it would.

She fought her way up the first few steps until that became futile as well. Slipping on the damp wood, Clary was easily caught and with her skirts trailing behind her there were ample handholds for the swelling rabble. She may as well be trying to swim to safety with pockets full of stones.

In a highly ironic reinforcement of that sentiment, an unscrupulously flung rock smashed into the side of Clary's head just as she completed the thought. A mixture of the pain and shock of the blow momentarily blinded Clary and her legs crumpled beneath her.

Her footing and balance gone; her body struck the wooden frame beneath her. Clary's breath was knocked out of her. Her vision blasted black, and when it returned the world swung about her, blurring horribly.

Even the racket of the mob had become distorted, as though it were filtering to her through the murky water from the bottom of a well.

No one was coming. Not her brother, not her father who was far away at his next house, not Luke who was with him. Not Simon or Isabelle, who were probably still near Chatton House with the baggage train.

Clary could barely feel the hands on her past the whirling pain and pouring rain. She was hardly conscious of someone pushing her skirts up or of the single bruised male face looming over her.

Then the whole world caved, with an echoing, shattering bang that might have been a roll of thunder.

She waited for the next blow, but it never came.

The crowd seemed to fall away from around her, even the man who'd been clutching at her so hungrily. With what sounded like a thousand pounding footsteps, Clary became aware of a someone new standing over her and a raised, indistinct voice that was somehow familiar.

Next she knew, she was encircled by strong arms, held tight with something hot pressed against her back. Clary felt her body being lifted. Then her vision blinkered again, and everything turned completely black.

-00000000000000-

Chapter 8: State of Play

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: State of Play

Road to Durre Manor, Northern Lakelands, June 1536

Clary Morgenstern felt surprisingly good cradled against him. Her head propped nicely against Jace's shoulder, the rest of her tucked neatly between his chest and Wayfarer's neck. A more fanciful man might have imagined that they fit perfectly together.

Thankfully, Jace was a realist.

More than that, he was a realist who had lost a perfectly good hat and coat in the midst of a reckless rescue mission that had certainly not been part of the job description. Much as Jace despised small print, he was sure he would have remembered if dealing with rioting peasants had been stipulated in his letters of introduction.

Heaven help him, if the Dauphin didn't marry her now he'd be the next one rioting.

At least the fresh bruise on his cheek was sure to make him appear even more dashing.

Things had indeed taken a particularly ugly turn in Oldcastle. Jace dreaded to think what might have happened to Clary had he not intervened. He was still wracked with aftershocks of the terror he'd felt watching waves upon waves of enraged bodies tussling and clashing and not a single princess in sight. By some miracle, Jace had decided to mount a pile of barrels seeking a vantage point at the same time Clary had the good sense to seek higher ground. His relief had been short lived; there was a group of particularly sinister looking bastards hot on her heels. And there was no way Jace was going to get through the crush quick enough to help her.

Just as she hit the ground, he'd remembered Verlac's new-fangled weapon, panicked and taken aim.

Like a canon used by hand, he had been told. Jace had absolutely no experience with canons, but then again, he had no experience of riots either. He'd pointed at the base of the steps Clary had tried to climb, not intending to actually harm anyone, and fired.

With the benefit of hindsight, Jace could see that his actions had been utter idiocy. But this particular instance of his idiocy had been blessed.

The blinding flash of light and combined scorching heat of the device made him almost drop the damn thing. Luckily, Jace's burnt fingers retained their hold, but the weapon's resounding bang had more of an effect than had been bargained for.

The small metal ball the contraption contained flew out, struck the wooden frame and left a blackened mark on the timber. From there, it ricocheted off the steps to hit a barrel of fish which promptly exploded.

Jace's stomach had dropped like he'd swallowed an anvil. Fortuitously the explosion had a similar effect on the. With a panicked outcry, the crowds leapt out of the way of the twitching sea life.

And once the source of the new uproar was traced, all eyes were firmly on Jace.

He must have looked thoroughly demented, wielding his mysterious, unpredictable weapon and crying threats. But he'd been able to cut through the once tight packed crowd like a knife. Not a great deal of acting was required; the pain in his hand and sheer panic burning within him had lent speed to his feet and seen him to Clary's side in heartbeats.

The rest of the escape was a blur. Jace swept Clary into his arms with ease, thinking that a life of holy austerity at her convent had been kind to her because she weighed almost nothing. Then he charged through the frightened mass still spitting curses and declaring the wrath of God and Satan (and if he wasn't mistaken at one point in his wild fright Michelangelo) upon the townspeople for their violence until he reached an unconcerned Wayfarer, who was chewing on a patch of grass.

He'd galloped out of Oldcastle before the locals could discover Michelangelo was not a threat.

Though the worst of the danger had passed, Jace found he felt no peace as the distance between them and the town increased. Not because the two of them on an open road he felt vulnerable; courtesy of the King's harsh penalties for road theft there were very few bandits on the highways. Truth be told, Jace was growing more and more concerned that Clary did not wake up. Once they were at what he judged a safe distance from the trouble, he gratefully slowed Wayfarer to a walk and inspected her properly.

Her gown was torn in several places, her hair was dishevelled. Clary's throat was ringed with angry red splotches, not unlike some of the burns that kitchen maids gathered on their arms.

The most frightening wound remained the cut at her temple. Most of the blood had dried to a rustier colour, pasting dark auburn tresses to the side of her face.

Dabbing at her face with the corner of his sleeve, Jace wondered if it was a threat to her life. That was the fear that kept his heart flying and his breaths shallow; the fear that she could die despite it all. Because of what it would mean for his embassy, he insisted coldly to himself.

Clary's eyelids fluttered agitatedly. A glassy green gaze fell on Jace. "Princess? Can you hear me?" Jace demanded, his voice unforgivably panicked. She muttered something incoherent. At the poor response something within Jace, some final cord of restraint broke once and for all. "Clary?"

"Jonathan?"

Of course. Her brother. It was but natural for her to look for her brother in times of trouble, when she was so distressed. "Nay. It is I, Jace. Jace Herondale. The arrogant Frenchman. The horse thief."

"Jonathan, don't leave me!" She insisted blearily, moaning slightly and pressing her eyes shut as though the light hurt them. Jace drew her closer, as though holding her tighter could ease her pain. Seeing the usually confident princess so vulnerable filled Jace with a startlingly powerful urge to protect her. "All is well. I am taking you home Clary, you are safe now. You are safe with me."

Even now, stained, bleeding and dirty as she was, he was able to see the edges of beauty on her delicate features. Some of the roundness of childhood lingered on her face, but it was unmistakable that the small, straight nose, neat mouth and sharpening cheekbones that made her pretty now would soon see her grow into a beauty. Though her fair lashes and dusting of freckles excluded her from the measures of traditional beauty, Clary remained captivating. The imperfections made her more endearing. Knowing the lively spirit this face held that made him want to keep looking at her, to appraise as he would never have dared were she awake.

Under his study the Princess's lids continued to twitch, and her lips trembled, another soft groan escaping her. Jace straightened in the saddle; he did not have the time to stroll along and judge her appearance. She needed a physician and quickly.

There was just one more matter to deal with. Propping her against his other shoulder and loosening his left arm's grip, Jace pulled the devilish contraption of Verlac's from the leather confines of his belt tentatively. Handling the gun warily, he moved Wayfarer to the water's edge. He was half expecting the thing to explode again and blow them both to Kingdom Come.

Sucking in a single bracing breath, Jace flung it out into the river as far as he could, tarrying only long enough to watch the silver metal melt into the sleek ripples and out of view. Satisfied that it was gone, he nipped Wayfarer's sides with his heels and started to canter south again towards his destination. He would have Verlac to write to his mad inventor and tell him the prototype did not work. It had come to Jace's attention that these gun things were damndangerous.

-000000000000000-

Clary's dreams were confusing and frightening.

She was convinced there were monsters everywhere trying to get her, like the demons in the painting of Hell Dr Fell had shown her in the church. She flew upright in a strange bed, floundering about in the thick, weighted darkness with her breath coming in sharp, harsh pants that hurt her throat.

She wanted Mother.

She needed to get out of the bed and go find her nurse, but she was sure that if she put her bare feet to the floor the demons under the bed would grab her. Her stalemate of terrors left no remedy, save bursting into tears.

Clary hated crying because Mother was forever telling her princesses were strong, and her brother always called her weak and stupid for spilling tears. His taunting words had sobered and strengthened her. She had borne all of Jonathan's pinches, tricks and taunts since with dry eyes, no matter how much her chest ached with swelling sobs. But the disorientation and fresh distress of her nightmares made her usual self-control impossible.

Little Clary wept.

Normally any such noise from her bedchamber would bring Mrs Lewis running, but no matter how hard the small princess cried her nurse did not come.

Finally, the door of Clary's bedchamber was pushed open, dropping trails of low light from the room beyond across the red and green carpet at the foot of the Princess's bed.

In the brightening entryway Jonathan appeared, carrying a tremoring candle in one hand and a closed book in the other.

The other Jonathan, not her brother. The sight of him calmed Clary instantly.

He was so much kinder to her and patient with her that she had once confessed to Mrs Lewis that she wished this Jonathan was her brother instead. The nurse had hushed her and told her she had said a very naughty thing, for she ought to love her brother and future king unreservedly. Clary had borne the chastisem*nt meekly, for she knew that secretly Mrs Lewis agreed with her and loved this Jonathan much better than her brother too. She probably wished he were the Prince instead too.

"What is the matter?" Jonathan asked her now, his gold eyes glowing nearly the same colour as the candle in his hand. Clary sniffed forlornly with her reply, "Where is my mother? I want her. Where is everyone? Where are we?"

Jonathan placed the candle beside the bed and sat beside her, reaching out and brushing away the remaining tears dribbling down her freckled cheeks. "We moved from Havenfold to Princewater Palace for Christmas," he reminded her gently. "Tonight is Christmas Eve. There is to be a masque to celebrate the Yule season, that's where your mother is. Lady Ravenscar also went there with Jonathan and Mrs Lewis' son is sick, she has taken the night off. The nursemaids they left in charge took their absence as a chance to go flirt with the stewards they fancy. I suppose they thought I was at the masque, and you were asleep." He spoke so matter-of-factly and sincerely that Clary found herself suitably reassured, though she didn't understand everything he said.

Jonathan was older than her and especially clever, everyone said so, therefore he was right about everything.

"Why didn't you want to see the masked?"

"The masque, Clary" he corrected softly, sounding superior in the way older children do. "It is a manner of play. The court players wear masks as they act out their scenes and then there is dancing. I find it all rather silly, and I would rather finish my book."

The book was in fact her brother Jonathan's and had been an early seasonal gift from the King. Valentine's son had not been as enthralled by the present as His Majesty had hoped. The King was forever trying to impress an appreciation of books and learning on his heir, enough so that he was willing to purchase pricy copies in order to inspire this hoped for eagerness. Tutors often told the King that Jonathan was more than capable of making quite the scholar, but he was evidently heartily disinclined to. Clary's brother had bitterly complained of the sword he had wanted instead and thrown the book with great disdain into the other Jonathan's eagerly waiting arms.

"What is in the book? Are there stories like the one about the fox you told me?"

Jonathan chuckled at her fondly, tugging lightly on the carefully braided hair tumbling over her shoulder and straightening her askew sleeping cap. "I fear there are not. It is a very old and very famous piece called the Iliad, which tells about the events of the Trojan War. No foxes. It is a long story about a very beautiful princess and the bravest of the era's heroes." With his words his voice rolled, rising and falling in his usual storytelling style, beginning to exhibit the carefully crafted excitement and emotion behind his enthusing that made his storytelling so captivating. He grinned at her again, "Felix the Fox, I must admit, is my own invention. I suspect my tales fall just a hairsbreadth short of Homer." He plucked the book off her coverlet at the admission, "Now, will you go back to sleep so Achilles can avenge Patroclus?"

The young Princess shifted under her many blankets, growing anxious once again and clenching her small white fists in the sheets. "Don't go! Please stay with me Jonathan!"

The older boy halted his exit. "Why are you scared?"

Clary drew in a shaking breath, "I had a bad dream," she told him dejectedly. Then with more conviction informed him, "There are demons under my bed!"

Her brother would have called her a fool and probably gotten angry, but this Jonathan just shook his head and took hold of her clammy fingers, prising them one by one away from the blankets. " I would never let anything hurt you Clary."

Even with the fringes of exasperation to his promise Clary drew solace. Whatever the other boys might say of him, and though she knew her mother did not like him, she trusted him as she did no one else. So, she permitted this Jonathan to tuck her back in and settle himself on the edge of the bed. In the paltry light of the sole candle his untidy curls turned to a dull bronze. He watched over her with that serious gold stare.

"Don't leave me," she pleaded again, peeping up at him with a fearful, sleepy gaze.

"Never," he promised, and Clary let the final reassurance lead her back into the depths of an untroubled sleep.

Only a few short weeks later, he disappeared without explanation after a hurried goodbye, leaving Clary to cry until her whole body was sore from the weight of the tears and he was not there to dry them.

-000000000000000-

One moment Clary was waking up from her nightmares to a darkened room. The next she was jolted awake by a thrashing pain in her skull. She tried opening her eyes to the blazing colours and flashes of a troubled, familiar face.

The fear that still held her drove her to try and move her lips.

But then she was a child in the dark again and losing him no matter how desperately she called his name.

-000000000000000-

Jace almost wept at the sight of Durre Castle looming before him in an impressive grey stone through the descending darkness.

"Almost there," He reassured the half-conscious girl in his arms, though he had long ago established she could not hear him.

Clary whimpered feebly, twisting her fingers tighter on the front of Jace's doublet. She had been clinging him like that, as though her life depended on it, for over an hour. Jace made no attempt to loosen her hold. While she had that kind of strength in her fingers, there was every chance she would be fine. He needed her to be alright.

Head injuries were dangerous. Even were they not fatal, they could leave life altering consequences. Jace's whole rescue would still have been for naught; Valentine would not look kindly on his bringing her back and Francois would not be best pleased at his failure to preserve the daughter in law he had wanted.

Urging poor Wayfarer into one final burst of speed, he brought himself over the lowered drawbridge and to the gates.

The shut gates.

Pounding his fists on the obstinate wood before him, Jace cast his eyes skyward to see if anyone in the surrounding turrets would come to his aid.

Damn these last century castles. Clearly this abode had been built in times of upheaval, when such defensive houses were a requirement. Usually, Jace was not averse to such architecture. Having grown up in the Lightwoods' border castle in Adamant he felt more secure than in the open palaces that were now so in vogue. However, tonight he would love to ride right up to the front door.

He kept hammering and hollering until his throat and fists hurt. At long last a winking light appeared at one of the arrow-slit windows. "Who has the impudence to disturb me with this racket? Where have all the manners gone? One at least expects his enemies to have the decency to assemble an army before they send in the battering ram."

Jace threw his head back and frowned at the unfamiliar voice, trying to identify the lanky figure admonishing him from above.

"Open the gates!" he roared back.

"You're a fine one to be issuing orders, sir, considering you are locked out. The gates will open when I say so, and not before."

"If you did not want anyone at your gates you should have raised the drawbridge!"

"It's broken- it- matters not! Get thee gone you..." the end of the reply was lost to Jace from where he waited so far below the speaker, but he gathered the sentiments. Much as he would appreciate a good verbal sparring session, he was in the middle of an emergency: "I have the Princess and she needs medical attention. Urgently!"

"I am sure you do. And I am the Holy Roman Emperor."

A low groan from Clary frightened Jace enough that he opened his mouth to deliver either a heartfelt tirade or ear-splitting scream, whichever his vocal cords produced first.

Divine intervention took an unexpected form. The figure at the window was suddenly being pushed aside, "Jace? Is that you?"

Jace was ashamed to admit he could have wept with relief. "Alec? Alec! Yes, it is I! Please, open the gates! Clary has been wounded and needs help." The plea spurred his friend into action immediately; Jace never begged. Squinting through the gloom he could glimpse Alec talking to his companion animatedly, hands flying in heated gestures.

Whatever he said to the gatekeeper worked, for a few short minutes later Jace was passing into the courtyard and dismounting, carefully pulling Clary down after him and settling her properly in his arms. The bruises on her pale face were the same dark violet as the dusk around them as she blinked at him helplessly, still pleading faintly, "Don't leave me!"

Soon Jace was being joined by a frantic Alec who peered at the prone princess for a heartbeat before starting to fuss over Jace. "Thank God! Your face- you are hurt! By the saints, we thought you were dead! I can't believe-"

"Alec, it will have to wait," Jace interjected, "She needs a physician."

Alec's dark had bobbed rapidly in agreement, "Of course, how remiss of me. Here, Magnus!" At his call the tall, slender man lurking in the doorway sauntered over to where they waited. Now he was closer, Jace could fully appreciate the appallingly feathered hat he was wearing and a hose which, had it not been for the poor twilight lighting, would probably have been an equally appalling shade of yellow.

"My God. I thought you were joking about the Princess." Magnus seized a nearby lantern and beckoned instantly, "This way, gentlemen."

"Oh, so now you decide to be helpful," Jace muttered none too quietly as he followed.

"Please. You cannot expect a fellow to be especially hospitable if you are going to try and bang down his doors at late hours and then start to utter what he presumes to be treasonable excuses upon denial."

"This is your home?" Jace demanded, surprised

Magnus seemed far too youthful and eccentric to be the owner of such an old building. "Sadly," his host admitted, guiding them indoors and up a winding stone staircase.

"Jace Herondale, meet Magnus Bane," Alec called from him. Jace noted Alec's tone seemed to soften a little with the introduction.

"Forgive the journey, these are technically the servants' quarters, but it is the quickest route I assure you." Jace winced upon his shoulder raking one of the confining, damp stone walls that surrounded him. It slid sickeningly along the moist surface. One had to pity the servants.

At long last, Bane was pushing open a door and leading them into more civilised quarters, enabling Alec to walk beside them. Upon reaching the royal apartments they paused, and Alec cast a critical glance over his friend. "Do you have to carry her like that?"

"Like what?" Jace demanded, huddling against the Princess defensively.

"Perhaps it would be more suitable a touch less…bridal?

Jace widened his eyes in horror, "What would be more preferable? My tossing her over a shoulder? She is a Princess of Idris Alec, not a sack of turnips!"

The young Lord Lightwood blinked and then shrugged, "I concede the point."

Now he was convinced there was something strange going on with Alec. Normally at even the mildest sniff of impropriety he would hound his friend incessantly. Jace despised feeling as though he'd missed something.

Still, he had bigger things to worry about presently. He was bursting into a chamber full of nervous ladies with a bruised face and their esteemed mistress in his arms in a style 'a touch too bridal.'

The Marchioness of Edgehunt was the first to recover from the shock, leaping to her feet as Magnus Bane barked out a summons for a physician.

"Put her on the bed!" she cried, gesturing to the closed door behind her leading to the bedchamber. "Someone, send word to the King!"

The next few minutes were a pandemonium of young girls flapping about uselessly, aside from a snapping Isabelle and a new solemn faced, curly haired maid. Wearily, gently, Jace laid Clary out on the bed. He was instantly wrenched back while the more sensible of Clary's attendants made some effort to clean her wounds.

This was probably the moment for Jace's exit, but he could not bring himself to move. He would not place a foot outside this room until he knew she was going to be well.

Clary struggled feebly under their ministrations, "Jonathan!"

Jace cleared his throat, feeling uncharacteristically sheepish. "Someone ought to summon the Prince. She has been asking for him the whole journey."

Isabelle lifted her head with inquisitive gaze, "No" she speculated softly, "I do not think it is her brother she calls for."

Jace opened his mouth to demand who else it could be, but the question stopped at his lips. His stomach flipped at the possibility. The mere notion half-thrilled and half horrified him. It would mean he had not been forgotten by all the Morgensterns. But this Morgenstern remembering him was still hazardous; it increased the likelihood of further hostility from her brother. And yet, Jace's heart soared and still his feet remained planted firmly on her floorboards.

Whatever slivers of wisdom he had once seen in that decision swiftly shrivelled up as pounding footfalls behind him drew his attention to the King of Idris. Valentine stormed toward him with a rare expression of undisguised fury.

Jace had forgotten, right up until the moment his stomach plummeted for the second time that day with dread, how terrifying a glimpse of Valentine in this state could be. The merest lowering of his brows and lips to a scowl and already Jace could anticipate the chilling whistle of the wooden rod's descent, or the long empty hours locked in his bedchamber with a growling stomach and no chance of supper. One would hope that at having reached twenty-one years of age one would no longer feel ill at their father's displeasure. Valentine could no longer whip him or deny him meals, not while Jace was here in the name of King Francois, but he still struggled to swallow back his instinctive apology and meet the raging monarch's gaze.

The surrounding ladies scattered like a flock of starlings with a hawk in their midst. Valentine seized Jace's shoulders. "What in the name of God happened?" he demanded sharply, then lowered his voice to continue in a manner that made it, if anything, more menacing. "You had better provide me with a more satisfactory answer than those whom I have questioned before you, Herondale."

Jace tensed his legs to prevent any trembling; he need have no fear, he had done nothing wrong.

At some point during their brief discourse Jonathan Morgenstern had appeared, floating behind his father's shoulder with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. As Jace began to conjure a reply the Prince drew closer, dark eyes boring into Jace's as he tried to form a tactful answer.

"From what I could see a mob occurred, Your Majesty."

Jonathan's stare intensified, Jace could feel the hidden urgency burn his turned cheek without moving his own eyes from Valentine's.

Panic by all means, Morgenstern. His Majesty would love to hear of how you abandoned your sister to her peril. He would be twice as interested in the accusation that you were the one who put her in that danger.

Before Jace could decide whether he was really going to drop his old foe in the dung, Valentine's head snapped from side to side, "To Clarissa! What happened to the Princess? Was she- did they-?"

Jace shook his head in return, glad to provide news that would be welcomed, "She was not yet dishonoured when I arrived." At that the King visibly relaxed, the tension flooding out of him and his grip on Jace loosening.

Both men returned their attention to Clary, who was finally being attended by a physician. The flaps of his dark cap drooped over his wrinkled cheeks and his wispy grey beard bobbed with his examinations.

As the inspection was completed, a pale faced Marchioness of Edgehunt sidled up to her sovereign once again, "A minor wound, Sire. I am told she may wake up feeling disorientated and sick, but that after a few days rest she should fully recover. Thank God."

Her King nodded and Jace gratefully exhaled his worries with a deep sigh. Then, to Jace's further astonishment, Valentine Morgenstern clapped him on the back. "My daughter is safe thanks to you, Jonathan. You have saved her, saved everything. I will not forget this." The words sent a trickle of warmth down Jace's spine.

Having gotten all he wanted; Valentine turned on his heels without another word to Jace. Following some brief converse with the physician himself, he exited the chamber.

Jace's gaze drifted instantly back to Clary, and through the shifting skirts of her fussing ladies, he caught a glimpse of her sitting up on the cushions. There was a damp rag pressed to her head and her cloudy gaze fixed on him. From the other end of the room, he watched her lips formed his name. His old one, the one smeared on his brow at baptism, not the nickname the Lightwoods gave him.

Only Alec's tugging on his sleeve could distract him, his friend anxiously drawing him backward, "We need to talk. About what happened in Alicante and what is happening here."

Jace nodded absentmindedly, craning his neck in an attempt to see Clary again.

"Now, Jace." Alec insisted, uncharacteristically sharply.

"What if she-"

"Clary Morgenstern will be fine. You have done your bit, beyond satisfaction. You heard the physician's report as clearly as I did. But what happened today changes everything in this embassy. Come."

Alec was right. And Jace had missed his confidant in the week they'd been apart. Besides, now that the danger had properly passed, the last of Jace's energy had drained out of him. He found that he longed for nothing more than a warm seat and whatever words of advice Alec may have.

-000000000000000-

Simon drummed his fingers against his thighs, agitation stinging him.

In the eyes of all of Clary's attendants he was nowhere near important enough to pass through the doors to her privy chamber. It did not matter that he had known her his whole life or that he was beside himself with worry in all of this, he would only ever be the musician.

Invisibility was for the best. The less people noticed Simon, the better. For it meant there was no one paying him enough attention to notice how his usual zeal for work tended to slacken on a Saturday, or how he was quick to decline the offer of any pork dish offered to him.

The dangers of his faith were too real. Elsewhere in Europe monarchs were content to simply tax his people heavily or deny them the right to own property. Considering how Valentine Morgenstern treated fellow Christians who deviated from his personal manner of worship, one could only imagine with dread how he might treat a Jew.

Before Martin Luther had ever put pen to paper the Idrisian Jews had been given a simple choice: convert or leave. Valentine's father had passed the official Exclusion Act. Thereafter, Jews could not hold property in Idris, nor could they join trade guilds, nor could they marry a non-Jew. Unwilling to leave their homeland, Simon's grandparents- like many others- changed their name, moved to Alicante, started attending Mass for show, and kept their heads down.

Nowadays, Idris grew ever closer to Spain in its treatment of anyone suspected to be less than the required pillar of orthodoxy.

It did not reflect on Simon that he almost relished the new fervour for persecuting Protestants, but while the population were so attuned to anyone who failed to lower the head at the precise moment the Host was raised or failed to say Amen when the Pope was prayed for, they were not as determined to hear any mutterings in Hebrew.

On the other hand, it did mean Simon now had another layer of pretences to keep up. There would a certain amount of delicious irony in being burnt for a Protestant when he had been a Jew the whole time.

Despite the dangers of their beliefs neither Simon, his mother or his sister could bring themselves to renounce them. Idris was their home just as much as it was Valentine's.

His mother had consoled Simon and Rebecca from a young age, telling them God would understand that the Sabbath laws would have to be broken and sometimes even the food laws. That God would understand that they would have to keep their Sabbath candle covered. He had loved his people when they had been Pharaoh's slaves; seeing His Idrisian believers humbled and fearful would not challenge that love.

In a rather amusing and terrifying twist of fate his mother's desperate search for employment had driven her right to the doors of the royal palace. She had successfully gained a place as one of the new-born Prince's many nursemaids and made an exceptionally good impression on the queen. By the time Clary was born she had been promoted to the position of the Princess's primary nurse and governess.

Simon had caught but sole a glimpse of Clary's limp figure as she was hurried to bed. Helpless and hopeless, he took up sentry duty outside the doors and waited anxiously on a stool in the corner for news.

He knew not who he was going to receive that news from, nor how, but he did know that he was not moving from this spot until he knew Clary would be alright. Simon had watched the King and Jonathan visit briefly, and upon the first of the musician's many failed ventures to the Princess's rooms, he was brushed off impatiently by the departing physician.

He tried to take those as good signs.

Time continued to trickle past and the numbers of people crowding the Clary's quarters gradually depleted, but Simon kept failing to catch either the eyes or the attention of any of the oh-so important ladies or maids. He had been relying on Rebecca to be in attendance, but his sister was nowhere to be seen.

Fidgeting once again from the seat everyone had drifted past without so much as a glance, Simon contemplated just creeping into Clary's chamber one final time. If all was quiet without then surely all would be quiet within? He twisted his hands nervously in his lap and judged that even if he were caught, the following chastisem*nt would be worth it if he could somehow slip in his enquiry as to Clary's welfare. Just as he lifted himself out of the seat, the door to the privy chamber was pushed open and he sank like a stone back to the stool. It screeched alarmingly at the re-instalment of his weight.

Isabelle Lightwood paused at the sound and looked at him. Looked straight at him. Her creamy skin and glimmering eyes were even more beautiful than usual in the darkening room, the slanting shadows cast by the candlelight accentuated her perfectly sloping features.

"I expect you can retire for the night. There will be no music or dancing this evening."

Simon's breath hitched in his throat; Isabelle Lightwood was not only looking to him, but also talking to him. She knew who he was. She recognised him as one of the musicians, at any rate. That was much more attention than Simon had thought to look for.

"You are the lute player, are you not? When you succeed in keeping a hold on your instrument, that is."

Ah. Naturally she remembered that.

Simon managed to squeeze the query that had kept him here so long from his throat. "Please, is the Princess going to recover? Will she be alright?"

Isabelle started, having made her point she had been about to move on to whatever errand she had been commanded to. "Yes. I believe so," She stated slowly, turning neatly to face him like a well-trained dancer. "Just a minor wound. Clary is confused, but awake."

"And you?"

"What of me?" She demanded.

Simon swallowed past his dry mouth, "Are you well, my lady? You were caught in the disturbance too."

Isabelle stared at him, long ebony lashed eyes wide with astonishment. "After all that has happened it is me whom you are concerned with?" She demanded incredulously, her voice wavering at the end of her sentence. Simon blinked back dazedly at her, struggling to form a single coherent word.

"Yes. I am perfectly fine." Isabelle insisted. "Of course I am."

"Of course," Simon echoed weakly.

She peered at him with a new sort of fascination. Isabelle gave Simon another of those bald, unabashed looks. Then she made her mind up and crossed the room to him. Isabelle balanced herself on the arm of chair near Simon, offloading her linen burden on the table beside them. She glanced down at him, face slowly warming to a smile while Simon struggled to master the art of inhaling and exhaling in sequence.

"So then, my concerned Apollo, do you have a name?"

-000000000000000-

Despite all she'd suffered, Clary recovered quickly.

Besides her lessons and lectures, Jocelyn had also instilled in her daughter a remarkable resilience. Having watched her mother suffer captivity, uncertainty and effectively poverty without so much as a grimace, Clary could draw strength from Jocelyn's fortitude and strove to mimic it. The longer she spent in her father's household, she began to understand why the queen had run away. Being Valentine's daughter was difficult and treacherous enough, it must be impossible to be his wife.

Beyond her father's one swift visit when she had properly come to, Clary had not seen him. Then again, she had seen very little of anyone. She'd been locked up in her rooms once again. What few freedoms of movement she'd managed to glean in Alicante were retracted once more.

The frustration of the situation, and a lingering nausea from her head wound kept Clary in thoroughly poor spirits. By the end of her second day being confined to bed, she was chomping at the bit to escape her convalescence. It was hard enough to look at the same handful of noble girls all day every day when she was in good spirits. As impatient and irritated as she was currently, their unshakeable courtesy was more grating than ever.

Worse, she had run out of reading material.

Thus Jace Herondale found her on the second sunny afternoon, trapped in a corner chair, flipping through an old book with no great enthusiasm. She was emitting frequent heavy sighs of boredom while she cast wistful looks out the window and over the busy gardens beneath her sill, on which a game of lawn tennis was in play.

"The French Ambassador is here, Your Highness," Aline Penhallow called from where she thrummed half-heartedly on her harp.

Clary gratefully lifted her eyes to the ambassador's and graced him with a smile. Jumbled and disorientating as her memories of the escape from Oldcastle were, the one factor of clarity was of the role he had played. She had spoken with Isabelle -who of course had spoken to her brother Alec, the only person Herondale would confide in- and the bigger picture had slowly become visible.

Clary was still reeling from the suspicion cast over her brother. She had known Jonathan was a dangerous enemy, she had seen as much the day of the burnings. But she had thought that surely Jonathan would draw the line at turning his wrath on his own family.

Initially she could not properly fathom why her own blood would turn on her so swiftly and viciously.

Then, after an enlightening conversation with Isabelle, Clary had learned that her brother was in fact determined to displace her as second in line to the throne. It sounded as though Jonathan was so averse to her following him in the line of succession that he would rather replace her with Jace Herondale, whom he despised.

The potency of his hatred left Clary seething. While she was a mere pawn to her father, one to be pushed around an international board of politics, her brother clearly had no better opinion of her. To Jonathan she was but an obstacle to his own ambitions. An obstacle he was sure to attempt to remove again.

Chilling as her own brother's alleged part in the events that had played out, the more interesting character in all of this was Jace Herondale. The boy who had once sworn that he would let no harm befall her had not reneged on his promise after all. She had been wrong about the man he'd become. Jace had abandoned the prospect of being restored to greatness for her and defied her powerful brother in the process. Clary owed him her life, and an apology, and a thank you.

"Your Excellence," she greeted him, unbearably self-conscious of her being clad only in a thin furred robe over her nightclothes. Her hand strayed over to her shoulder, to check her plait was as neat as possible. "You must forgive me, I was not expecting visitors."

"Your Highness, I can only hope to make a better impression than I did the last time we were in such a position."

Heat pooled in Clary's cheeks at the comment. "So much has happened since. It feels years rather than weeks," She mused, shooting a scouting glance in the direction of Aline, who seemed engrossed in her playing. But such apparent concentration was no reason for Clary to loosen her words from the required protocol.

All her ladies were someone's pair of eyes and ears; her father's, their father's, Clary's brother, the list of possibilities was endless. Whispers in corridors, notes passed under tables, looks exchanged during prayers; Clary would never know who was reporting what and to whom. All she could be sure of was that her every gesture was noted, and one false move could prove catastrophic.

Nonetheless, this conversation needed to be had, "I was hoping to see you soon. I owe you my gratitude, Monsieur," She lowered her eyes bashfully, "With my apologies. I have not always been kind to you, not as I should have been. Yet you have saved my life. More than my life." She lifted her eyes to his once again and lowered her voice, "At a personal risk. I shall not forget that."

Jace started to laugh, and then choked on it slightly, "Madam it was-"

"Do not try and tell me it was nothing, the bruise on your cheek tells me otherwise."

"Princess-" he began, extraordinarily lost for words. The sight did not please Clary as it once would have. "You do not need to thank me, nor apologise." Jace insisted. I did only what any honourable man would have. In truth, it is I who have behaved despicably with you. So, I am sorry. At Oldcastle I merely afforded Your Highness with the consideration and respect I should have done from the start."

Clary flushed again, but this time not from embarrassment. It was from that recognition, the first one since she'd been hauled from her convent, that behind all these lofty marriage schemes there was a real woman; a woman who could feel, and hurt, and bleed.

Jace looked at her with honest repentance, eyes gleaming with the kind of emotion he normally kept so well hidden, and she believed he truly saw her.

She asked, in scarce more than a whisper, "Why would you do it?"

Her question needed no embellishment for Jace to grasp its meaning. Clary fixed on him an especially frank look. The ambassador shifted his weight, clasping his hands behind his back as he absorbed at the forward question and the depth of Clary's understanding of what had passed between the three of Valentine's children at Oldcastle.

Jace shook his head marginally, lips twitching to a half-smile as he regarded her. He provided Clary answer far more honest than she had anticipated, "It was for you. How could I not?"

The barriers were lowering, Clary noted with pleasure. She would never get the playmate she had adored back, but for the first time that seemed no great tragedy. What she had instead was this fascinating, brave and dedicated young man. The two stared at each other for a very long moment, a fresh trust blooming between them.

At last, Jace spoke again, "I must confess that I am devoid of a white flag presently, but since we have arrived at a truce, Madam, I pray you accept my peace offering." He passed her a carefully bound package, which she unfolded with anticipation to reveal a small selection of books. She gasped in delight, carefully sifting through the copies and stroking the smooth pages as though they were ancient oriental treasures from the Far East, her eyes exultantly devouring the titles.

"For when you tire of Camelot and Cicero." He offered with a smile in his voice, "I was about to ask you to take the best possible care of them as they are my own possessions, but I see it is quite unnecessary." The ambassador offered, trying to reclaim his old dignity. But the corners of his mouth did not lower from a smile.

"Thank you!" Clary breathed at last, sincerely thrilled. "I had run out of things to read and with no freedom in sight I was beginning to despair," she told him cheerfully. "As for my care of them, I would sooner sever a limb than harm one."

Jace's smile grew, "Then perhaps we are kindred spirits after all."

"Perhaps."

"I would have included my copy of the Iliad, but sadly it is in Greek."

"Would you send it?" Clary demanded, pride flaring, "It is not my strongest language, but I can read Greek."

The ambassador's fair brow lifted at her declaration, "You read Greek? If I might ask-how?"

"My Mother arranged it. She introduced me to a learned clergyman, and from there several scholars who taught me. I speak many languages."

"How many?"

Well, my Latin is best, but I also speak some Spanish, English, Hebrew-"

"Hebrew?! I pride myself on being a learned man, your father and the Earl of Adamant had me taught like a prince, but even I must confess my ignorance when it comes to Hebrew! Who taught you that?"

Clary stuttered on her reply. She had unwillingly steered the conversation into treacherous territory and was dangerously close to getting Simon in real trouble. "The same tutors. My mother had me well educated" she responded at length, silently cursing herself. Once again, she had let her pride and her tongue run away with her.

"Evidently," Jace gave his head a little shake, amusem*nt now tinged with a darker contemplation as he regarded her. "You are better educated than some boys I know."

Clary shrugged, "It is of little consequence, my Father has terminated my studies. No man wants a clever wife."

"Especially not one cleverer than he is."

The Princess narrowed her eyes at the diplomat before her. "Excellence, if I am not mistaken that was the opportunity you should have taken to tell me of your scholarly suitor."

"Indeed, Highness" He winced with the observation. They were interrupted by the arrival of Kaelie Whitewillow, who fixed a desperately possessive stare on Jace as she dipped into a cheeky curtsey before him. Jace, looked as though he dearly wanted to wince again, gave her a swift nod and turned back to the Princess.

Clary chuckled softly, after Kaelie topped up her ale cup and departed. "Her long-estranged husband is on death's door, I am told. Kaelie he will be expecting you to declare your intentions soon."

"I am afraid I have no such intentions. Not that my thoughts have any great influence, Lady Kaelie has ample intentions for the both of us. She has completely misunderstood my attentions. Besides, she would despise being an ambassador's wife. It does not pay what she believes it to."

There were rumours aplenty now circulating the court surrounding the repercussions of Jace's surname, speculation Jace seemed oblivious to. There were many of the opinion, Kaelie included, that his royal blood and new fame as the Princess's saviour would soon lead to a title. As he himself pointed out, he had all but been raised a prince.

And yet that was not the line of discussion Clary found herself pursuing, "There is another lady you have promised yourself to?"

She should not be prying so, certainly not after she had just had a conversation with the man about respect, but she found that she honestly wanted to know. Purely to sate her natural curiosity, of course. Besides, he was embroiled in her matrimonial affairs, Clary felt she deserved to know a little in return.

"No. I make very few promises to anyone, Your Highness. That way I can keep those I do." He insisted, looking at her conspiratorially.

A strange elation bubbled in Clary at his words. She was working hard to curb a smile as she said with feigned seriousness, "Then you had better make good your escape, Monsieur. Only-"

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Would you call on me again? Soon? Else I fear I will die of the tedium of these rooms."

When he smiled properly, he truly was beautiful.

-000000000000000-

The following day Jace cleared his schedule for her.

It took all of his charm and persuasive techniques to secure Alec's agreement in the matter, but secure it he did, pointing out that this could be the second real turning point for their embassy this week.

The whole game had changed with what happened at Oldcastle. For instance, Prince Jonathan Morgenstern had openly declared himself their enemy. They needed to regroup and rethink their next moves.

Jace did not need Alec's permission to spend the day with Clary, but he wanted them firmly on the same page here, particularly now that he felt a tangible distance growing between them with every time Alec was called to an appointment with the King.

Jace made his way to the Princess's apartments not long after first Mass with the Iliad in hand. Thus began a far more enjoyable day than he had expected. Somehow, they kept their bickering to a minimum. By the time Jace had to reluctantly cede his chair by her window he had discovered that he had more in common with Clary than he had realised. They had a similar taste in books and enjoyment of music and saw eye to eye on a several political matters, though theology more frequently met with debate.

He cleared his schedule the following day too.

Clary made Jace laugh, genuinely laugh, which was a rarity. He was willing to listen to her prattle on with her on whatever came into her head.

The only topic that was not touched on properly was the one he had been sent to her to discuss. Jace could not have mentioned the Dauphin's name more than three or four times over the two days.

Worse, he hardly noticed the omission. When she spoke to him, when she pulled one of her faces or laughed with him, Jace was just withher. He stopped being the French Ambassador, or the Herondale traitor, or even her rival for the throne. He was simply Jace. And somehow, what he should have despised himself for, he felt content with.

Another more fanciful man might have said that he felt content with her.

But Jace was a realist with a job to do.

As their second day drew to a close, he decided that it would be their last. The Princess was fully recovered and there would be no more sunny afternoons watching the sun set over the walls of Durre Castle and chatting idly with Clary.

Tomorrow she would be the Princess Clarissa again. He would not visit her again until there was an audience of courtiers to keep him on his best behaviour and his mind on the game.

It was just a game, and she just a piece of it.A piece who would be the Dauphin's bride, if he could bring it about.

But Alec was right, what had happened at Oldcastle had changed the state of play.

This wasn't the same game anymore.

-000000000000000-

Jonathan Morgenstern's visit to his supposedly invalid sister was long overdue, though it came far too soon for her liking.

He arrived in her near empty presence chamber on the third and final day of her seclusion. Clary emerged from her privy chamber, enjoying how the hearty click of her shoes on the flagstone floor changed to a dull thump as she crossed onto rich carpets. She had been gradually coming to appreciate the circular stone rooms of her northwest tower apartments at Durre, having no clear memory of a stay in such a castle before.

Better still, having tired of Simon's endless fussing, she was looking forward to another day with Jace, the only person aside from Isabelle (who refused to dally with sensitivity) who did not treat her as though she was now made from glass. Everyone treated the Princess as though she might easily tumble to the floor and be shattered.

She had been sure that the King would put a stop to Jace's visits as soon as he got wind of them, due to her ban on dealing with anything that roughly resembled a petitioner. Or to stop her displaying a clear preference to any of the diplomats involved in the marriage arrangements.

Jace was more than a mere diplomat to her though, mayhap that was why Valentine was turning a blind eye to their meetings. Although considerate was not a word she would typically apply to her father.

Clary halted at the sight of the wrong Jonathan waiting for her by the fire. He completed his set up of a game of chess by placing the black king on the chequered board just as Clary entered.

"Sister!" he called graciously, straightening up and meeting her stony gaze, "It gladdens my heart to see you so restored to health. Do sit with me."

Clary forced herself to smile back at him, though the gesture strained the muscles of her face. She had learned in the hardest of ways that just as one did not show their cards at the table. And you never put your heart on your sleeve at this court. You smiled outwardly, charmed everyone and trusted no one.

Her brother had tried to kill her, and possibly Jace too in order to safeguard his succession, but without a shred of proof Clary could not go to the King. She must grit her teeth, continue playing the trusting sister, and watch her back.

She glided over to the proffered seat and took up her position on opposite side of the board.

"I am sorry I could not come and see you earlier, but His Majesty keeps very much engaged." If she didn't know better, Jonathan would have looked perfectly repentant, hand over heart, eyes wide and innocent. "Clary, you must know, I am sorry. I blame myself for all that happened, for all that almost befell you. If I had known that the soldiers had visited just hours before, I would have ensured we skirted around the town. I should have stayed with you and been there to defend you, but I truly thought that you would be safe with Verlac."

A pretty speech. To ignorant ears, an utterly convincing one.

Clary was far from fooled.

Aloud, she offered an accompanying speech of forgiveness, "You know I would not blame you, Jonathan!" With a flash of inspiration, she reached for his hand across the table, marvelling at how alike their slim fingers were as she grasped them. "Hush now! I will hear no more of it," She laughed gently, "We are perfect friends."

Jonathan made a show of visibly relaxing, face splitting into a handsome smile, "In which case I thought we could play a game of chess to divert you. I take it you are familiar with the rules?"

"Oh yes!" Clary accentuated her assent, moving her fingers to the smooth, carved white body of a pawn as she made her first move. Raising her eyes to her brother's, she let the cheery façade slip momentarily. Just a small chink out of her armour to communicate all she knew.

He did not need to hear words, nor did she. The siblings, despite having been apart for so long, were alike enough now to read one another's face perfectly.

"I'll never trust you again."

"You never should have in the first place."

-00000000000000-

Chapter 9: Matters of the Heart

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Matters of the Heart

Durre Castle, Late June 1536

Avoiding her was not easy. Why he ever thought it would be, or that he could ever manage it in the first place, Jace could not fathom. Clary was the purpose of this visit. He was supposed to be filling her ears with empty flattery and buttering her up for his master, not anxiously leaning in to hear whatever it was she had to say every time she opened her mouth when he was in ear shot. Nor was Jace supposed to be craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her every time she passed through a room.

He knew this because King Francois reminded as much.

Well, rather the clerk the King dictated to had done so. His letters from France were growing impatient. King Francois did not want to hear what a brave, intelligent and pretty young woman the Princess of Idris was. He did not give a damn that she liked reading and preferred to dress in hues which made her hair look even brighter. He wanted to hear about her father. Was Valentine susceptible to their suit? What kind of dowry was he offering? What was the state of his military? If the King of France wanted to know what the girl ate for supper, he would ask her cooks. And if he wanted to dress her, he'd be sure to ask a tailor.

Jace Herondale was supposed to be negotiating an alliance. Jace Herondale wassupposedto be the best diplomat his age, in fact he wassupposedto be one of the best diplomats in Europe, the end. He had better start acting like it or he had best hope that his knowledge of the Princess's favourite pastimes were enough to secure him a job as one of her stewards.

One sharp rap to the knuckles; delivered.

Admittedly, Jace had never taken admonishments particularly well. But this irked him more than Pangborn's incessantly loud nose blowing during every meeting he had with Valentine.

Francois had asked perfectly reasonable questions. Francois had the right to complain of the service those he paid provided; he paid them.

Jace still snatched the paper up and crushed it in his clenched fist. He squeezed and stuffed the letter into a shrivelled little ball before pelting it across his crammed room.

It hit the back of a chair and then fell to the floor, bouncing indignantly.

Jace turned huffily and completed the three strides that took him to the bed which filled most of the room he had been allocated. He did not particularly mind having a smaller room. All he did was sleep in it and read berating correspondence. However, he had heard enough of Isabelle's whining about the cramped rooms she had to occupy to feel it was proving a problem. Alec, playing the pacifier as usual, had pointed out to his sister that since she spent all of her time with the Princess anyway, which had not been well received.

It had become evident that Durre Castle was a fortress, not a pleasure villa. Why the King had decided to take his court here had become clear to Jace soon after his arrival. Overhearing some of the councillors bemoaning the sojourn in an unexpected residence Jace had made a poor jest, "We cannot blame the Herondales on this occasion."

John Carstairs had not laughed.

"The House belongs to Magnus Bane," Jace insisted bleakly, already anticipating what revelation would follow the Earl's grim expression.

"It does now." Lord Carstairs responded in a blunt undertone.

Jace did not appreciate this tour of the lands that no longer belonged to him, not at all.

That reflection prompted a fresh haze of bitterness as Jace flung himself down on a mattress which hissed and groaned its discomfiture at the contact. He ripped his boots off and tossed them one at a time to the floor. Then he pummelled at the pillow beneath him for a time, the bed groaning at this movement too.

King Francois clearly did not care about Clary. How then could he be expected to careforher?

Unable to suffer in stillness and silence, Jace leaped up from the bed and strode back to his writing materials, bringing the candle he had not extinguished with him. He yanked his chair out with such force that it screeched against the floor. Ruffling through the papers until he found a clean page, Jace dunked his nib in the inkpot and began to write, words flying across the sheet with a ferocity that matched his mood perfectly. He poured out words after word, very few of them complimentary. Occasionally Jace found he had shown too much restraint in what he had just sought to convey and sliced his quill back across the sentences. Between that and the blots that came from his hand leaning too heavily, the whole letter was butchered by the time Alec finally snapped.

"Go to sleep!" he hollered from the next room. The greatest pity about living in this cramped, newer section of the castle was that the walls were unforgivably thin.

"You go to sleep!" Jace yelled back.

"I am trying to! But you insist on waging war with the furniture! Then when you finally reach a truce with the chairs it's the constant scratch-scratch-clink-clink of the bloody writing! It sounds like a tavern of mice in there!"

Jace grinned despite himself, crumpling up his handiwork and entrusting it to the finest courier he could find: the dying embers in the nearby grate. Then he leaned back in his chair again, earning another hazardous rasp from the woodwork, lifting his hands to his face.

"SLEEP!" Alec screamed loud enough to prevent anyone this side of the Seine from enjoying the condition.

Jace dropped his fingers just in time to watch the final curl of flame lick his letter to ash.

"Squeak squeak." he called half-heartedly as he moved toward the bed once again, knowing that even closing his eyes wouldn't shut Clary out.

-000000000000000-

After two weeks of relative peace, Alec should have realised they were overdue a catastrophe. He was nonetheless still horrified when the portent of doom fell from Magnus's lips. "There is to be dancing."

A hitched gasp tugging at the back of his throat, he whirled to face his friend (if friend was the correct term) who looked back at him curiously.

"I thought it was to be a joust?"

Jousts he could cope with. There he was well enough versed in the handling of lists and lances to avoid absolute disgrace. In a joust there were definite steps and stages. Charge and contact. A simple matter of staying in the saddle and trying to ensure your opponent didn't. While avoiding death and amputation as best one could, for the sake of a purse of gold.

But dancing. That entailed a host of intricate steps and judgemental ladies, all while avoiding the traps of spinning skirts and flying feet.

As Alec launched himself headfirst into a panic Magnus Bane looked as unruffled as ever. This was a man with the confidence to don rubies that should have clashed with his bold blue doublet, he was not so easily phased. He undoubtedly stood out amongst the other dourly dressed petitioners hoping to catch the King's attention, which was truly quite ingenious.

Alec had other things to worry about. "Yesterday we were jousting for the Prince's birthday," he insisted past his shrivelling tongue.

Magnus's impenetrable nonchalance didn't shift. He casually adjusted the papers tucked between his elbow and his chest and sighed. "Tomorrow there is still a joust, but it is to be followed by dancing. For those who are still able-bodied enough after meeting His Highness in the lists." He concluded his statement by hailing a passing courtier's dirty glance with a merry wave.

Alec shook his head desperately, "Magnus! I cannot dance!"

"What can you possibly mean by that? You are a Frenchman! You've danced before the King of France, and he is famously cultured."

"I did not dance before the King of France. My sister did, and she is exquisite when she takes the floor. I am excruciating. Both for myself and for spectators, I have been reliably informed."

"I would hazard a guess that Jacques is the informant?"

"Jace!" Alec snapped, forcing himself not to flap his arms in his anxiety as he would have done in private. He clutched his hands together at his belt, squeezing his fingers so tight he half expected his knuckles to pop out and be scattered to the floor like broken buttons. "Where did you get Jacques from?!"

"Ah, I knew there was a 'J' involved somewhere. What I am attempting to covey is that you need to listen to less of what James tells you."

Alec's eyes flared wide with disbelief, "How are you still struggling to-" he caught himself at the sparkle of humour in Magnus's eyes, "You are doing this on purpose now, are you not?"

"Most observant."

Alec rolled his eyes, wondering why Magnus's amusem*nt amused him where his pride would have been pricked had he suspected himself to be the butt of anyone else's joke. Mayhap because Magnus would fail to hide a smile and invite participation in his jests. He made one feel more laughed with.

"Fear not Alec, there is a distinct possibility you will not be in any fit state to dance before the day of celebration is out."

"How so?" This new causal relationship was uncharted territory, yet not quite uncomfortable.

"Our Prince is vicious in the saddle. There is not a man alive who would not let him win at any sport on any occasion, especially not at his favourite pastime on a day to celebrate his birth. He knows this, of course, and remains ruthlessly brutal with the lance. Jonathan cares not whether he unseats you or kills you. He has yet to take a life, I admit, but it is only a matter of time."

"You have seen him ride many times?"

"Yes, of course I have," Magnus grinned at him, green and gold eyes rolling again, "Master of the Horse, Master of the Revels, remember?"

Alec winced in embarrassment, "I do recall your mentioning something of it yes. It seems to me you have so many positions it is impossible to keep track of what you do or do not do here. You are clearly high in the King's favour."

The kind of favour that was evident in his new friend's garb and abundant lifestyle, the kind of favour that was remarkable for someone who did not seem to spend much time residing at court. Truly, it was strange that Magnus Bane, a commoner, should be held in such royal esteem and maintain several positions at court while living in the city. Yet it was clear from having spoken to Magnus that he preferred life in Alicante and his abode on Canal Street was his favourite. All of which only made this curiosity of a man even more intriguing to Alec.

"That was all the Queen's influence. I did her some favours and she repaid by helping me gain some standing at court."

"Queen Jocelyn was your patron? How did you survive at court without her?"

That was rude, Alec realised belatedly. He really needed to stop prying into this man's life and his business, but the desire to know more about him and his past was irresistible. Thankfully, Magnus seemed happy to talk to him.

"The queen was my first patron here, yes. She did lose much of her influence here in the months before she left. When you disagree with the King on every decision he makes, he soon stops listening to you. But the King will not dispose of me. I am far too valuable, and I know too much." Magnus broke off and smiled at his companion sorrowfully, shifting on the spot, "Now I fear I have said too much."

He laughed lightly, as if fallen queens and the wrath of kings did not matter at all, "I blame you and your serious listening face, Alexander. One quite gets lost in those big, depthless eyes. All of a sudden, one's soul is bare and their darkest secrets see the light of day."

Alec reached out to pat his arm gently. On a whim, he didn't withdraw his arm, but kept it there. Right on Magnus's. Speaking softly and solemnly, he found the corners of his mouth turning up into a rare smile, "I assure you I can keep a secret."

"Is that so?" The mirth glinting in Magnus' expression faded to a new intensity at the confession, "You are a keeper of many secrets?"

"More than you can imagine," Alec admitted a touch breathlessly, feeling as though he had been both running and crawling towards the admission.

Aside from Jace, there was no one outside of his family with whom Alec did not feel awkward and mistrustful. He always kept himself guarded and controlled. What was in his heart stayed in his heart. He always kept himself to himself because he had very good reason to. Only Isabelle- with whom he had always been honest- had ever suspected what was so different about him, the real reason he kept himself so distanced from others and avoided anything even remotely close to a romantic entanglement. He suspected that his sister's behaviour towards marriage was so difficult partially because she wanted to keep their parents' attentions firmly pinned on her. That way there was no immediate danger of a match being made for Alec. Although she had assured him countless times that her reasons for destroying any opportunity for a husband were primarily selfish, Alec could not help but be eternally grateful to her in a way he could never express adequately.

"Must you ride tomorrow?"

"Yes, His Majesty has insisted upon it. I think he wants to test the Prince's skill against every nobly born boy in the region to get a glimpse of his son's true mettle."

"Be careful," Magnus blinked before hastily adding, "If you please. And for the love of God let him win."

Looking at the handsome and touchingly considerate man before him, Alec shrugged wryly. He had spent the last few weeks laughing with and talking to Magnus, at first shyly and then with more of the confidence. But Magnus was also far too dangerous to want. The sort of person he would never have, even if he did allow himself to want him.

Men like Alec were, according to the Church the King held in such esteem, rotten sinners. They needed to be punished. One wrong move, one indiscretion, one poorly judged revelation and Alec's life would be forfeit along with that of whomever it was he had supposedly sinned with. He knew there were places in the city where people like him did as they pleased with whomever they pleased, but he did not know how to find them. And Alec would not be brave enough to go there even if he did.

Letting anything more than friendship develop between himself and Magnus Bane put Alec at risk of more immediate and personal pain. He had learned long ago from living in the shadows of Jace and Izzy that there would always be someone else everyone would rather want. Alec would always be second best, if he were considered at all.

There would never be a less opportune moment either. For if he fell in love now and got himself in trouble, then who would help restore the family fortune? Who would be King Valentine's catspaw to stop him calling the debts?

There was naught for Alec to do but shrug at Magnus, in an attempt to dislodge all of the impossibilities weighing on him.

"You need not worry about me, Magnus. I always lose."

-000000000000000-

Clary had never been to a joust before. When she had last been at court, her mother had occupied the royal position of precedence beside the King and their daughter deemed too young to participate. Now, without her mother to hide behind and her brother a participant, Clary would be left on her own with her father in the elevated royal box.

Upon settling herself in the more modest chair to the left of the great throne, Clary was the only royal currently present. For all his complaints of those who were late, Valentine's own punctuality seemed to need some refinement.

Carefully arranging the skirts circling her, Clary lightly trailed her fingers over the smooth saffron kirtle peeping through them, using the soft texture to calm herself. Upon hearing of the planned celebrations for the Prince's birthday, Lady Isabelle had been quick to drop a suggestion in her ear; "Tell His Majesty that you will require a new gown, new gowns if you would."

She'd laughed then at her friend's dependable vanity. But when one had looked like Isabelle Lightwood, they were rather entitled to be vain.

Clary thought her wardrobe ample enough, it had been filled for her upon arrival in Alicante. "There is no need! I have enough already!"

The ensuing response would have given someone who had just entered the conversation the distinct impression that the Princess had just denied the Holy Trinity.

"How can you say that? How can those words have just crossed your lips! Of all the royal daughters in Europe, how is it I have been sent to this one?!" Isabelle had tossed her head back to beseech her Creator while Clary looked on in baffled amusem*nt, until at last her lady's head dropped forward again and she seemed somewhat resigned to her fate. "Ah, I see. God is testing me."

She took hold of her mistress's hands then, gazing into Clary's face so solemnly she seemed about to pledge her troth, "He sees you in your ignorance and sends me to help you see the light." Izzy sprang up, full of mischievous glee once again, "And by the light I mean the realisation that the Queen of France barely lets a seamstress out of her sight. She will have a new selection of gowns at least once every season, special occasions notwithstanding. Any other dinners of state or special celebrations warrants a separate commission."

Clary had sighed, stretching out her cramped fingers as she empathised with the seamstresses of France. "You are saying it would be improper for me not to request a new gown for my brother's birthday."

"Exactly! Disrespectful even, it may seem that you do not think your brother worthy of your best attire."

The prospect had left Clary sorely tempted to dig out the old and plain grey dress lurking at the bottom of her chest, at present sentenced to never see the light of day again. Her ladies had been appalled to find that she still had it in her possession, but Clary could not bear to let it go. She could rationalise that she would never don the dreadful thing again, but she found she couldn't yet relinquish the last physical reminder of her life at the convent. The opportunity to very publicly snub her brother was attractive, perhaps even just.

Isabelle had spoken lightly, but she had no idea how correct she had been. Jonathan was the last person Clary wanted to dress up for. And after all that had happened in Oldcastle and in the wake of her conversations with Luke, Clary was not prepared to beg more fine clothes off her father.

It mattered not. Over a dinner with the King, he had told her she would have a new gown for the occasion.

Here she was, in sumptuous scarlet silks edged with lace and wound through with gold threading. Her tight bodice was studded with a lattice of pearls and her skirts parting over a bright yellow kirtle, complimented by the golden hood perched on her head.

Clary felt like a gilded figurehead on the prow of a boat, all painted and carved to perfection. She even felt she needed to be a stationary as one, decked as she was with garnets, amber and gold.

It must have cost a fortune, but her father had insisted on several more just like it. He had also requested his dressmaker see the ladies Clary selected to join her in the royal box. And so Helen and Isabelle, now officially established as her favourites, were also clad in fresh green and blue gowns respectively.

Her choice of companions had caused much muttering when Clary's back was presumed to be turned. Isabelle was still regarded with much suspicion on account of her 'foreign' cosmopolitan ways and provocative dresses. And Helen, though from impeccable Idrisian stock, was illegitimate. The Duke of Lyn fully acknowledged her as his daughter and had secured her a place at court. But there were those who resented Clary's obvious intimacy with a bastard, especially when there were dozens of better born girls in Clary's household to choose from. She didn't care. She liked Helen, who had been a stalwart of kindness since her arrival.

The inconvenience of Clary's leaden attire was not the only reason she felt so uncomfortable in it. As every ribbon was tied in her flowing hair and every jewel dropped in its place at her neck and wrists, Clary felt her stomach rolling with guilt. Had someone been driven to destitution so she and her ladies could have new dresses to dance in? How many of her people would catch a glimpse of her lovely necklace and want to throttle her with it? When the clasp on her necklace snapped into place, the pressure of the stones at her throat felt like pushing fingers.

Tapping her ring heavy fingers against the wooden armrest beneath her. Clary tried to focus on the jousting lines.

One young page was trying to scrape the sand level as swiftly as possible. Another struggling squire headed slowly towards the waiting competitors' tents, battling with an over-excited horse that pranced and bucked.

Clary saw why this box was assigned to the most privileged spectator. It afforded an excellent view of not only the lines but also a pleasantly subtle observation of those members of the court assembled in the stands below her. All with the comfort of royal badge trimmed curtains to shield her delicate complexion from the worst of the afternoon sun.

She could clearly see where Jace and the other two remaining ambassadors sat in the row directly before. Positioned to get the best possible look at their master's potential bride.

As her eyes snagged on the three men, Santiago visibly snapped something at Jace who responded with a smirk and what must have been a well-placed verbal jab, for the small Scot placed between them threw back his grey head and howled with laughter.

No need to make it so plain his master is losing half of Italy to yours,Herondale, Clary mentally admonished while feeling her own mouth curving to a traitorous smile.

She missed Jace's company, something she confessed only to herself. She missed the long afternoons when he had made her laugh and then just as quickly stirred her up to a frenzy in a few sentences to debate with him on matters they both felt heatedly about, though did not agree on. Having deduced she was almost as well read as he, Jace had apparently decided she was worth a discussion.

And yet despite the friendship growing between them, once the doors to her chambers were opened to the whole court once more, Jace seemed more distant than ever.

It was extremely frustrating or Clary. It was one step forward and about ten back with him.

There was no reason for her to complain of him, not really. In truth, he was better behaved than ever. That was the problem. His cool courtesy would have been a balm to her frustrations a month ago, but now Clary found herself longing for his quips and wit. Clary was beginning to get the impression he was holding himself back. Jace was afraid of something, or someone.

It must be her father.

Valentine was so determined to make sure every decision Clary made was of benefit to him and his marriage plans. He had likely given Jace a stern warning to stay away from her and keep business and pleasure strictly separate. Clary could not have a single friend of her own, not if it gave the impression one suitor was favoured above the others.

The Princess rolled back her shoulders defiantly. Her father may not favour any one suit, but she did. Clary refused to sit idle and be steered into her fate by someone else. Jace had been more than her sole ally, he had become her friend. More than anything her father had done to her to date, she resented this prohibition most.

To her father and the lords of his Council she was to be a painted, smiling beauty who provided a front for the King's ambitions. Valentine only required her to be dutiful so that he might attempt to rule her chosen husband through her. It was quite possible her father even doubted that she had the capacity or the intellect to be anything other than obedient.

Clary resolved to see to it that by the close of today she had made some alliances of her own. With the whole court out in force and in fine spirits, the time was ripe for budding friendships. Luke, faithfully at her shoulder, was presently helping her assess who best to approach.

"I need friends, if I am to get anywhere. Friends more significant than the French Ambassador." She had whispered to him as they exited the Chapel that morning, while her Father was busy wishing her brother luck in the joust.

"Quite, right Madam," Luke had agreed with a smile, as though he had been waiting for her to come to the realisation. Clary wondered how on earth he had extracted himself from the King's company to come and see her this afternoon. She was glad that he had.

"You can forget about Cardinal Enoch, or indeed any prominent clergyman at court," Luke recommended, "The Church is most firmly behind your brother, and you tell me he is no friend of your cause. The Prince has bought their support, to put it simply. He introduced a policy whereby anyone executed on a heresy charge has their wealth and possessions given to the Church, as a sort of final indulgence so their souls may be saved. A portion of what they make still manages to wind up in the royal treasury of course, although whose money it was and how it has wound up there will never be properly documented or explained. Regardless, I would not waste my time trying to turn His Eminence from the Prince, not while his sumptuous new palace is being built. Besides, Enoch has already given his support to the Imperial suit. He hopes the Hapsburg influence will increase the Church's power further. They will not help you get to France."

Clary cursed mentally, that was a severe blow. Her father was most devout and the Church, with all its power and influence, would have been her most beneficial ally.

Luke continued, "Then there are plenty of the likes of Blackwell, Pangborn and Aldertree, who will only work for their own interests. If your endeavour were successful, you would take up residence in France and be of no use to them here. Do not expect them to be sympathetic to your cause."

"Who could I consider then?"

"Well with Jace Herondale on your side, the next logical step is John Carstairs, Earl of Chene. His family were the Herondales closest allies for centuries. He has proved his worth to your father many times over, however I do not think there is much he could refuse a Herondale. If the French Ambassador were to approach him on your behalf, I am sure he would be susceptible. Most of all, John is an influential man; much of what was the duchy of Broceland fell into his hands and he has a seat on the council."

"The Earl of Chene, a worthy candidate for my friendship indeed." Clary added him to her mental list, "Very well. And if I were to speak with him casually, my lord, are there any topics I should touch upon?"

Luke threw her a knowing look and an appreciative smile, "His daughter, Your Highness. He dotes upon the girl. If you were to ask after her welfare and accomplishments he would talk for hours. She is still merely a child, too young for you to request as one of your ladies, but you may suggest that when we return to the capital she accompany her mother to wait on you for a while. That would suitably endear you to my lord Earl."

Clary nodded, rapidly absorbing all he said. "Anyone else you can think of?"

"You may as well aim high. In title, at least, the greatest nobleman in the land is the Duke of Lyn, Andrew Blackthorn. You need not concern yourself with winning him over, if you secure the support of the Earl of Chene, my lord of Lyn will soon follow. The two men are rarely at odds. Before his poor duch*ess died she had the wardship of Chene's daughter, which is the greatest seal of trust one can look for with the Earl."

"And if both were to favour the French match, would that counteract any of the sway the Cardinal may hold on the King?"

Luke winced and tilted his head from side to side, "It is difficult to say, Your Highness. Alone, I would say they do not have much of a chance. Here we are assuming they will agree to help represent your interests, persuading them to do so will not be easy."

"And it would have to be done subtly," Clary agreed grimly, "No man wants to deal with a woman who knows her own mind too firmly. I cannot be seen to give the impression I know better than any man, much less one like the Cardinal." Then her mind snagged on another possibility, "What of my Lord Chancellor?" True, the man governed this realm and not foreign affairs, but he was meant to be the King's principal advisor. In the few short conversations they'd had, Starkweather had given Clary the impression of a soft-spoken, kindly and intelligent man. He seemed one she could work with.

"I would not pin too many hopes on Lord Starkweather, my lady. He cannot tell the King anything other than what he wants to hear. On the rare occasion he does form his own opinions, Hodge is too cowardly to voice them. He would never risk gainsaying His Majesty on any matter, great or small."

Clary sighed with disappointment. It was far easier to make enemies at this court.

She did not have very much time to dwell on her new information and prospects, or to discuss others. The bellowing fanfare of trumpets alerted her to the King's arrival. Clary turned in time to see Valentine enter the royal box, gesturing for her to rise from her curtsey and placing a genteel kiss on the back of her hand.

"Clarissa," he greeted her with his usual placid demeanour, "You look every inch the queen today."

"Thank you Sire." Clary managed to respond, feeling herself involuntarily warmed by the compliment. That was foolish, she highly doubted the compliment was a sincere one. Valentine likely would have made the remark regardless of how she had dressed or presented herself. Even with that suspicion, as the King led her to her seat, Clary found herself working hard to smile serenely at the cheering crowds and make herself deserving of his words.

The joust itself was even more thrilling than anticipated.

Clary played her carefully scripted part well, rising as gracefully as possible to bestow the silken wisp of her favour upon her brother's lance- much to the approval of the spectators. She then returned to sit by her father with her perpetually pleasant smile pasted to her lips.

By the time the sport got underway in earnest there was no longer any acting required. Clary was on the edge of her seat for most of it, heart racing as the horses charged towards each other, gasping when the lances made contact, recoiling at the dreadful crunching of metal as breastplates and helms were battered. Her stomach dropped as each rider fell from the saddle and collided with the dusty earth.

Jonathan was savage. He rode like a demon and showed no mercy. None of those he came up against were able to walk out of the lines unaided. On more than one occasion his defeated opponent had to be carried away, blood leaking through broken armour.

Clary found her hand falling against the hard material of her bodice and regretting the colour as Jon Cartwright was borne back to his tent groaning and bleeding profusely.

Beside her Valentine chortled grimly, beckoning for more wine as the scoreboard was rearranged. "Young Cartwright did exceptionally to make it this far at his age. A good joust is guaranteed to separate the men from the boys." He glanced over at his daughter, who was forcing her back to stay against the spine of the chair. She had to keep reminding herself she was supposed to look impassively regal. "You are enjoying yourself?"

"Yes. Although I must admit I preferred the opening poetry and songs, dreadful as the rhymes were." The verses were utterly laughable, her humour only stoked by Simon's admission that his friend Eric was charging a hefty sum for providing the knights with the required poems. A courtly joust was after all not only an exhibition of brawn but also of chivalry and art. Having seen some of these men handling weapons and having heard all of the proffered poems, Clary got the distinct sense Eric may have to flee the country after this.

Valentine smiled again, "You have no taste for sport? I had noticed your absence on my hunts."

Until that moment Clary had not been aware she had his permission to join him hunting, though the invitation provided no encouragement. On a practical level, she had no hunting horse. Even if she had, past experiences strongly suggested she wouldn't be able to ride it. And the thought of actively hunting down an animal and killing it made her feel ill. "No, Sire. No particular taste for sport."

She couldn't help her eyes darting to where Jace sat beneath her as she contemplated her horse related struggles. He was fidgeting impatiently in his seat, probably longing to be in the saddle himself as Jonathan and Lord Alexander prepared to meet in the final.

Lightwood's huge black warhorse tossed its head impatiently and pawed the ground with its front hoof.

Clary felt her heartrate accelerate as the crowd chanted and cheered. Alec, the tourney's clear underdog, had ridden well so far. It was obvious he was skilled but having seen her own brother in the lines Clary suddenly longed for the joust to be over.

From what Isabelle and Jace had told her of the boy they both loved as a brother, Clary had grown to like the sulky, staunchly honourable Alec. To her left, Isabelle was leaning forward on her stool. She gripped the armrest of Clary's chair so tightly that her knuckles protruded and bleached the skin around them.

Alec had mimicked Jonathan in turning to his sister for favour. Her blue silk tie fluttered on the end of the lance.

"He rides well," Clary whispered to her friend in desperate encouragement.

Izzy shook her head silently, mouth pressed into a frightened line.

The two visors clicked as they were flicked forward once more. The two riders took up their positions as a hush fell over the stands.

"The Prince will win, he has to." Isabelle replied in a tight, strained voice, "Please God, my brother is not too badly hurt."

The flag was dropped and the two charged, every pounding stride drawn out as the gap between them closed. Lances levelled. Clary's breath caught.

At the last minute, Isabelle gasped and looked away, eyes screwed tightly shut.

The clattering thud as Alec hit the earth was drowned out by the roaring delight of the crowd for their Prince.

Jonathan tore off his helm to reveal his pale blond hair stuck to his head with sweat and a triumphant beam. He cantered along the stands in his victory parade.

Daring to open her eyes at last, Isabelle sprang to her feet and raced to the edge of the box, all composure forgotten.

Clary hurried on to her feet after Isabelle, either to rush to her aid or spare her the humiliation of being chastised for rising while her mistress was still seated. For a moment, Clary genuinely thought she would have to restrain her lady from climbing out of the box and rushing to her brother's side.

Mercifully, Alec was back on his feet. He seemed relatively unharmed, although he was pressing a hand to his shoulder and limping as he shuffled out of the lines.

Reaching a relieved Isabelle, the Princess caught at her friend's trailing sleeve, "Look! He is unharmed!" She declared and started to pull the taller girl back to their seats. It was then that she realised she was not the only one who had rushed to comfort Isabelle.

For the first time in days, Clary was eye to eye with Jace Herondale, and his gaze did not skim away immediately from hers while he stood with a hand on Isabelle's other arm.

One glance, and she forgave his abandonment and dismissed all his estranging courtesy. Clary was gazing into his eyes like some dolt of moonstruck maid, frozen on the spot and yet warmed by his stare. Feeling the intensity of that heady gold gaze on her, Clary finally realised why she had been so drawn to the amber earrings she now wore, why she had been so insistent more of them trim her hood.

Jace inclined his head, and if her whimsical mind hadn't completely run away with her, he looked as though he dearly wanted to speak to her.

The moment ended abruptly with Isabelle disentangling herself and pulling Clary along in her retreat.

Forcing herself to turn her back on Jace, Clary found herself locking gazes once again, but this time with her father, who had observed the whole commotion without a word or a move.

Clary tensed in anticipation of his displeasure for impending his view of his son's triumph.

Instead, Valentine gave his daughter a little conspiratorial smile, as if he knew exactly the kind of friendship that had flourished between his daughter and his former ward. Like he knew exactly how her heart skipped a beat at a look from Jace Herondale, how her whole body was doused in elated heat at a smile.

The King watched it all with an understanding smile of his own.

As though he knew her very worst secret and had promised to keep it.

-0000000000000-

The great hall was ablaze with light by the time the long June dusk eventually surrendered to night. Every candelabra glowing bright, catching on the gems and jewels of the couples on the floor. Their sparkling light spun off the dancers and twirled around the walls in a rival dance.

Once the dinner plates had been cleared away, the King had called for the musicians. Now his rich, attractive, stylish court leapt and spun and clapped to the tune he set with enthusiastic compliance.

The royal children had been the first couple on the floor.

Jace knew from Isabelle's alternating impatience and enthusiasm that the Princess and her ladies had been engaged in two gruelling dance lessons leading up to the revels. Very little of her earliest sessions with a dance master as a child had stayed with Clary. She had been forced to endure a series of drills in order to participate suitably in the festivities.

It seemed they had agreed on a dance both partners could manage, the pavane. Traditional, yet still sophisticated. The slow gait left little room for mistake.

It was rather unnecessary to Jace's eyes. Anyone could see the Princess had a good hold on the rhythm. For someone who had only managed a handful of hours of dance instruction after a decade away from the court, she might even be considered very good. With the right partner-

Jace Herondale, the ambassador, had no right whatsoever to consider who her dance partners were. It should not matter to him that her grip on her brother was loose as she moved or that her body was too tense and wooden as she circled the floor.

All well and good that he noticed this was just like her fear of riding. No matter than Jace noticed Clary's first reaction to situations where she felt lost and out of control was to seize up. It was of less consequence that he knew once she relaxed into her own skin she could conquer most things.

Jace's hands certainly should not long to steer her with more grace and confidence. He should not long to murmur an encouragement in her ear and enjoy having her slim waist under his hand.

Once the dance ended, Clary returned to her seat and seemed determined to stay there for the rest of the evening. She was engaging herself in a serious looking discussion with Lucian Graymark. Santiago hovered nearby and tried to catch her attention.

Gratifying as it would be to watch the Spaniard's embassy enjoy the same success his master's holding of Turin, Jace knew he needed to get his eyes ofher.

He needed to follow through on the promises he had made to himself. It was time to stop dwelling on the girl herself and focus on the bigger picture; Clary's marriage. Things were going so well for them now, even with Prince Jonathan now notably against him. His Highness still owed Jace for his silence over what had happened with the peasants. And the more important person, his father had been looking favourably on Jace and his embassy since Oldcastle.

Jace ought to start feeling more optimistic, and thus more determined. But a scorned Kaelie had been reluctantly summoned to her husband's deathbed, so there were no more distractions. Even when she returned, it would not be as his friend. They had not parted amicably.

Again, of little consequence.

Jace needed to stop worrying about these women.

He needed to get his focus back, and his ambition. He needed to clear his head and put his feet firmly back on the ground. In order to do so, he needed to speak with Alec.

Jace knew better than to look for him amid the lords and ladies now enjoying a carefully choreographed galliard. He began scanning the fringes of the floor for the sight of a familiar dark head. Instead, he caught the eye of the King himself, reclining on his throne in a debonair navy satin. Lifting his hand, Valentine crooked a finger at Jace.

Apprehension fizzing in his gut, Jace approached the monarch in carefully measured strides before bending to the appropriately submissive bow. He felt the Princess turn her own head away from Graymark's to watch him from her seat beside Valentine.

Jace dared not meet her eye, fixing his attention obediently on the King, but he felt her beseeching curiosity melt away his determination instantly. He used the King's initial gap of silence before addressing him to chance a look sideways at Clary.

"Herondale."

"Your Majesty."

"You enjoyed the joust?"

"Very much so, Sire."

The Princess made some reply Jace could not hear to whatever Graymark said to her.

"Not as much as you would have done were you a participant, I daresay."

Jace had not thought that his frustration at being restricted to the stands was so obvious, "I suppose so."

"Your friend Lord Alexander has a talent, but then I suppose he has had the practise of riding against you."

"Once or twice," Jace admitted, "Though the main victor in France is the King's younger son, the Duke of Orleans as the Dauphin-"

"Tell me, why did you not ride today?"

Jace's lips pressed shut in confusion. The first real attempt he'd made in days to fulfil his commission and do his job properly and Valentine seemed set to waylay him? Was the King of Idris himself deviating the conversation from his daughter's possible bridegroom? Valentine pressed on, curling his forefinger against his chin in a pensive expression, "Most jousts see the appearance of a mystery knight or two. The boy I knew would have concealed his identity, procured a set of armour and a lance from somewhere and triumphed in the joust like a hero in one of those troubadour tales he was so fond of." He chucked softly, "You nagged at me to let you ride in tournaments all the time when you were a boy. You refused to see your tender years a setback. I am surprised that today, with age no longer an obstacle, you let the opportunity pass."

Jace felt his cheek fight against a wince, simultaneously touched and embarrassed by the King's memories of his over-eager child self, "Ah, I felt I had antagonised His Highness enough of late. I suspect the Prince would not take too kindly to being upstaged on his own day."

"You think you could best my Jonathan?" Valentine did not sound angry or insulted, just inquisitive, as though this were a question he would dearly like the answer to.

"I know not Your Majesty. The Prince is clearly very skilled" Jace said as smoothly as possible.

The King laughed again, a little louder and more earnestly this time, "How foolish of me to ask for a direct answer from a diplomat!"

Unsure of what to say, Jace smiled half-heartedly and held his silence.

To his left, Clary's attention flickered back to him once again. She seemed torn between listening properly to what Luke had to say to her and eavesdropping on her father's conversation. Not that Jace could blame her, he had been trying to overhear her discussion too, but was struggling to make sense of it, having heard names like Ragnor Fell and George Penhallow thrown about alongside other dominant court members. As to what might link them Jace could not fully deduce while trying to pick his words with Valentine.

"No matter," The King concluded dropping his hand back to the armrest and running his thumb over the ring of state on his index finger, "We shall find another use for you this evening."

"Majesty?"

"You have spent ample time at the French court to learn a few dances I daresay, Monsieur Herondale?" Before Jace's mind could turn the corner in the conversation long enough to frame a reply, the King had moved on, "Lead my daughter in the next dance."

It was spoken like an invitation, but even with the velvety charm in his words Jace could tell this was not one Valentine would have him refuse. Nor was he sure he wanted to.

Clary's eyes shot from Jace to Valentine, face blank with horror, "But Father I-"

The King's hand flew up to silence her, forehead rumpling at her audacious protestation.

The Princess resorted to a desperate glance at Graymark, who stepped forward to rest his hand on the back of the King's chair and intervene as tactfully as possible, "Your Majesty, is that prudent? When one considers how it would look to the other diplomats?"

Valentine was not inclined to consider anything, waving away his advisor's counsel impatiently, "Dance with her" he repeated his offer, with smooth insistence, eyes never leaving Jace.

Forcing himself to hold the unresponsive mask Valentine had taught him to wear, Jace bowed again in compliance.

He turned to the Princess, who regarded him white-faced, lifting his hand and offering it to her, palm up. "Would you do me the honour, Madam?"

Clary swallowed visibly, twinkling stones bobbing at her throat. Her eyes were boring into him, questioning and pleading all at once. Jace did not lower his gaze or his hand.

He watched the challenge, the plea and then the promise pass between them. After what felt like the longest moment of his life, she placed her thin, fine fingers in his and rose.

"Another pavane." the King called to his musicians as Jace led Clary to the floor, past the appalled rage of Santiago, who made a noise of disgust as they passed then stormed for the exit, probably to write an especially unpleasant letter to his master.

The reception from the nobles was not much better. A hush fell over the room and all previous dancing halted. Several noses crinkled in distaste and hands were hastily lifted to mouths to shield the frantic whispers darting from ear to ear. Jonathan Morgenstern looked as though his anger was such that the rich food he had consumed at dinner might make a reappearance. That should have been a gratifying experience, or at least made Jace fear for the welfare of his shoes which would be his target.

But as they waded through the disapproval of the frozen revellers, he could not take his eyes off Clary. She was clinging to his hand with a deathly tight grip. "I hardly know the steps," She confessed.

Jace dropped his hand to her silken waist and turned her to face him.

"We focused on the dance with my brother, I had not thought to dance beyond that."

"Relax. The pavane is very slow and very simple. Follow my lead."

Other couples resumed their opening positions around them.

Jace bowed to her out of courtesy, lips skimming the smooth skin on the back of her hand as he placed the expected kiss before rising. As he did so, he brushed by her ear with a final assurance, "Trust me."

The strength of Clary's gaze on him did not wane, not even as she dipped her head to the smallest of nods and the music struck up.

With a little direction and encouragement Clary danced quite nicely indeed. She slowly loosened her desperate grasp on him as her confidence grew. The cloud of her doubt lifted. It was hardly the most exciting of dances, even with her brother a step behind and subtly glowering at them.

The lack of complex movements however enabled Clary to do the one thing Jace would rather she wouldn't: speak to him.

"Am I very dreadful?"

"Not at all. I watched you dance with your brother, and if I may be so bold, you certainly have the potential to-"

"I did not solely mean the dance. Have I offended you in some way?" Clary enquired without turning her head towards him, sticking rigidly to the structure of the dance.

"Offended me? No, quite the opposite."

"Then why have you been avoiding me?" Jace fell to his knees in a stubborn silence, forcing himself to look amicably up at her while she circled around, neatly transferring her hand from one of his to the other as she completed the turn.

"I have not been avoiding you, Madam. Here I am, your dutiful servant. As always."

"My servant?"

"Indeed, and your most humble advisor," He tried to keep his voice brisk with purpose.

"Hmmm. So, with my marriage in your hands, I turn to you on matters of the heart," she noted wryly. Clary tutted impatiently as he rose and continued their measured pacing to the music. "Then I must say you have been a poor councillor for youhavebeen avoiding me. You no longer seek out my company as you used to."

"Your company is much sought after, Your Highness, and I-"

"Don't call me that!" She snapped with a ferocity that startled even herself.

"What else would you have me call you?" Jace demanded as his own irritation struck up, "It is your title."

"I would have you call me Clary, as you used to. I would have you call upon me, as you used to. Above all, I would have us be friends again." Her voice was hollow with real hurt, "I honestly believed us friends at last, Jace. I so wanted to be your friend again. I thought that even as everything else I once had is soon to be lost, we had achieved that."

"What else are you to lose?" Jace demanded, "You are a Princess of Idris and soon after you marry, God willing, you will be a Princess of France."

"But I will never see my mother again. I doubt I will even get to say goodbye. When the court summons came our parting was so sudden. Now I doubt she will leave the convent to see me off, even when matters in my marriage are settled. Then, I will be sent away. I won't see anyone or anything from here ever again. You spoke of how if we succeeded you would be my only friend in France. You spoke true and now… well I took comfort in that. I thought that I could survive life at a foreign court if I had you there. Someone I knew I could trust."

"You can trust me." Jace insisted, "It will not all be losses. You shall gain a husband," As he tried to console her, he realised how fragile a comfort that was. But he had to persist, "With him you will have a new family and a new country."

"Both of whom will be suspicious of me, a foreigner who enters into the match with her own loyalties and her own agenda. And what if I don't have sons? What if they all die and I'm only left with girls? Or worse, what if I have no children at all and my husband hates me?"

"Clary!" Jace admonished, struck by the depth and force of her fears, "He will not hate you! No man could ever hate you!"

"How can you be so sure?" She asked almost inaudibly, lowering her head as the dance ended and was met with a smattering of applause.

Jace did not relinquish his hold on her, though he knew he had already pushed his luck too far for one day. He leaned forward instead to speak to her fervently, "I know because I tried. God knows I have tried to hate you. Things would have been so much easier that way. But I cannot. Not even slightly."

She peered up at him with glossy eyes and a breathless smile, squeezing his fingers back firmly before she let them go. "Well then, Monsieur. If you cannot hate me I suppose you will have to try and lo-"

"Your Highness,Excellence." Clary broke off and Jace started at the unfamiliar voice behind them, turning his head to encounter one of the King's pages. "His Majesty would like a private word, Monsieur."

Jace nodded, glancing over at Clary whose expression had frozen over once again, only two splotches of colour across her cheeks to evidence how close they had come to sentiment. She gave him another shy smile and signalled her dismissal, "You must not keep His Majesty waiting."

Jace was left to reluctantly and warily follow the page into the King's private chambers.

He wondered at what point His Majesty had decided to retire. How much of the dance he had insisted upon had Valentine watched?

Jace feared what was to come, for he had been impertinent. This was surely the reckoning. Had Jace really been stupid enough to think Valentine would set him anything more than a test? Everything with Valentine was an experiment; he liked to throw scenarios and trials at people to measure their reaction to assess their worth.

The doors to the inner chambers were pushed open and Jace was left alone with Valentine Morgenstern.

This was a great deal more casual than he had expected. Valentine was standing by the fire with a book in his hand. The last time he had been alone with the man he had always considered his father, Jace had been told that a home had been found for him in Adamant and that he would not remain in the city of his childhood.

On that occasion, the King had been every bit as casual, though then he had been much sterner faced. Tonight, Valentine closed his book abruptly and smiled at Jace, making him relax instantly. "Jonathan, thank you for joining me."

Jace tried to return the smile and then look as nonchalant as possible while he waited for Valentine to get to the point. "I wanted-nay, needed- to thank you properly for what you did for my daughter. To you I could well owe her life." He smiled again, charming as ever before his face darkened, "I would also put your mind at ease by having you know that there will be repercussions for those who dared to raise a hand against my daughter and challenged my reign. The rebels will be severely punished."

Jace wanted to protest that he doubted the mob was composed more of desperate men than rebels, but Valentine had not yet finished speaking. "Yet some good has come out of it. You have proved both your courage and loyalty to me, and to my family. I told you it would not be forgotten." He reached out and caught Jace by the arm. Jace fought to keep his face blank and his breathing regular.

Was he torewarded? Acknowledged and given his rightful place at last? Even as the possibility occurred to him, Jace recognised the look on the King's face. He would have to do more than save the Princess's life if he wanted to be the Duke of Broceland and openly regarded as third in line to the throne. Clearly, Valentine had a better idea.

"You have done me a great service and so I will do one for you in return." He paused, expecting some input or gratitude, Jace was not sure which. All he did know was that most of his thoughts were still back in the hall, with the girl who had distracted him for days. The woman whom he longed to speak to but dared not, at least not in the way he wanted to.

"A service, Your Majesty?"

"Indeed, Jonathan. I am going to make you a promise, here tonight," he gestured towards the book in his hand and Jace recognised it as none other than the King's personal Bible. "A promise on the Holy Bible itself that you may have from me one favour. One wish, whatever it may be, and if it is in my power to make your desire come about it shall happen."

Thy will be done,Jace thought dizzily as Valentine pressed his hand firmly on the well-loved Latin cover and fixed an earnest stare on the diplomat.

"So, then Jonathan, what would you have of me?"

Jace could hardly think. His mind was crammed with possibilities. "Anything, Sire?" he questioned sceptically.

"You doubt me? You think I would play the man who saved my child false?"

Jace shook his head humbly then glanced up at Valentine once again. He had learned many things from this man and the dangers of trust had been one of them. "Majesty, forgive me. Your generosity is beyond what I could have ever hoped for. It is not in my nature to trust such goodness; I have seen so little of it."

Valentine smirked, "You always were an intelligent boy. But you should put your reservations aside, for I swear on all the saints and on the holy angels I will be true in this. There, you see? A sacred oath I would never break. I am trusting you in return, trusting you not to harm me or mine in what you demand."

Jace nodded, still struggling to separate one coherent request from another. The first and most obvious option was to do his job. To secure the success of his mission and ask Valentine to make his daughter the Dauphine, so he and the Lightwoods could all go home with royal approval and begin new, better lives. That was what Jace ought to do. It was the safest thing to do, knowing that Francois would also reward him in turn. He would secure a future for himself in France. Why then did his lips not form the words?

Jace never had been very good at playing it safe.

Part of him couldn't ask Valentine to complete his mission for him, because he had a good chance of success anyway and couldn't bring himself to squander his wish. Moreover, he was loath to give Valentine all the credit for the match. If he was going to bring this embassy to a success it would be because of his own merits and abilities, not because of one reckless decision that had paid off and some contraption of Verlac's. Jace was good at his job, at what he did. He needed this to be his success as a diplomat,not a fortunate mistake.

Perhaps he should ask for his father's title and his lands back, then. Jace thought of how his heart had soared only minutes ago at the prospect, how he had hoped himself that it would be the outcome of this meeting. That too could give him a future and standing at court, albeit a different one. It was only fair, that Jace be absolved of his father's crimes. It was not just to deny him his inheritance as punishment for crime committed even before he was born.

Again, Jace he could not make himself say the words.

What then? What else could he possibly want that Valentine could give? Was he still reluctant to deal with Valentine because he doubted the King's sincerity? Jace wanted to pound his head off a doorframe until he could clear it of all the confusion and fretting.

"Must I decide now?" Jace asked at last, bartering for time.

The King smiled once again, voicing his agreement happily. "But of course, Jonathan. I did always consul you against rash decisions."

Jace laughed drily at the reminder, rubbing his hands over his chin with relief, "I never did heed you."

"You are still young and learning," Valentine conceded, "Think about what I may do for you, my boy. Now, there is just one other matter I would speak with you on."

-000000000000000-

Slipping away from the revels was surprisingly easy for Clary once her father had vacated his position of honour. After it had become clear His Majesty would not be returning that evening, most of the older party guests disappeared to their own apartments. The youngsters of the court were left to run rampant. And run rampant they would, but later. When even the Princess and those of her ladies who still had a care for their reputations were safely tucked up in bed.

Presently, that Princess rose from her seat and inched away from her father's unoccupied throne toward the door.

Clary could try to tell herself she was looking for Isabelle, who had done her own disappearing act some half hour before. She could try to tell herself that she only being a reasonably concerned mistress. That she had merely noticed her lady's absence and, having her own suspicions about Izzy's unauthorised comings and goings for weeks, was determined to see Isabelle did not get up to any mischief. Somehow, at this point Clary was beyond pretending to herself.

Clary knew in her heart, as she slipped out of the hall and began to weave her way through narrow, stone-lined corridors and winding stairs toward the King's rooms, that she was looking for Jace.

She wanted to continue their conversation from earlier. Nor could she ignore the sense of unease that had clung to her from the very moment Jace had been dragged before the King. None of this boded well; not the inexplicably obligatory dance, not the knowing looks from her father, not Jace's new sincerity and consideration, none of it. If her father suspected even for a second- She needed to see Jace, now. She needed to find out what was going on.

It was only as she passed a supposedly empty room that a noise like a laugh diverted her attention. Curiosity triumphing over her impatience to find Jace, Clary plucked her skirts back and peeked around an ajar door. Her thoughts were automatically arrested by the peculiar sight before her.

Rather ironically, as she had gone rushing to Izzy earlier and found herself standing before Jace, now she was trying to seek out the ambassador she had found Isabelle. And in a position significantly less compromising than what she might have expected, but still infinitely shocking.

Izzy was dancing, which would not have been remarkable- had she not departed the main hall of noble revellers to do so in an empty by-chamber with Simon Lewis.

Clary looked at the couple with startled eyes. She blinked incredulously and stared again, but no part of the scene before her altered. The boy hand clasped with Isabelle and shifting his weight in uncertain steps remained her oldest friend, and though she knew him better than anyone she still could not believe her eyes. It was like finding Cleopatra in a painting with the Virgin Mary.

Isabelle giggled softly, a shrill, girlish sound Clary would never have associated with her, tugging on Simon's fingers gently as she corrected their stance. Simon was clearly not going to grasp the courtly steps with his awkward swaying and stumbling. He gave up, swinging his arms around in deliberately ludicrous manner and grinning at her. After some initial protest Isabelle too surrendered to Simon's new fool's dance, even laughing with him.

Clary hastily shrank back and closed the door over out of fear they would spot her. She had not seen Simon look so carefree in a very long time, and she had never seen Isabelle act the happy fool like that. The last thing she wanted to do was reveal herself and spoil everything.

Retracing her steps back to the stairs Clary shook her head with disbelief, rather thrilled with whatever it was exactly she had almost interrupted.

Turning her way into a deserted gallery, still wearing a small smile, she stopped in her tracks once again. This time, because she had found who was looking for.

Jace stood very still, staring at a faded tapestry, lost in his own thoughts. He was running anxious hands through his already messy hair, hat apparently abandoned somewhere long ago.

"Jace!"

The ambassador started at her voice, dropping his hands and turning to face her very slowly, his skin pale in the gloom and eyes wide.

"What are you doing up here by yourself?" she demanded, approaching him.

"Thinking of you." He cleared his throat then, raising a hand to the dishevelled blond curls once again, "Your Highness."

The formality stopped her in her tracks. What in the name of God had prompted her to presume such familiarity? A dance her father had insisted upon, a shared look at a joust, a handful of borrowed books? Jace was, as he told her, an advisor. Nothing more.

Clary's heart took no heed of that, hammering on defiantly as she locked her fingers together and tried to bridle her thoughts.

"It grows late. You should retire, Princess. I daresay the Marchioness is looking for you."

"The Marchioness has gone to bed herself long ago with a toothache. And we have already established that I have a certain fondness for night time wandering." That sounded dreadfully forward, but Clary was already determined to say whatever she had to in order to tempt out a smile. If needs must, any further insinuation of unchaste behaviour from the fellow could be successfully reprimanded with another slap. It would not be necessary tonight, she sensed, as Jace's eyes seemed to drink her in, scanning her as though she were the last mouthful of water he would swallow before setting out into the wilderness.

Clary moved closer to him, slowly closing the gap between their bodies. She stopped mere inches from him, green eyes unwittingly drawing in gold.

"Clary," her name fell into the silence, soft and rolling with his accent. Not her title, but her name. Clary found herself remembering the two strangers who had met in a similar corridor, thinking of the sparks that had flown and the boy who had cared what her name was before he knew her title. The boy who had smiled on her and stopped her fall only to trigger a far more dangerous plummet. The one she was right on the edge of, watching his lips form her name.

"Clary," He spoke again, more determinedly and she recognised at last that Jace was trying to tell her something, "I have- you will-" The right words eluded him. Whatever fleeting sense of duty that had stirred the attempt was forsaken. "I am so sorry."

Clary parted her own lips, initially to ask what exactly he had to apologise for now, but somehow the words never reached her lips. The sight of him standing there with that lost expression was enough to strengthen the resolve that had been building.

She knew she could not change her fate. Clary knew that her bridegroom may not be set in stone, but nothing about her marriage or future was her decision. Just because the destination was non-negotiable did not mean she couldn't alter the journey. She was sick of being pushed around board of politics. Once, just once, Clary wanted to choose her next move.

To have control, even if only for a moment.

She stepped forward, thoughts empty of anything but Jace. Clarity or insanity, however you wished to turn it.

Then there was no space between them at all. Clary was tilting her head back and tipping her weight forward onto her toes, pushing herself upward until she was touching her mouth to his.

Jace's lips were unexpectedly gentle and undemanding on hers, yet the contact was enough to send a frantically sizzling heat through Clary's veins. It shattered the dreamlike quality of the whole encounter. Suddenly she was kissing him properly, feeling him, tasting him. Unthinkable as kissing Jace had once seemed, the possibility of his responding as he now did surely must be.

It ought to wake Clary up or bring her to her senses. But if any part of her registered that this was utter folly, she ignored it.

She leaned into Jace further, reaching for him as a flower will tilt and grow in search of sunlight. His arms were making their way to her waist and Clary's fingers skimmed the smooth velvet edges of his robes as she stretched out her hands towards him. Perhaps she meant to shove him away, only to cling to him. She folded her fingers in the fabric and drew him closer still.

He let her go, releasing her just as swiftly as he had grasped her.

Clary managed a single unsteady step backwards. She was staring up at a dazed Jace, who looked as though he had just been jolted out of some reverie, precisely how Clary felt. She strove to find the words that would recapture the moment, recast the spell, but he beat her to it.

"I am so sorry," Jace repeated breathlessly.

He was long gone before Clary could catch either her breath or her thoughts, leaving her alone and confused with only an abandoned cap and her own pounding heart.

-00000000000-

Chapter 10: Desires

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Desires

Bellgate Hall, The Lakelands, Early July 1536

The court had removed to Idris's southern lakelands for the hottest months of the year. As June turned to July, the heatwave and general sluggishness of noble life encouraged many to dally in complacence.

The King had a week ago announced he was travelling back to the edges of Broceland forest, to pursue some of the game surrounding his woods and stay in his private hunting lodge. Valentine left his daughter at Bellgate, departing with a select group of companions. Among them was his son and the three envoys.

Santiago had been most vocal in his affront at the unseemly display at the Prince's birthday. He had expressed this displeasure, and that of his master, to a privately indifferent and impatient Valentine who became publicly shocked and remorseful. The Scottish ambassador hastily added the King of Scotland was not thrilled either, though Clary suspected he was bluffing. James Stuart likely cared not one whit who Clarissa danced with or even who she married; he had already made an alliance with France, the support of whom depended on his willingness to marry a Valois Princess. Idris would have to offer one hell of a dowry if they wanted Clary enthroned at Edinburgh.

Valentine extended his invitation to the hunt to smooth relations between all diplomatic parties once again.

Yet, the worries of her father were not to be Clary's, not entirely. Now she was on good speaking terms with Lord Carstairs and with thanks to Helen, her father, the Duke of Lyn, Clary hoped that the King would be suitably swayed in the desired direction. Even with Luke and Jace currently riding with His Majesty, she found herself feeling positive. She had to trust that the matter of her marriage to her allies and hope for a favourable outcome.

With so many of the noblemen away with the King, Clary found herself at the head of a lady's court. She could pretend the men would never return; that she would rule her little kingdom by the lakes in the unending summer days, never troubled by word of a husband or duty again.

The Duke of Lyn's central residence here at Bellgate was beautiful, situated right on the edge of the lake. It seemed all of its bright, open rooms had a view of the waters. With the Duke's sizeable brood of children currently at one of his other houses, the mansion at Bellgate was peaceful and perfect for Clary's intentions. With no Jonathan to disturb her, and no Jace to distract her, the young princess spent her days in the south in sweet indolence.

Clary could spend the warm mornings drifting though the abundant summer gardens before seeking out the cooler indoors in the simmering afternoons to enjoy poetry and music. On the days of milder heat, she went boating on the sparkling expanse of Lake Lyn. They glided over the gently bobbing waves, where Clary could trail her fingers in the blessedly cold waters and admire the rays of sunlight glittering in the depth. Lounging on the pebbled beach, she drew the lake as a rival night sky, lights shining through the glassy water like little stars trapped in the waves.

In the evenings, Clary feasted on the finest fish and waterfowl the lakes could offer. The long summer nights she spent in song and dance. She mastered several more court dances and encouraged travelling minstrels to come from afar to play for her.

Without the presence of men, Clary even persuaded her ladies to relax from their rigid etiquette. On the hottest day of the year, they found themselves reclining in the gardens with long sleeves rolled up, hoods and caps long ago discarded as they weaved flower crowns.

Through which Clary had unwittingly suggested to her household that the rules of propriety were flexible.

It was her fault that two of her ladies could so forget themselves. The night before her father's return, Clary entered the bedchamber two of her unmarried companions shared, to hurry them to supper. What she witnessed between them was much more than a friendly caper, of that even Clary in her convent-kept innocence was sure.

But she did not how to proceed. How was she supposed to broach the topic with Helen and Aline? She was doubtless expected to reprimand them, but Clary had no idea how to do that either. It was too embarrassing.

The morning of the King's return, Isabelle- who missed very little, had finally decided to challenge her on the new aloofness with Helen.

"What is it?" She quizzed the Princess over the new altar cloth they were stitching. "Have you been offended by Lady Helen in some way? She no longer sits with us as she used to, and she barely spoke to me at breakfast. Is it the Duke? Has he failed you? Have you lost the Dauphin?"

Her fretting was understandable. Isabelle had identified the most logical reason for her mistress's displeasure. And she had a personal stake in the success of the French suit too. Those fears at least, Clary could soothe, "Nay, the Dauphin remains a promising suitor. But I suppose I have been given cause for offence, in a way."

"How so?"

Clary lowered the gold thread in her hand and scanned the room to ensure everyone was engrossed in the tasks she had set them, and that her murmur could not be heard over Simon's strumming. In a hurried, mortified outpour she admitted to what she had witnessed.

At her conclusion, Isabelle exhaled a breathless burst of laughter.

Clary scowled, fighting to keep her voice down, "How can you laugh? At such…impropriety!"

"You truly think it so?"

Clary's cheeks flamed, "I know little of what occurs in the marital bed, but I do know there are things which should only occur in a marriage bed. Things which I did not even think could occur-" she hissed in disbelief- "with awoman."

Isabelle had to smother a caterwaul of laughter. "My God, Clary. There is much, much more that can occur in a bed beyond the begetting of heirs."

Clary's face got hotter still. She knew not how to respond to that. She had heard enough innuendo and bawdy jokes since arriving at court to surmise as much. She knew very little of the practicalities of marriage. Well,the practicality- sex. She did know that the scriptures were clear on the subject; only between a man and woman in marriage and only for the purpose of having children.

"You do not seem surprised to hear of Helen and Aline's transgressions."

Izzy shrugged, "I thought it rather obvious it was more than friendship between them. I thought anyone with eyes might be able to guess why Helen and Aline are inseparable. Anyway, it cannot be the first time two girls have taken advantage of the obligatory sleeping arrangements for unwed maidens at court. Think you not it would be far worse if you had discovered Helen with a man on her bed? That you could not tolerate, I grant you. It would risk her getting with child while unwed."

Clary was sure if her face got any hotter it would start to cast off steam. "You think I should tolerate this then? Ignore it and be thankful it will not get either of them with child?"

Isabelle shrugged again, neatly perfecting her pattern and laying down her needle, "I do not presume to instruct you. I only advise with what I would do in your position."

"Which is?"

She sighed. "You will learn that as a wife and queen there are certain scenarios in which you shall have to learn to be blind to things. For women sex and marriage must be one and the same. But men can have sex as well as marriage. Do you understand? As a wife, as a queen, you must be blind to any of your husband's…." she groped for a delicate word, "-indiscretions. I told you that I do not think Francois would be so callous, but I cannot make guarantees. Arranged marriages are not founded on love. Fidelity is not expected of kings, just their queens. So you would be expected to pretend you see nothing at all. No pretty gifts your ladies suddenly sport that the allowance you pay them could not purchase. No women His Grace seems to seek out the company of when he visits your rooms. No unfamiliar and beautiful faces that secure a place in your household without the breeding or wealth required. Above all, you make no recognition of any children running about the palaces with your husband's eyes or his nose. Not unless he tells you he wishes for you to. "

It was all stated so matter-of-factly that Clary was left with no choice but to nod grimly. She had heard some variation of this before from her mother. Like most things she had been taught to expect of a royal station and marriage, it was easier to swallow in theory.

Clary was not stupid enough to expect her future spouse would never betray her, but she could at least pray she would never have to suffer the humiliation of a publicly flaunted mistress.

Neither did it escape her that a frenzied fury rose with Isabelle's voice as she spoke of mistresses. Not for the first time, she wondered how her friend had so much knowledge of such matters.

God. One moral crisis at a time. "I fail to see what that has to do with Lady Aline and Lady Helen."

Isabelle scoffed, "I am advising you, Your Highness, to start practicing that kind of ignorance now. Ignore it. I cannot see why it should bother you or indeed anyone. Neither lady is married or promised to anyone. Unless you yourself have a liking to one of them, I fail to see who it wounds."

While Clary could find nothing to say to that, the matter was closed.

-000000000000000-

The King and his entourage strode into the great hall early in the afternoon.

Jonathan found himself in fine spirits, even with the prospect of a reunion with his sister looming. The trip had been a success in many ways. Not only had the hunting been good, but he'd managed to evade any kind of suspicion for what happened at Oldcastle.

Once His Majesty had been installed at his lodge a small party, headed by Jonathan, were dispatched to Oldcastle to bring the King's justice.

There would be no more trouble at Oldcastle, the Crown Prince had seen to that. Any evidence of his scheme had been buried with the bodies of those townspeople he had chosen at random to hang for their treason. His confidence had only grown upon return to his father, where he had found a grey faced yet mercifully silent Herondale on the edge of the party, skulking around with Lord Alexander.

Jonathan had tried to befriend the heir to Adamant at his father's behest, but he failed to see how Valentine's policy of buttering up the next Earl was going to help him gain his lands for Idris. They would still have to fight France to put the little province under Idrisian rule, and Jonathan could not fathom how his father was going to manage that. Even with his own daughter as the Dauphine, Clary would never hold enough influence at the French court to prevent a retaliation.

No one conquered a land by sweet talk and bribery. As grandson to a King who owed his crown to conquest, Valentine ought to know that.

With Oldcastle smouldering, the only other loose end to Jonathan's ruse was Sebastian. He could rely upon Verlac's silence. The young Earl of Burchetten had long ago pinned his hopes on Jonathan's rising star. Being of an age, the duo had been running in the same circles since early adolescence. Sebastian and gone out of his way to capture the Prince's attention and then his trust. He could trust in Verlac to do his bidding, and even to hatch schemes with him. The two were alike in their unwavering ambition; when they knew what they wanted they were ruthless. Be it drinking, whoring, or toppling an enemy, Sebastian Verlac was the man Jonathan Morgenstern wanted at his side.

The only remaining threat to Jonathan's exposure was Jace Herondale. He had been waiting the entire trip to get the damned ambassador on his own, to give him the cautionary words that would shut his mouth permanently, but he had yet to find the chance. He was constantly in someone's company; either Alec's or one of those other two ambassadors, Lucian Graymark, John Carstairs, even Andrew Blackthorn.

All lords who were now openly in favour of the French match. Herondale must be bribing them or buying their support in some way. But with what? What the devil could Jace have that could persuade two such powerful men to back him in his diplomatic endeavours? Soft spot the Earl of Chene may have for anyone with Jace's surname, but that alone would not have his pledge. What, then? Some kind of French pension for anyone who would voice their support of Francois's plans? That did not make a great deal of sense either. If the French King were promising coin, he would have not have approached two of the wealthiest men in Idris first.

As the trumpets announced his father's entrance, Jonathan halted his speculating and focused instead on his little sister.

Clary had changed somehow, in the weeks since he had last seen her. The intention at Oldcastle had been to shatter her. Jonathan had succeeded only in stripping away an uncertain, innocent girl and leaving a hardier woman in her place. Her eyes no longer flickered away when she was addressed, she ceased to exude a nervous tension. Life at their father's court and no longer daunted her.

Today she had donned a lighter dress of the palest blue, which worked nicely with the same yellow kirtle and hood she had worn to his joust. Her fiery hair fell unbound and uncovered down her back, to declare her- as yet- unmarried state.

"Your Majesty," she greeted their father with a most welcoming smile as he drew her in to place a fond kiss on her cheek and offer some pleasantry.

Then it was Jonathan's turn. He grasped her thin wrist and twisted her hand to press his lips to the back of it.

"Brother," Clary's smile wavered.

Knowing that his father had moved out of earshot, Jonathan couldn't resist needling her, "I hope you did not feel the pain of my absence too keenly, sister."

The Princess's eyes sparked. The corners of her mouth twitched, "I confess I did rather struggle to cope. The only remedy shall be to separate ourselves more often."

Releasing her hand and grinning in return, Jonathan made off after the King. The sharp little wench could have the final word this time; he had finally spotted Jace standing by himself.

The Prince hurried over to where the ambassador was in the middle of removing his riding gloves, "Your Highness?"

"Herondale, I need a word with you."

"By all means sire." Jace made no effort to disguise the bite in his response. No matter, he would not be smirking much longer.

"It is about all that happened at Oldcastle."

"Surely the last thing you want is me to start talking about what happened at Oldcastle?" Jace peered up at him, darkly pleased with himself and his subtly laid threat.

Jonathan shrugged off the challenge with ease, "On the contrary, say whatever you wish of it." Jace pulled off his cap and ran his hand through his wind tousled hair. His eyes which had been straying to someone over the Prince's shoulder, darted back to the man before him.

"Whatever I wish?" he echoed in disbelief.

"Indeed, Herondale. Surely you do not require me to make it plain why it does not matter at all what you say, or to whom? There are very few who would give credence to anything you say. I expect you would find even fewer who would lend you an ear when you blatantly contradict their Prince. "

Herondale blinked back at him, seemingly only half paying attention. That irked Jonathan even further, he would not have Jace spoiling his moment of triumph. "There could be no proof to enhance your claims. It would be my word against yours, the word of an ambassador against a Prince. Who do you expect would be more widely believed?"

Jace glared back at him, quite speechless. The sight spurred Jonathan on further, chortling roughly at the envoy's thunderous expression. "At any rate, you missed your chance long ago. There is no way my father would pay you any heed now. Did you really imagine I would let you walk around with something that would keep me in thrall to you?" He shook his head and snorted. "Now that there can be no misunderstanding between us, I must go. His Majesty has a great deal of business to attend to. He will want me at hand."

Jonathan's moment of bright glory was instantly tainted as he turned to stride away, only to find himself seeing what Jace had been entranced by throughout their conversation.

Directly in the ambassador's line of sight was none other than Jonathan's dear sister. For all her amicable chatter with Lucian Graymark, Clary could not tear her eyes away from the young envoy either. The two were staring as though it had been years since they had last seen one another, rather than one short week.

Jonathan knew that in the days before their departure the two of them had been growing ever closer. Their new intimacy was traceable through a constant flurry of sly smiles, inside jokes and half-hearted attempts to avoid each other.

Watching Clary watchhimwith that shy and helpless predilection left a burning, sour taste in Jonathan's mouth.

Did his sister understand nothing? Had she forgotten Herondale's father had tried to usurp theirs? Had she forgotten that Herondale was a nobody now, and she a Morgenstern princess?

Jonathan's plan had been to dispose of the two of them, not let them live and grow fond of one another.

"Your Highness."

Reluctantly he turned back to Jace's grave face and severe stare, "What you did at Oldcastle? Most recently, I mean. That was not how the situation should have been handled."

Amusem*nt and irritation clashed within Jonathan. He loosed a single whoop of laughter, lips tilting into his own finest smirk, "How much plainer must I be with youMonsieurHerondale? No one cares for your opinion."

Truly sick of wasting his time on a Herondale, Jonathan turned away once more and made his way towards his father's solar, reflecting that despite his affected confidence Clary and Jace were bad enough as individual threats. Seeing his two greatest rivals for the throne making puppy dog eyes at one another could not be borne. And it would not be.

He would broach the matter with his father, today, and remind him that it was not appropriate for Clary to so openly favour one diplomatic party.

Then the King would nip this new rebellion in the bud, as speedily and piteously as he had the one at Oldcastle.

Perhaps Jonathan would even get to do the honours again.

-000000000000000-

Accepting Valentine's invitation to join in his hunting expedition had seemed like a good idea for so many reasons. Predominantly to put as much distance as possible distance between himself and Clary. Avoiding her after that incredibly foolish kiss had been impossible around court.

Clary had yet to mention the incident to anyone, Jace was certain he would know himself the instant Valentine did. The King's unchanging, tidy courtesy towards Jace assured him of her father's ignorance. If anything, Valentine had been growing warmer in his interactions with the French party, especially now that their arrangement had arisen. The very last thing Jace needed at this moment in time was for Clary to open her mouth and reveal exactly what had happened between them. Though what exactly was happening between them, Jace could not say.

His ingenious plan to absent himself from her presence for a whole week had backfired spectacularly.

Absence did, in fact, make the heart grow fonder.

There had rarely been a moment in the past week when Clary had not occupied his mind. He had lost count of the number of times over the last seven days he had found himself turning to share his amusem*nt with her when Pangborn said something even more unintelligent and self-important than usual. Or how he had listened for her laughter when Blackwell had so cheerfully and determinedly cried that, "I have him Your Majesty" as he charged off after the stag, only to slide fabulously off his horse into a stream, in which he floundered about crying at the top of his lungs that he was drowning until an abashed Starkweather pointed out that all need do was stand up.

How Clary would giggle when he told her! The expectation had fuelled Jace's own laughter, to the point where he had to distance himself from the rest of the lords for the sake of decorum. Alec joined him at the edge of the group in isolation shortly afterwards as he succumbed to one of his own rare fits of mirth. They laughed until they wept.

Their good humour did not last very long. Not once the news of Oldcastle had filtered back to the lodge. Jace doubted that would subdue the people for long, he knew from his own experiences that such Morgenstern callousness would only stimulate a resentment that could burn for years. This would come back to bite them, Jace was sure of it. Beating down dissent never did any good, save provide an immediate remedy. For long term peace, the causes of such discontent needed to be addressed. Jace doubted Valentine and his council would be in any great rush to address the causes of this dissent, when they themselves were the root cause.

He was further sobered by the letter awaiting him when he entered his chamber. He recognised the fleur de lis sealing the parchment instantly. Jace's heart plummeted with guilt as he snapped it open and perused the lines of familiar looping script. Reading his way through Francois Valois's personal thanks for Jace's work at the Idrisian court and with the Princess, Jace felt even guiltier. He had not thought to look for the Dauphin's own words on the matter amongst those of his father, who only ever provided Jace with instructions. It was typical of Francois, he realised now, to feel the need to involve himself. Still, Jace wished he hadn't, for reasons he did not dare to name, not even to himself.

Things had been so much easier when Clarissa Morgenstern had been naught but a name and an elusive lady kept behind locked doors. Somewhere along the line, Francois de Valois had become the one reduced to a name. It was only when Jace entered the Princess's presence chamber to seek her out for his own pleasure and saw the portrait of the Dauphin regarding him reproachfully that he remembered -and then only fleetingly- that there was another very real person on the end of these negotiations. A person he respected and had sworn to serve.

That dammed letter was still playing on his mind well into the small hours of the night.

Yet for all Jace's foul mood, what should have inflamed it- a Morgenstern girl enjoying a summer of pleasure-seeking and revelling in her father's power- proved to be the only balm. Clary was not nearly as light-hearted as she would have a spectator believe, Jace suspected that the faces of her attackers were likely playing in her mind as assuredly as Francois de Valois lingered in his.

He could not even explain himself to Alec, who could see only the good their party seemed to have achieved.

"She likes you." Alec declared, as though this was cause for celebration and not a serious problem for Jace, " Better still, Clary trusts you. Continue to do as you have done, only with more enthusiasm and more frequency. Keep her mind on the Dauphin for a little longer. Now we have Chene and Lyn on our side, I feel our victory is not far off." Alec sounded markedly more relieved than triumphant at the prospect, not that Jace could blame him. With relations between their parents so poor Jace knew that Alec feared for his little brother, who was merely a child of ten, caught in the crossfire. The sooner the matter of Clary's marriage was resolved, the sooner they could all go home. Besides, if Prince Jonathan was vying to be his bosom friend, Jace would wish himself in another country too.

Home.

The word usually summoned Castle Adamant to mind. The place to which they retired from the fervour of the court in Paris. The woods in which he galloped with Alec and Izzy. The hall he dined in with Mayrse and Robert. The garden he chased Max around in games of hide-and-go-seek.

And yet, Jace knew that he had no home. He had lost his family estates when his father's head had rolled. He'd been suffered as a lodger in the royal nursery at Havenfold. The past weeks travelling around the King's various estates and palaces had served to remind Jace of all that he did not have.

Jace had been on the outside so long that he feared he did not know how to belong anywhere, or to anyone.

He had tried to turn his weakness to a strength. He turned his hand to diplomacy. The lack of roots him very good at his job, and the promise of a foreign placement would satisfy his desire to see at least some of the world.

This policy of integrating himself further with Clary was certainly a recipe for disaster. He already liked the Princess far too well, and the more he spent in her company the more that feeling intensified.

Even with the letter from Francois folded up and tucked in his doublet to sober him, Jace knew was losing himself. He had lost himself long ago. Perhaps the second he fished her out of a mob, or the instant she had touched her lips to his.

Desire was not a foreign feeling for him. Every so often, a girl would catch Jace's eye and occupy his mind for a while. Then he would bed her, and after he had her a handful of times, he would not want her anymore. Sometimes they even tired quicker of Jace- of his fickleness and his moods.

Clary was not someone Jace could tumble in a haystack and soon forget. And this did not feel like desire, though he had to admit her kiss had awakened something within him, some beast that must had been slowly stirring for months.

Any sniff of impropriety between the two of them and the game would be over. She, being the King's daughter, would likely be sent back to the convent she came from, only this time she would not be coming out again. No prince would want a bride who would despoil herself with someone as lowly as an ambassador. As for Jace, he would not be walking away from the scandal unscathed. At the very least, he would never work in royal service again; what King would tolerate a man who would dishonour their wives or daughters? The more likely prospect is that he would pay for it with his life. Valentine was not a forgiving monarch.

Jace had always been impulsive, but not on such grave matters. There were certain places he would never go, risks he'd never take, no matter what. Kissing Clarissa Morgenstern should have been one of them.

This was no fickle lust or infatuation. That did not absolve Jace of the insanity of returning that kiss.

It also did not stop him thinking of her.

Jace had forced himself to forget any ties of affection between himself and the Morgensterns, in the interests of self-preservation. He had convinced himself that he had forgotten any fondness he had ever felt for this girl. But things were different now; he had changed and so had she. They were no longer children at innocent games, this something new. Something else, something new, something different. Something dangerous.

-000000000000000-

Clary supposed this spot was as good as any. Shielded by the copse of trees to their left, it was unlikely they could be seen from the house. It was also unlikely she'd stumble across many others outdoors at the moment. Not in this heat.

You would have to be mad to insist upon a walk just after noon. Mad or desperate.

Clary pivoted slowly to study the two young women before her on her garden path. Aline Penhallow hastily developed an avid fascination with the ground, but Helen Blackthorn managed to hold her gaze, even as her face started flaming. "Your Highness?"

Helen was a worrier, Clary had noticed. Ever since the unspeakable incident she had been tossing Clary frantic, furtive glances when she thought she was not being observed. On one occasion Clary had emerged from the chapel to find her clutching at her brother's sleeve, only for the two eldest Blackthorns to halt their flurry of whispers at her approach. As if she could not guess the topic of that panicked discussion.

The one person Helen had been careful to avoid in all of this was Aline. In all the time Clary had spent with them since, the two had barely looked at each other. Out of shame, she suspected not. More out of a fear that one wrong move would have Clary snap, and she would expose their secret.

The girls who had once so intimidated her now fell silent when Clary spoke. They obeyed her without a snicker, without a pause, because she was starting to act like a royal. Like a Morgenstern.

The thought itself was incredulous, or rather it should have been. But Clary would never again be the naïve, trusting girl whose only concern was that her translations would satisfy her mother. She was not sure she liked who she could feel herself becoming.

Here Clary was, now the sort of person who was willing to use another's secret to fuel her own darker desires.

Her father's daughter.

"The two of you were raised for a life at the royal court, so clearly you know how to tell people what they want to hear. And you know when and how to hold a silence."

Helen sucked in a breath and Aline slowly dragged her eyes upwards from her own feet.

"Keeping one's mouth shut happens to be a skill I myself am acquiring."

Both Helen and Aline peered at her curiously, still somewhat fearfully. Before she could lose her nerve, Clary pushed out the words she had so carefully rehearsed: "Which is why we are going to arrive at a compromise."

Helen released a tremulous rush of air and her shoulders sank. Aline fell back on her heels so rapidly Clary wondered if she was about to pitch backwards.

"A compromise." Lady Penhallow agreed readily, without hearing the terms.

Helen shot Aline a sideways glance, probably the first time she'd let her eyes stray that direction in days. "A compromise," she echoed a heartbeat later.

"Excellent," Clary chirped, trying to disguise the fact that she was every bit as relieved as her two new bosom friends that her plan had worked. "We cannot be condemned for what we do not know. Henceforth there are to be no questions asked between the three of us," The Princess stated, slicing her eyes between Aline's brown ones and Helen's blue. "The two of you will wait here until I return. As far as anyone else is concerned, you never left my company this afternoon. Understood?"

"Perfectly, my lady."

Clary nodded as matter-of-factly as she could, as though she had just closed a mildly important business deal. Then, praying that her shaking knees could hold her, she turned away again and hurried down the path, leaving her two women alone together. She dared not look back as she reached the water gate, placing her hand over the rough, hot wood and finding it unlocked as promised.

She tried to prepare herself for disappointment as opened the gate and passed through, but her heart was galloping on heedlessly. A condition not helped in the slightest by the sight of Jace Herondale lounging against the stone wall behind him. He too was trying to look as unconcerned as possible, though she did not miss the flaring delight that crossed his face when he caught sight of her.

"You came," she acknowledged breathlessly.

"You asked me to." He answered as though it were the simplest thing in the world and not a ridiculous risk that could cost them everything.

Jace adjusted his stance so one shoulder was pressed against the wall and crossed one leg behind the other, "No one knows that you are here?"

"No one that will say so." Clary hoped she sounded convincing.

His brows lifted, "Making friends all on our own, are we?"

She tutted irritably, rolling her eyes and placing her hands on our hips, "Don't start."

"You are welcome, by the way. Carstairs and Blackthorn are suitably enamoured with your cause. Our cause." He faltered a touch at the end, but fixed a smirk on his lips immediately afterwards and hammered on, "Impressive, I know. Just where would you be without me?" His tone practically oozed arrogance, and Clary was dismayed to see him don the armour she thought she had long ago chipped away.

"Why are you being like this?"

"Why am I here, is the true question." Jace demanded without looking at her, flinging his gaze out over the glimmering water instead.

"Only you can answer that." Clary told him softly.

"Well clearly there is to be no pat on the back and a well done. No matter, I am quite used to it. Diplomacy is all too often a thankless job. Foolish of me to expect any alternate treatment from you. What is the next task to be, Your Highness?" Jace tossed the final two words at her sneeringly and Clary could feel her hackles rising. The only thing that stopped her giving back as good as she got was recognising the fear behind his words. It was one thing two girls she hardly knew finding her threatening, but Jace? This was someone she had played with as child, laughed with as a friend, turned to in fear and trouble, even kissed…

"That is not why I brought you here." By some miracle the words came out clear and steady. "As you well know."

"I don't know what I know anymore" Jace muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear as he slumped backwards.

Clary was on the verge of letting it all be, of turning her back and going back to where her ladies waiting. Returning to her life of sewing and praying to pass the idle hours until her father decided to push her to the next square on the board. But she was sick of feeling like this, sick of being weak and helpless.

There was no way Clary would ever forgive herself if she walked away from him now. There was no way she could go on with her life and never wonder what might have happened had she found the courage for him.

"You are here because I kissed you and you-" she gasped in a single breath, shaking her head slightly in disbelief- "And you kissed me back."

"You think that makes you special?" Jace scoffed with almost convincing venom.

Rather than making her angry, the tension in his body and refusal to look her in the eye finally helped Clary understand. Jace could feign all he wanted, to another audience the façade would be persuasive. But she could not forget that he was the one who had risked his own life to save hers, agreed to put his career on the line and risked her father's wrath to make a deal with her because she feared for her own happiness.

Paradoxically, the uncertainty Clary glimpsed in him now solidified her own conviction. Whatever this was between them it was not an idle fancy. The way she had felt in the long week without him suggested this was not likely to be fleeting either.

In which case it was high time Clary started taking risks for him too.

"Yes." she told him firmly, approaching on unsteady legs.

They were close enough that he had to look at her, though Jace carefully avoided looking her straight in the eye, focusing instead on her moving lips.

"You cannot fool me anymore."

From this proximity Clary observed the single, swift breath he drew in, and flutter of fair lashes as he finally met her gaze in earnest.

Where she got the audacity from Clary could not say, but almost of its own accord her hand lifted and her fingers met his cheek, gently tilting his head down even as she sensed his palms brush against her waistline.

Kissing him before, wrong as it may have been, had far from satisfied her. He'd been driving her mad, though she knew the dangers of getting caught.

None of this felt wrong, not as Jace's hands tightened and he whirled her around until her back was pressing against the wall.

"Clary." There it was. Her name the way only he could say it; soft and sweet on his lips as any kiss.

Nothing mattered but him. Their lips met hers once more, not as they had previously, all tentative tenderness but with more purpose and drive.

Clary could not fathom how anything other than good could come of being held like this, being touched like this. Her palms slipped over his jawline, until her fingers were curling in the fine gold hair at the nape of his neck. For the first time Clary found herself understanding why disapproving older ladies condemned girls who 'forgot themselves' and their position.

Like this, it was finally possible to forget who and what they were. The warmth of the sun-soaked wall at her back and the feverish heat of his body was pressing against hers was all she knew.

-000000000000000-

The hot day had faded into a warm dusk by the time Jonathan finally managed to secure an appointment with his father. Given the clammy night, the casem*nts on the windows of Valentine's chamber were open to allow in some meagre breath of air, through which the moth he currently surveyed must have entered.

Jonathan watched it, utterly unmoved as it flapped helplessly around the bobbing flame of the candle by the desk, reeling back occasionally as the pale wings were singed. It darted forward again a second later.

Bored, the Crown Prince reached out and plucked it from the air. He cupped it in his palms, musing at the mild tickling as the feather-light wings battered against his closed fingers. This must be what amounted to a frantic straggle to such a small creature.

"Jonathan." His father called him, waving his clerk away.

Jonathan clenched his fingers into a fist, crushing the fragile creature and dropping the prone body as he fell into the seat Valentine gestured toward.

"Pangborn says you wished to see me? I wonder what matter you believe is so urgent that has not already reached my ears."

Trying his best to ignore the disinterested drawl and the fact that Valentine had already started to busy himself by flicking through the ledger already settled on his desk, Jonathan tilted forward. He was eager to observe every second of the rage that was sure to follow his announcement. It was rare Valentine's anger was not directed at his heir. The commodity should be relished.

"It is about Clary." The Prince paused for dramatic effect, burying a scowl that threatened to surface as his father's eyes leapt upwards, suddenly alight with interest at the mention of his sister. Not even hanging those rebels had earned Jonathan much more than a brief glance, yet the mention of Clary's name alone was enough to hold Valentine's complete attention.

"What of her?"

"I am concerned, Sire, at her-" Jonathan waved at the air in front of him as though the precisely delicate term he sought for was somehow floating there, "preoccupation? Nay, intimacy…" He let the final word linger, allowing all of its shady suggestiveness to sink in before continuing, "with the French Ambassador."

The King allowed the book before him to flop closed, leaning back on his chair and raising his hand to his chin, pressing his forefinger against his lips thoughtfully.

Jonathan pressed on, "I fear for her reputation my lord. Not that she has sinned in deed, of course!" Jonathan shrugged lightly, effectively throwing off his conviction as hastily as he had donned it. "But she is young, and new to court. I fear her innocence is being manipulated to Herondale's self-serving ends. I cannot stand by and allow her sweet nature to be used thus, Father."

Throughout his speech, Jonathan was careful to lay the blame most firmly upon Herondale. Valentine would hear nothing against his dearest child, but this way Jonathan could disparage them both without saying a bad word about Clary. He could not help but feel proud of himself. If Clary wanted to pull the wool over Valentine's eyes and play the pure and holy maid, then very well. Jonathan would use Clary's own tactics against her.

Initially, Valentine said nothing. His father seemed unruffled as ever.

Jonathan resisted the urge to hold his breath as he waited for the explosion of ire, or the snapped orders for that knave of a French envoy to be summoned.

None of his expectations came to pass. This was a recurring state of affairs Jonathan was truly sick of experiencing.

Instead, the King chortled softy to himself, dropping his hands to the armrest of his chair and tapping the sapphire ring of state against it meditatively. The grin slowly slipped from his face. "The two have grown close?" He asked it in much the same way as he grilled Starkweather about the realm's state of affairs; neither sharply nor loudly, in an attentive tone that was nonetheless demanding.

Valentine's son had seen enough of his interrogations over the years, and been subjected to plenty as he grew up, to know they were always like this. This put him on his guard immediately, he felt like a child trying to get away with not having finished his schoolwork before he went out riding.

"Yes. Enough that I and several others have noticed." The irritation running through his words was evident, but Jonathan found he no longer cared how he sounded; he needed to make Valentine see the urgency of this matter, "Unless we- you- put an end to this immediately, the next person to note this could well be Valois!"

"Yet surely" Valentine began smoothly, "The King of France will be aware of his own envoys tactics. He will have endorsed a little flirtation to sweeten us to the Duke of Brittany."

The complacency knocked Jonathan speechless. It was as if the King was not disturbed in the slightest at the prospect of his only daughter whoring herself out to an envoy. He even seemed to welcome the news.

Tensed in his seat, the Crown Prince forced his clenched jaw to loosen, "And so we condone it? We allow the French to pull the strings around us like we are Francois's puppets?!" His voice was undeniably spiked with temper, rising deplorably with each syllable, "Worse than that, we encourage and assist it! Bring Jace on hunting trips, arrange for the two to share dances? what next? Shall we have a place set for him next to her at dinner? Truly, I doubt that 'seduce my prospective daughter in law' was an order the King of France issued!"

"And you think Clary fool enough to fall into the arms of the first man to look her way? I think you underestimate your sister."

"She did not grow up here as I did, so I think Clary fool enough not to realise the danger a Herondale poses. Nor the depth of Jace's hereditary treachery. He could shame her just to spite us!"

"Enough, Jonathan." Valentine growled.

Jonathan trembled with anger, sucking in a breath which failed to sedate him even slightly, "But Majesty-"

"I said enough." Valentine's voice never lifted, but the authority thrown behind the order increased. "God above" he muttered half to himself as Jonathan finally fell into a sullenly subdued silence, "Your mother certainly gifted you with her short temper."

It was so unusual for his father to willingly speak of his mother that Jonathan was rendered properly to silence, though he felt his shoulders involuntarily square. Jocelyn being in the King's thoughts never boded well. Valentine had loved the woman to distraction, to a degree that almost every lord on the council had loathed the influence she'd held over their King. Jonathan wondered what they would make of the knowledge that she still wielded a potent power over their monarch. Even absent, Jocelyn haunted every decision her husband made.

But Valentine had never compared Jonathan to her before. No one had. When people looked at him, they saw an image of a young Valentine. Based solely on their looks, they commonly viewed Jonathan as his father's son and Clary as her mother's.

But Valentine was not going to dwell on the thought of his faraway spouse for long. Jonathan had been old enough at the time of her departure to remember that there had been an obvious distance between his parents even before there had been a physical one. He could also recall his governess chiding him for referring to the queen in the past tense, reminding him the lady was not dead. Jonathan responded that he wished she were. Then, Jonathan reasoned only to himself, at least he could make sense of her absence. His governess reported the comment and Jonathan was hauled before the King for one of the worst beatings he'd ever had.

"What are you planning to do about Clary and the Herondale?"

"It grows late Jonathan," Valentine told him pointedly, emerging from his moment of reflection and from his seat, the previous question ignored. "And, speaking of Clarissa, I have arranged to have supper with her."

"I take it my presence will not be required?" The Prince enquired snidely.

"Not on this occasion" Valentine confirmed without a backward glance, "In fact it seems that now would be the prime moment for you to return to your own lands. Since matters have been settled in the south, your presence in the north would serve well to prevent any discontent from spreading."

Valentine presented the notion of Jonathan returning this exile as though it were some shining solution. He supposed to the King it was. That only fuelled the Prince's stinging resentment as he watched Valentine hurry off to meet with his untarnished daughter.

Argument was pointless with Valentine, certainly not when he deemed his heir's time at court to be up, as Jonathan had discovered long ago. The futility of the situation did not make accepting it any easier. He felt his hand back into a fist.

In an effort to loosen the angry tension in his own body, Jonathan rapped his knuckles against the smooth wood of the King's table. He found the dull thud that came with each contact oddly soothing, even as his flesh began to ache from the half-hearted blows.

Then he realised that in his haste to leave, Valentine had left his son unattended in his chambers.

Jonathan supposed it was childish, the thrill he got from rifling through his father's things at any given opportunity. But it almost always procured him some delightful titbit of information. If his father was not willing to tell him what was going on with Clary's marriage, then Jonathan had no choice but to find out for himself.

-00000000000000000-

Dinner alone with her father was not the first thing that sprang to Clary's mind when she contemplated treats or even a fun evening.

She knew such privacy with the King was a huge honour and much coveted. His Majesty was not in the habit of granting empty honours, but Clary could not for the life of her think what he had done to deserve such favour. She only knew that they were not sipping the cellar's finest malmsey here to bond.

Given what he had just done to the people at Oldcastle, Clary could barely look Valentine in the eye, seeing only corpses and ashes in his face. It was difficult to stomach the rich food when knowledge of what he had done to his own aggrieved subjects was resting like a deadweight in Clary's gut.

Isabelle suggested that Valentine merely sought to congratulate her on the running of the court in his absence. Clary felt she knew her kin better than that. It would take something extraordinary for her to capture her father's attention, let alone his congratulations.

The final course was laid before them.

Valentine plucked a sugared fruit off the table. He raised it to his mouth but pausing before he ate it. "I have some glad tidings, Clarissa."

"Oh?" Clary disguised her unease with a smile as best she could, helping herself to the sweetmeats.

Valentine leaned towards Clary, swallowing his sweet. "Jonathan tells me you have developed a liking for the French ambassador."

The remark struck Clary like a stone to the head (a sensation she knew all too well and would not recommend to anyone). Clary worried the venison she had just consumed was going to resurface. Surely not even Valentine could sit there smiling at her and nibbling desserts if he knew, if he even suspected there was something improper between Clary and Jace.

The King daubed his fingers on his napkin, not looking at her, "I am glad to hear it."

Dropping her trembling hands under the table, Clary tucked her shaking fingers into her long sleeves and pasted a bland smile to her face. "How so?"

"You will have need of a friend in France soon. Very soon, please God."

At first, the implication escaped her. Clary was so preoccupied with what the repercussions of what her hasty kisses with Jace could be that she was slow to recognise her doomsday had arrived.

"I have arranged a marriage for you. Or rather, I have reached an understanding with the King of France. Soon we shall commence negotiations in earnest."

"The King of France?"

"Yes, daughter. You are to marry the Dauphin."

-000000000000000-

Chapter 11: Discretion

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Discretion

Clary cornered Jace on a staircase, on his way to the hall for his own meal.

He still looked unreasonably attractive; dressed all in black which, contrary to making him look drab or dull, brought out the brightness of his hair and eyes. Jace glanced up at her hurried approach, expression tightening into the guarded, wary and- to the ignorant eye- utterly impassive mask as he took stock of the girls behind her.

"Leave us," Clary snapped at Helen and Aline from where they scurried a few paces behind her gown's trailing train, struggling to keep up with their impatient mistress.

The duo exchanged a single look before falling back and disappearing.

Clary knew they would not dare to go far- simply a discreet distance out of sight and earshot.

Her focus was entirely trained on the unmoving Jace before her, whose expression had yet to warm as it customarily would have. He knew all that had just transpired. He hadknown.Her suspicions only solidified as, after a brief hesitation, Jace dropped his head and moved to bow.

The Princess's hand shot out to halt him immediately, "You need not trouble yourself with any of that. We are somewhat past pretences of modesty and propriety, are we not?"

Jace's eyes shot up as he straightened, towering over her despite their being stationed on the same step. He had the audacity to seem wounded by her tone.

"No need to look at me like that either! You are to be congratulated, sir, on your uncanny work. A second to none performance, truly."

"Performance? Clary I-"

The King had expressly forbidden her from announcing the glad tidings to anyone, but evidently what she was about to say would come as no surprise to the envoy before her. It was his doing as much as it was Valentine's.

"I am to be Dauphine!" she all but shrieked at him, "But you knew this, did you not? Days ago, weeks ago, I'd wager!"

Comprehension splashed fully across Jace's features and he made to speak. But Clary was relentless, tearing on viciously and praying her blows landed, "My father has just informed me of his plans. Plans which he has not concocted overnight, I can assure you. I know you have been laying plots with him, then coming to me to talk of books and music, anything at all that would keep me in the dark! Well played, Herondale. Our clashes and then the apology, masterful! As for the rescue – well, you certainly turned that one to your advantage like a true expert. A true masterstroke."

Her gold crucifix thumped into the base of her throat with the gulping breath Clary yanked in before continuing. "You had me. By God, you knew it. Letting me make you all the powerful friends you needed. I all but handed you the victory. All of which is impressive. But you are, after all, a gambling man. So came the real stroke of genius- the kisses! This past week my head has been so full of you that my interfering ceased. My avoiding the King handed you the reins. You've steered your venture home."

Clary took a few staggering steps backwards, tripping over her own hem but not her words. "You have caught the King too, Herondale, better than you could have ever hoped your triumph, Excellence."Clary cried, refraining from striking him with her hands only because she knew words would wound him more. "For if you imagine I cannot play the game myself you are wrong. Most wrong. I am primed for the next round when we get to Paris. And I can assure you, I have had the most accomplished of tutors."

She whirled around then, set to storm away. She was stopped by Jace's hand catching her elbow, "Clary please! That is not how any of it was, I promise you! No, I beg of you. Listen to me!"

"Why should I?" She flung back, tugging herself free.

Jace hurried to block her ascent and grasped her shoulders this time. With much resistance, Clary was turned to face him.

"I can see why you would not wish to. But please, I have given you reason to trust me in the past, have I not? I can explain. You may well find that explanation inadequate, but so be it. I know you are wise enough to make up your own mind. I will give you leave to think of me what you will, if only you will hear me first."

Clary paused, tempted to barge past him to the safety of her rooms and ignore the honeyed poison he would drip in her ears.

Yet Jace was right. He had given her reason to trust him. And the King had spoken true, she and Jace Herondale would be seeing a lot of one another in the future.

She nodded her assent briskly, still glaring at the ambassador furiously, "Very well. Speak. I will not be listening for very long."

Jace's shoulders lifted as he dragged in a few composing breaths, "Yes, His Majesty told me on the night of the Prince's birthday that he was inclined to give you to the Dauphin. He intimated again on the hunt that he would have you marry Francois. But he made no move towards bringing it about, and he made no announcements. I began to doubt his intentions, I had only his word to go on. For all I knew, Valentine had told the other envoys the same thing. The understanding between Valentine and Francois was only confirmed yesterday. I have not known for much longer than you have. Not even Alec and Isabelle knew of the agreement until an hour ago. As for the night I first kissed you…I could not say why I did that, Clary. It was not a ploy; it was not a feint, I swear. "

Jace swallowed uncertainly, looking at Clary with a new fervency, as though he could will her into believing and forgiving him., "I had just come from a particularly intense discussion with His Majesty. And you had just told me marriage would mean the loss of everything that had been a part of your previous life. I realised that I could well be a part of that. You were going to become Francois's and I wanted, just once, to have you first. To have you once, before you became his forever."

He did move to release Clary then, loosening his grasp and sliding his left hand down her arm until it reached hers. Their fingers tangled together, his eyes falling there too. Jace pointedly addressed them the next time he spoke. "But I know I must leave you be. I understand that now. It would be wrong, worse,perilous. This has already gone too far."

His words fell into an astounded silence. Clary half laughed, half sighed at his admission and realised that he had spoken true. She ought to accept the end had come.

She was now the property of one more powerful man. The precious daughter of two Kings. Jace remained just an ambassador. Her ambassador.

Instead, Clary stepped forward. She moved further into his arms and lifted her head to survey him properly. "And yet, you are not letting me go," she pointed out quietly.

"No." Jace agreed, and she was stunned to note he was trembling. "I have failed in every other attempt to untangle myself from you."

"But you have won," Clary stated, "So you may stop pretending now."

Jace still held her tight, stepping forward until there remained hardly any distance between them. "You wish to cease the pretence?" She heard his warning and the plea lingered.

"Yes."

"Good." Jace laughed breathlessly as he lowered his head.

Lips brushed her brow and skimmed her nose. They continued their downward journey. Already Clary's heart was beating fast in anticipation of what was to come. If any part of her recalled that they were on a staircase where anyone could come upon them at any moment, it was swiftly dismissed.

She had not thought to forgive Jace so easily, in fact she had not been inclined to forgive him at all. She found herself trusting in the way he held her now. It was only as they hastily and clumsily pulled apart at the sound of a not-so-distant footfall that Clary remembered what they had been doing here in the first place.

Jace was the first to recollect his wits, steering her before him as they bolted into the first shady alcove they could find.

"This too ought to cease," He breathed in her ear once they were stowed away, around the corner in relative safety. Clary nipped at her tongue to quell a giggle and dared peek up at him.

They snorted and shuddered with their laughter as the mystery footsteps receded.

Clary was left with no choice but to step away. "My ladies are waiting."

Jace's grin drooped, and his eyes flickered away, "How am I to do this?"

"We will think of something" Clary tried to reassure him, suddenly petrified that they had only reconciled to part decisively, "There are the gardens and the boathouse."

"You are the Princess of Idris, Clary. You cannot go creeping around the grounds with a servant."

"You are not my servant," she protested petulantly.

"Exactly." Jace said dully, slowly shaking his head, "It is worse than that, I am your soon-to-be-husband's servant."

Clary made a faint attempt to lighten the mood, "For now. You shall not be anyone's servant for long. I believe a knighthood and some chateaus were promised?"

Jace did not smile, "In which case I will remain the French King's subject. Gardens will only suffice for now, as well you know." He gestured between them forlornly "This cannot continue when we reach France. You will be a wife then. Francois's wife." Now he did laugh, though it was bitter as a lemon and brittle as glass, "Because I gave you to him."

The irony was far from lost on Clary, "My father is the one who gave me to Francois."

"But neither you nor I will ever be able to forget that he does so at my behest."

-000000000000000-

Arbor Hall, South-eastern Lakelands, Idris, Early August 1536

Isabelle sat on the windowsill; shoes discarded long ago. Her white, stocking-clad feet were planted on the sill before her.

One of Jace's detestable books was open in her lap. She had also discarded the possibility of reading long ago. Her Latin being nothing remarkable, and what contents she could understand failing to evoke anything beyond a bemused apathy.

Although the book remained balanced on her knees, her eyes were fixed on the pearl and emerald ring that she currently twisted around her finger, watching the stones catch the light and fade again as she continued her rotation.

It had been a gift from her father on her recent seventeenth birthday earlier in the spring, a shameless bid to win her silence in the wake of her discovering his whor*, perhaps to reclaim her affection. Robert had not succeeded, though Isabelle had kept the ring and continued to wear it. She considered it no less than she deserved, putting up with her father in the ways she did.

As for the book itself, Jace had behaved as though his lending it had been some sort of great favour, which in itself was laughable. Isabelle's parents had seen to it she was educated, but her father had seen no reason for that education to be on the same plane as her brothers. He deemed it unseemly and unnecessarily costly.

Isabelle had been more carefully drilled in the arts of needlework, dancing and governing a household: finely honed skills that would be of benefit to a husband. She resented it sometimes, not being able to keep up with the conversations Jace and Alec had about this philosopher or that theologian. She was particularly envious of Clary who could chatter away in a litany of tongues and hold her own in any debate, even against Jace.

She was far from stupid. Isabelle knew that there were many types of intelligence and that she was clever in ways beyond books. She could navigate a cut-throat court with ease.

Her mother had demanded with exasperation on more than one occasion after Isabelle had sent yet another 'perfectly good' suitor on his merry way "have you no ambition?"

On the contrary, the young Lady Lightwood had plenty of ambition. She enjoyed her pastimes of plotting and flirting, she liked being at liberty to dance with whoever she chose and tease legions of nobles with the notion of her hand. It was what gave her what little power she had. All of that would have to end the moment she uttered the marriage vows.

There were other, deeper reasons for her dragging out her own journey to the altar, of course. Not the least of which was preventing her father from finding a bride for Alec.

Just as she thought of him, her elder brother announced himself with as swift knock on the door. He paused on the threshold to fix a disapproving look on his younger sibling, "Really Isabelle?"

"Come now" Izzy tutted dryly, rubbing her fingertip against the glass of the windowpane idly, "This cannot be the most compromising position you have found me in."

Alec chose tactfully to ignore the last comment, "But in a window? Where anyone could see your stockings?"

"No one is looking for me."

Her brother crossed the room and held out his arms to her, "I am. Please come down Izzy. I need to speak with you."

With exaggerated reluctance Isabelle swung her legs down and leapt nimbly to the floor, steadying herself with Alec's proffered arm. "Of what?"

"Jace. I am worried about him."

Isabelle rolled her eyes at the admission, "You say that as though it is not perpetually the case."

"More so than usual," Alec qualified gruffly, "Even more than I worry about you at present, though that should not be possible."

Isabelle smiled, lifting herself onto her bare tiptoes to press a kiss to Alec's forehead. She was tall for a girl and the manoeuvre did not require much stretching.

Alec flushed at her expression of affection and drew away, "I am serious, Izzy."

"I know. But it is my intention to have you grey haired by the time you are thirty. I merely wanted to check my progress," she made a show of straining upward again to inspect the top of his head.

"You are succeeding. Though you cannot claim all the credit. We were talking of Jace."

"Yes," Isabelle flopped down into the nearest chair, "Dare I ask what has spawned this latest bout of fretting?"

"This kingdom and this court." Alec muttered, folding his arms and turning away from her as he began to pace. "I like not what it does to him."

"What does it do to him?" Izzy enquired, plucking his book off the floor from where it must have fallen when she had moved, before the man of which they spoke could burst into the room and murder her for its mistreatment.

"It is changing him. I fear not for the better."

Isabelle refrained from pointing out that Idris had changed them all. "This embassy was always going to be different from the others," She tried to soothe Alec, "Valentine had Jace's father's head chopped off. Consider too that Valentine had Jace beaten black and blue as a child, as you and I both well know, for we each saw the bruises when he arrived at Adamant."

Alec glanced at the tightly shut door before drawing closer and lowering his voice, "Yes but it is not just Valentine. It's her."

There was only one 'her' in these rooms. Isabelle blinked.

"Do not try and tell me this is nothing, that I am worrying about nothing. You saw them dance as plainly as I did. You have seen them together in the same ways I have. This is anything but nothing."

"Jace is no fool," Isabelle told her brother dryly, "And neither is Clary."

"He's a fool for her."

Isabelle tugged idly at the lace of her undersleeves, careful not to look Alec directly in the eye.

"What if you have it wrong? What if she's a fool for him, and that is his game? Because it is working, she's going to be Dauphine."

"Indeed, and how long has that been earnestly in the works? Not a word did he breathe to either of us!" Alec strode away again, and Isabelle anxiously watched him move back and forth like an irritated pendulum. "Jace has started keeping secrets, which he never did before."

"And you are open in all matters with him?"

Alec shot her a withering look before pressing on, "I do not believe that this is a strategy. This is not how he plays the game."

"This embassy is not like the others." Isabelle repeated firmly. She could tell she was starting to wear his doubts away, even as his frantic blue eyes skidded back to hers. For fear he would see through her, Isabelle fixed her gaze back on the book she held, pointedly beginning to flip nonchalantly through the pages.

"And I know Jace can be that ruthless. I suppose Valentine Morgenstern taught him that. He has always had the capacity, just never the inclination." Isabelle deliberately left her implication unsaid. Her pointed silences were already working wonders.

Alec rubbed his wrists, which must have ached from his frantic wringing. Izzy watched his throat bob as he swallowed, trying to make sense of what she had told him and align it with what he presupposed.

"She will fall in love with him, if she already hasn't. They always do." He snapped out, whirling round to face his sister once again, "Where the devil is he anyway? I hoped to find him here with you."

Isabelle shrugged and tried to continue appearing unconcerned. "Jace will be a busy man for the foreseeable future. He will have to hammer out the finer points of the betrothal contract, to make it as agreeable as possible for both monarchs."

Alec nodded eventually. "True, but surely he would at least have consulted me! Even if my opinion was not wanted, I would expect him to keep me abreast of matters! Sat here ignorant I am about as useful as.. as-"

"A girl?" Isabelle offered tartly.

Alec clicked his tongue, dropping his hands to the armrests of her chair and leaning over her heard, which Isabelle obstinately refused to lift.

"More like about as useful as a girl who is spending her days in idleness out of sheer stubbornness. If you really wanted to put your dear brother's mind at ease you could start pulling your weight on this embassy. You are supposed to be our eyes and ears in those rooms, remember?"

Isabelle scowled up at him, "Ihavebeen pulling my weight! I am Clary's only confidante here!"

The sanctity of which Isabelle should not have been respecting. She should be spilling Clary's secrets to her brothers and letting them twist it to their advantage. And yet, Isabelle felt the urge to harbour Clary's privy thoughts and fears. Felt the urge to protect her.

Alec pursed his lips. "What of the Prince?"

"What of the Prince?" Isabelle parroted sharply.

"He has a liking for you." Her brother did not sound as judgmental as she would have presumed, more puzzled and (as could always be expected) troubled, "One you make no real effort to discourage."

"I have returned the gifts!"

Isabelle was not lying, all jewel bearing pages which marched through her door were promptly marched back out again.

"And I pull disapproving faces when I feel him looking at me. I even take pains to avoid him. What is that, if not discouragement?"

"He is a Prince, Izzy. I daresay he has never been told no in his life before. He will not hear it now. As far as he is concerned, a lady's refusal means 'persuade me.'"

Izzy shook her head decisively, "I am not discussing any of this with you. We were finally making headway on Jace. If he is not involving you and I in his schemes, Jace must have his reasons. The real question here, Alec, is how much you trust him."

"With my life," Her brother insisted staunchly, moving over to the window and dropping his elbows against the sill as he leaned forward and stared out. With his face tilted away, Isabelle just about heard his muttered conclusion, "Just not with his."

-00000000000000-

Privas, Ardèche, Southern France, Early August 1536

The beauty of taverns, beyond the primary good they sold, lay in the advantages of the goods they sold.

For instance, despite the fact strangers were rare in this establishment (the only real clientele being the unfortunate few who had neither the wit nor the funds to frequent anywhere other than this dank and dirty spot) those who were on the premises were, by and large, far too drunk to look twice at the two strange young men occupying the corner seat.

How exactly one managed to get drunk on wines so appallingly watered down as these was a phenomenon. Perhaps inexplicable miracles of plenty did exist, Jonathan thought to himself.

He hacked at the hardened wax encrusted on the table before him. The drooping lump of what remained of the candle itself hunched in the middle of the table. Misshapen, skeletal fingers of melted wax sprawled over the table towards the glowering prince and his companion. It curled in sickly yellow, bony tendrils between the cracks in the wood. Alternating between his own fingernails and- for the thicker and thus more challenging hunks-his knife, Jonathan continued his labours without investing any real attention in his task.

He was taking in his surroundings, as though he were drawing up a battle plan. On the table to their immediate left, a heated game of cards was taking place. The grimy wall lay to their backs and to their right the players in the previous gamble were concluding the transaction of winnings. Or lack thereof, it seemed to consist in a great deal of bellowing and attempting to smash one another's heads in.

Most importantly, from here they had the best view possible of the door.

"Of all the questionable establishments we've been in, this one really is a new level of degenerate."

Jonathan scowled at his companion, with a moment of undisguised distaste, "Keep your damn voice down. I know it is a sh*thole, that is why I chose it. No one would think to look for a prince here. God help us, I think none of these wretches would recognise a royal if he charged up behind them, landed a blow of his own in the card debacle and dumped a barrel of the cellar's finest wine over their heads." He broke off from his sour observations to fix a warning glare on Verlac, "Unless, of course, some idiot was to announce their presence with more inane commentary in a very loud, Idrisian accent."

Verlac shifted his weight indignantly at the chastising, causing the stool beneath him to shriek with equal offence.

The duo remained in a gloomy silence for a time, which enabled a full appreciation of the very bawdy drunken singsong taking place in the far corner. That too would serve its purpose, Jonathan reminded himself as his irritable temper piqued once more. Even if there was anyone on this site that cared enough what he might have to say here, they would not be able to hear him say it.

Sebastian's head lifted suddenly, and apparently his mood with it, as he took another swig from his tankard and allowed a damp-lipped smile to spread across his face. Jonathan followed his gaze, chortling softly to himself as it led him to a young woman perched on a nearby table. Her scarlet mouth, saucily rouged cheeks and the glimpse of thigh displayed with inviting promiscuity made no mystery of her trade.

The perfect spot for any covert, lucrative dealings indeed.

"Restrain yourself, Sebastian" the Prince drawled, allowing his free finger to glide along the rim of his own cup. The drink was an accessory, nothing more. Jonathan had no intention of drinking his way into dulled senses tonight. Anyway, a few sips of the stale, diluted drink left an acrid enough taste on his tongue to dissuade him from enjoying another mouthful.

"Why?" Verlac demanded, petulant. "It seems your contact is typically French. Utterly faithless. I doubt they will come at all."

Jonathan clung to what remained of his limited patience, "One would think that you would take better care of your favourite toy, Verlac. God only knows what she is carrying. You can do better than that cheap slu*t, and well you know it. Pretend you have a semblance of self-control. I'll get you a decent night's entertainment when we get back to Alicante. There will be a lady here soon enough for you to entertain. A lady who is not French, as a matter of fact."

"She is very young." Sebastian continued doubtfully.

Jonathan could not supress an eye roll, "She's Italian." He repeated, "Better than that, an Italian of banker's stock. I daresay she left the womb ruthless."

Sebastian took another swig of his beverage. The Earl was desperate to get some kind of affect from it, so he downed several more gulps with such gusto that a trickle of beer seeped out of the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin. Having drained it, the cup was returned to the table with a decisive clink. A sleeve was raised to wipe the remainder of the liquid from his lower face before Verlac proceeded. "Exactly. At least the French have certain lines they are unlikely to cross. Florentines have no scruples."

Jonathan's lips threatened to twitch to a smirk. "You know Verlac, you are delightfully less stupid than you look. I have always found that endearing. It is one of the few things I like about you."

A brief sizzling resentment flashed in his companion's eyes for half a heartbeat before he allowed a small, cynical smile of his own to surface, "That and the fact I am not only willing to ride to France with you on short notice, but upon arrival am content to drink cheap beer and abstain from any kind of good sport in favour of watching you treat with Florentines. Surely that buys me some favour, Sire?"

"But of course. Your devotion is always rewarded" Jonathan reassured, the silky promise sliding from his lips as easily as his fingertip slid along the top of his own untouched drink.

"And you, who trust no one, are willing to trustherto help you?"

"I am trusting her to help herself."

He could tell, by the tension lingering in Sebastian's shoulder and the sullen looks he kept tossing at their unsavoury surroundings, that he was far from convinced. No matter, he did not need Sebastian's faith, just his compliance.

That did not settle the impatience snarling in Jonathan's gut. That could well be because his stomach was empty. They had ridden long and hard to get here, and it had been hours since he had last stopped to eat.

At any rate, the hollowing hunger within gave his mind the keen edge he needed. Jonathan could have gone elsewhere for his supper, but he was certainly not about to give up his seat. The more places he went the more people who saw him and the greater danger. Not that he was expecting a great exposé, but he knew his colouring to be striking. Besides, as Verlac had pointed out, he was not about to blindly trust in his new friends completely.

"It will not be long now. Go to the door." He barked at his accomplice, letting his hands fall back to his lap so that they might be closer to his weapon.

Once he was alone, Jonathan readjusted the cap on his head so that the brim cast a deeper shadow over his features. He pressed his spine closer to the wall. With the stone tucked firmly against his back, he could be sure no one was going to stick a knife in it. A position he was instantly glad to be in at the sight of Verlac approaching him again, shoving a tottering old man out of his way.

"Here?"

"Here."

The urgency was all too much for Verlac and he mistakenly allowed Jonathan's title to slip through his lips, "Highness-" Jonathan's instinctive rebuke never made it into words, Sebastian continued to speak and rendered him momentarily speechless, "Sheis here. In person!"

As the surprise wore off Jonathan found it was replaced with sheer glee, "Ah, I should have known."

Sebastian did not share his rejoicing, frowning at his prince and hopping his weight from foot to foot as though he were prepared to flee at the first given moment, "Lord, are we to proceed?"

"Of course, why not?"

"A woman! A well-dressed woman! Do you really expect a noblewoman to visit here without raising eyebrows? She was supposed to send a representative, not put us all at risk by coming in person."

"I came in person." Jonathan pointed out, not investing any proper concentration in Sebastian's fretting.

"Yes, but they do not know that. And you are not a woman! She will give us away. We should move out. Now."

Jonathan lifted a hand to silence him. "We will do no such thing. This is too good an opportunity to waste. Mayhap our only opportunity. I do not like the alternative, nor will you. Take a seat and shut your mouth."

With obvious reluctance, Sebastian dropped back into place beside his prince. "I really should have foreseen this." Jonathan muttered, even as he delighted at the recognition he and his new ally had more than mutual interests in common. "Of course we would both come in person. She trusts no one at her court either."

The newest group to enter the tavern did unfortunately stand out, a veritable tower of peculiarity.

A bulky man lead, shuffling with the kind of practised yet weighted movements that signified he was armed to the teeth. He was followed by a cloaked feminine figure, who had one hand holding the hood that concealed her face in place and another pulling her skirts away from the filthy straw floor. She moved in a brisk, and somehow dainty march. The rear was brought up by a shorter male figure in long dark robes.

The woman's head lifted briefly, without baring any of her face. Her gaze snagged on the duo in the corner. A single gloved hand made a commanding gesture to her guard, who stepped aside and allowed her to approach with the other man.

Jonathan tipped his head closer to Sebastian and rapidly muttered, "You see, Verlac? They are matching our numbers out of courtesy. It would appear Italians do have manners."

The newest arrivals installed themselves on the other side of the table, "Sebastian Verlac?" the man asked tentatively.

"Greetings," Jonathan acknowledged his supposed name with a nod, before flicking his eyes to the side, "This is my companion, Ferdinand. You will have to excuse his silence. The Spaniard's French is exceedingly poor."

To his surprise their introductions were met with a rasping laugh, as the hood was finally tipped back.

The girl before him was only seventeen, Clary's age.

She seemed older. Catherine de Medici was no beauty. She had a rounded face and light brown hair. It was drawn back from a rather large forehead. Her frank, dark gaze pierced through him. Jonathan could all but hear the clink of the chains as the scales measured him.

"A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, my lord Earl." Her voice was deep for a woman's, though not unpleasantly so. Jonathan found himself warming to the sharpness in her voice and expression. There was little doubt in the keen look she fixed upon him that she knew she was not addressing 'Sebastian Verlac.'

"I am Count Montecuccoli," Her own companion stated before fixing an expectant look on Jonathan. The young duch*esse d'Orléans required no introduction.

"I am so glad we have the opportunity to meet at last to discuss our interests," Jonathan purred.

The Count narrowed his eyes at the disguised prince before him, "I must assume you have the package we agreed upon, my lord?"

Jonathan let his question hang in the air a moment before wordlessly dipping a hand inside his plain black cloak and letting it fall to the leather pouch at his waist. It contained just one thing; a small clear vial wrapped in rags to prevent shattering. He presented it alongside his most charming smile, "For theBella Donna."

A slight tinge of colour sprouted across Catherine's cheekbones at the complimentary pun. Her eyes lit up with flaring fascination as she beheld the small bottle being slid across the table.

"Nightshade," the Medici girl breathed, having abandoned any attempts at pretended disinterest or careful composure. The appearance of the poison had pleased her more than Jonathan's perfunctory flirtation ever could. "I have read of it."

One of Jonathan's old paramours had recently married a lord at the French court in recent years. It had been wonderfully easy to strike up the correspondence.

"I have read more of arsenic though" Catherine shot her dubious question in Jonathan's direction.

He responded with a grin displaying his hungry excitement, "I toyed with the idea. But the Borgias overused it. I would rather be a little original."

The duch*esse was placated.

It was common knowledge that the wife of the Dauphin's younger brother was almost as unpopular to her subjects than Jonathan was to his. There were many wagging tongues who claimed young Prince Henry had been wasted in marriage. The girl with his ring on her finger was no princess, but hailed from no greater line than that of glorified bankers. Jonathan, whose forefathers had been soldiers and mercenaries, could empathise.

At the time of her wedding King, Francois had not needed a princess for his son, but a loan that could feed an army. The greatest thing Catherine de Medici could boast of was a blood relation to the pope who had arranged her nuptials.

Worst of all, in the four years she had been married, the duch*esse had failed to fall pregnant even once. The barren Italian. It had a wickedly fine ring to it. Jonathan knew what it was to be spat on too. It had inspired him to put pen to paper and make the lady's acquaintance.

And here they were, the two royal failures, finally beginning their workings of revenge.

The only other thing that rankled Catherine de Medici almost as much as it did Jonathan was the thought of Clary marrying the Dauphin. She did not want to compete with a prettier princess by blood coming to the French court. A Princess who was sure to be ardently preferred at that court.

Though his real connection may be with the girl, Jonathan knew it was the Count he had to address. "I understand, though you came to France with the duch*esse d'Orleans, you are now in the service of the Dauphin?" Jonathan tore on in an urgent undertone.

Montecuccoli nodded once, jaw set with grim determination. Jonathan motioned to Sebastian to bring in some drinks. "I feel I ought to advise you, sir, that its first symptoms is great thirst. I suggest that in order to prevent any unhappy glances in your direction, you should provide water when requested. Preferably where many will see you do so and note your devoted service and evident loyalty."

Another nod, this one more purposeful.

I want you where enough people will see you publicly giving a man a drink just before he dies. For young, healthy men about to have a betrothal announced publicly do not just drop dead. Foul play is cried, and when it is I want you to be caught. You who believe me to be an agent of the Spanish Emperor at the Idrisian court. Your master, immersed in war as he is, will be only too glad to lap up that explanation.

The girl was another matter, for she knew precisely who she was speaking to. That likely should have worried him or put him on edge, but it failed to do so. Jonathan found that he liked the idea that she knew who he was. She understood him in their brief correspondence more than most others, and Jonathan had wanted to be understood for so long.. Even if anyone did point the finger in her direction at the Dauphin's untimely death , as a noblewoman Catherine would be in the privileged position of being able to keep her mouth shut. They could not torture her to loosen her lips.

Really, Valentine should thank him for all of this. Fanning the flames of war and ensuring that the King of France and the Emperor were kept most firmly at one another's throats gave Idris a kind of liberty that could be useful. With her powerful neighbours' focus and arms directed elsewhere, it would be significantly easier for an Idrisian force to seep into Adamant and take hold of it. Not a hold that Idris would keep for very long, but it would give Valentine a modicum of happiness for the time being.

The real Sebastian returned with their drinks. "Now that we have reached our accord, I feel a celebratory toast is in order!" Jonathan allowed his genuine satisfaction to leak into his bravado. He lifted the cup laid before him in unison with his companions, letting a rare undiluted smile of triumph warm his face.

This time his labours would bear fruit, "To the Dauphine. "

Catherine de Medici's eyes lit up again, giving her features a semblance of beauty. Jonathan saw that one day, when she wielded the power he was about to give her, this woman would be fearsome.

"To the Dauphine," She echoed, and the title rested as nicely on her lips as it would the rest of her.

-00000000000000-

Chapter 12: Things Better Left Unsaid

Chapter Text

Chapter 12:Things Better Left Unsaid

Garrotway Hall, Western Idris, Early August 1536

Uncharacteristically, Clary woke late in the morning. Or rather, early in the afternoon. She lay awake wearily dazed for a few moments, staring up at the Angel emblem above her that now adorned most of her possessions.

They were the royal arms of Idris and had been for hundreds of years. If it had belonged to anyone else's family Clary felt she might have laughed. Who in their right mind would even dream of aligning themselves with heaven in their badge? Surely only a lunatic king would have decided to claim to be half angel.

Yet it would seem Jonathan I had done just that, becoming the first king of the territory now known as Idris some seven hundred years ago. Apparently, no one had laughed. After some centuries, several plagues, and one civil war, it was Clarissa Morgenstern who found herself dining and sleeping under the Angel Raziel and his divine instruments.

The ruling monarchs were still responsible for the cup and sword. These two gilded implements were presented to each new sovereign upon their coronation. Thereafter, they were stored in the most secure centre of the Gard. Clary had never laid eyes upon them. She read they had a guard to rival her father's and were treated as the holiest of relics.

The Morgenstern family themselves had their own distinct coat of arms: a plummeting star with its trail of costly silver thread emblazoned on a black background. That too was everywhere in Alicante's palaces, painted over doorways and engraved in fireplaces.

Out in the counties, in the older palaces and manors of other esteemed noble families, the falling star became a rarer sight.

But Clary wasn't supposed to dwell on that, or even make such observations.

She knew her forefather had taken the throne position by force, but only because the previous kings had grown lazy and too complacent to be effective rulers. The Morgensterns had done their country a great service by taking the heavy burden of kingship. A burden assumed not for selfish ambition, but unwillingly. As a duty, because it had been the will of God.

That had not always gone unchallenged. Jace's father had plotted to supplant Valentine as King, just twenty years ago. The plot had been foiled by servants loyal to the Crown in the Duke's house, his own wife had even testified against him when the charges were brought to trial. Probably in a misplaced attempt to retain some of her husband's estates for the child she carried- Jace.

Clary twisted the edges of her coverlet in her hands, feeling the brocade trimming dig into her fingers. Then she recognised what had woken her, the distinct drumming of water methodically striking wood.

Releasing her blankets, Clary slowly pushed herself upright and turned her head to the side. Sure enough, it was raining. And heavily, for little streams of water were pouring down the chequered glass and thudding in great droplets to the floor. One of the maids must have left the window open the night before. The unexpected downpour had now begun to ruin the trimmed edges of her carpet, Clary observed. The once bright scarlet had turned into a much darker, morbid red. Clary pushed the covers off her legs and rose, padding over to the window. After battling with the latch for a moment she drew it shut. She as the wet material squelched under her bare toes, glad to back away to drier ground.

"Your Highness!"

Clary started slightly at the sudden voice behind her, whirling to face Maia. Her newest lady of her household- gifted a place under a glowing recommendation from Luke- lingered in the doorway. Maia gripped her fingers tightly over her stomacher. "

"The King has sent for you, Madam. He wishes to see you on a matter of urgency."

Clary rubbed her hands against her arms desperately, trying to return some warmth into the limbs Maia's words had chilled. The uneasiness Clary had woken with intensified, and her empty stomach gave another ache.

Maia helped her dress quickly and escorted to Clary father's private rooms half an hour later. Clary realised, as they hurried to Valentine, she'd been laced back into the pink gown she stood for her courtship portrait in.

Her heart plummeted further upon arrival in His Majesty's outer chamber, finding a grey-faced Jace. He was standing off to one side in the practically deserted room, running the backs of his fingers along the underside of his jawline and slowly shaking his head back and forth. Alec stood beside him, leaning on his shoulder and saying something rapidly in his low, intense voice. Jace just kept shaking his head.

At the sound of her footfalls, his eyes rose to hers briefly. He held her stare for all of a heartbeat before his dropped again. Clary's heart subsequently began to beat even faster. He looked…devastated. There was no other word for that flat, grave expression.

By the time she had passed through the doors and into her father's presence properly, Clary was almost faint with fear. One glance at her father's stern face only seemed to confirm her horror. She could bear exile, she was not sure she enjoyed life at court anyway, and the shame she supposed she could learn to live with- but Jace? If he was harmed, or worse, as a result of what she had done with him…

Clary highly doubted that her father would care that she was the instigator and that it was at her insistence things had gone on as long as they had.

"Clarissa," His voice resounded with what must have constituted softness for Valentine, catching her off guard. "Take a seat, daughter."

Tentatively, Clary lowered herself into a chair. Valentine sat opposite her. Then, to Clary's greater astonishment, he reached out and took her hands in his. His fingers were cool in hers but the band of the ring on his index finger was curiously warm as it brushed her palm. Clary had noticed before that it was a nervous habit both Morgenstern men shared, pulling the family ring on and off their fingers subconsciously.

"I am afraid I have some sad news."

Clary waited, heartrate gradually slowing as Valentine kept watching her with the edge of pity in his black eyes, "I have just received word from France regarding the young Dauphin. I am sorry to tell you that he has perished at Chateau du Toumon."

"Perished?" Clary repeated incredulously, hearing and understanding his words, but not properly absorbing them. "Francois is dead? But how? I was told he was in perfect health!"

Valentine paused, "That is why I have called you here to tell you in person. Clarissa, your betrothed was murdered."

"Murdered?" The rushing fear and shock had left Clary dizzy.

"By some agent of the Spanish Emperor, I am told. The guilty party has been arrested, so you need not fear for your safety. But I did not want you hearing this from someone else, who may not give you the whole truth and needlessly distress you."

Clary wondered when her emotional well-being had become such a concern of Valentine's, though she supposed her falling to hysterics would not help her marriage prospects.

Her marriage prospects.

If Francois Valois was dead, Clary would not be marrying him.

The game was on again.

The seed of a potentially disastrous idea began to plant itself in Clary's mind. Dared she really make the first move in this new round?

Valentine was still speaking, "We have no reason to fear a similar attempt on your life. France is at war with Spain, not Idris, and the match was never publicly announced. So, beyond my privy council, the diplomatic party and whoever in your own household you told, no one will associate you with Francois Valois. Nevertheless, as a precaution, I will be increasing security around you. A second food tester has been hired. I encourage you not to worry." He paused again, but before she could steel her nerve to speak, her father tore on. "Again, I express my sympathies. I am aware that of all the matches you favoured the French. I urge you to remain positive. It seems this particular marriage is not in God's plan for you. But God does have a plan for you, Clary. A great destiny awaits, I am sure of it."

"Sire?"

Valentine looked to Clary with sharpened interest. He must have been able to read the feverish impulse on her face and seemed to eagerly await what may follow. "Speak freely, Clarissa." He said, waving away the single man-at-arms standing by the doorway. The guard obediently backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Clary sat very still, heart thundering, suddenly conscious of the few inches between her face and her father's, and the loud ticking of a clock somewhere in the room.

She had not been alone with Valentine since the day he had shown her the portraits of her suitors; she remembered looking for Jace in Francois, and he was on her mind in much the same way now. Valentine kept staring at her with that same undiluted attention and she suspected he was looking for someone else in her too; for the wife that detested and feared him from so far away. Perversely, that encouraged her. Luke had intimated that Valentine was still in love with her mother. Perhaps that might work to Clary's advantage too. Now that she had Valentine's sympathy, there was some chance her request may be granted.

"I am grateful for your attentions my lord, and as ever your kindness warms my heart." Clary began carefully, but once the words began the rest flooded out of her in a wild torrent, "When you selected the Dauphin to be my husband, I agreed to be obedient. I would have obeyed you and married him. I do wish to be a child you can be proud of, but," She swallowed past the rising desperation in her faltering voice, "I beseech you to recall that then I would have unquestioningly wed the husband of your choice, but since all has changed- I wondered if my husband could now be a choice of mine. If I could choose."

The screaming silence returned. Valentine pulled his hand away from hers and leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her. Clary resisted the urge to squirm, burying the fingers still wracked with tremors into her velvet lap instead. She battled to keep her breathing even.

Then the tension broke.

Valentine threw back his head and laughed. "You would choose your own husband?" He demanded when his amusem*nt faded. "You would have me sit back and allow you free rein on the matter? You would have me wage the fortune of a kingdom, the hopes of a dynasty on what- the wishes of a girl barely seventeen? What would determine your choice, hmm? Riches? Good looks?Love?"

His mockery pierced her. Clary snapped back a retort, "Why should my choice be unreasonable? Have I not eyes and a working mind of my own? Could I not measure a man just as well as you, since I possess the necessary scales?"

"The necessary scales!" Valentine barked in return and for the first time Clary saw his perfect self-control shatter. In a rare burst of temper he leaned forward again, snatching her again by the wrist. This time there was no pretence of gentleness. "You have no idea what is at stake here, you foolish girl! The trifles of a woman have no place in such matters, none at all!"

"Is that what you told my mother when you refused a string of princesses to marry her? What governed your choice, if not love?"

It seemed that the comment may well push Valentine to strike her. For an awful moment, Clary could have sworn the notion crossed his mind. He clasped the soft skin at her wrist with increased vigour instead. Her father's facial muscles tightened, and Clary watched him draw back his temper with some effort, "Clearly you are half-deranged with grief. Mayhap you were fonder of the Dauphin than I realised, though I doubt it, even in spite of all your prying in the matter with Graymark when you thought my back was turned."

Clary suddenly felt like a six year old again, dredging up memories she had worked hard to forget. Crouching under a table, clutching a doll to her chest and trying to hum to herself over the tremendous argument her parents were having in the next room. The dread of recognising her mother had forgotten she was here. Could feel all over again swamping anxiety as her father burst through those doors, catching sight of her hunkered position with the same storm whirling across his face then as she witnessed now.

Without warning, Valentine realised her arm. Clary felt the feeling surge back into her hand with painful relief.

"Get out," he growled an abrupt dismissal. "And if you ever presume to speak to me in that way again, you shall find yourself wishing I had left you to rot in that convent with your mother after all."

-000000000000000-

Western lands/ road to Alicante, late August 1536

Deep in thought, Jace crumbled the piece of bread between his fingers without having enjoyed a bite. He had sipped on the ale which had been its companion too, and nibbled some of the dried pork which also occupied the plate. It all tasted dreadfully dry. Eventually, he had to concede he had no appetite. Jace resorted to tearing off strips of the small loaf to try and delude Alec that he was eating, grinding it between his agitated fingertips until it both looked and tasted like grit. The debris fell in little snowy hills on his plate.

Alec ceased frowning at whatever paper was to hand- starting to squint in the fading daylight- and started frowning at Jace instead. "One could simply send it back to the kitchen, rather than destroy it. You were never one for silent moping, Jace. I can tell you are desperate for an opportunity to vent. Speak, damn you."

Jace responded with a scowl, "Desperate, am I?"

"And not the only one," Alec muttered in reply, letting his papers forlornly flutter back to the table. He rubbed his eyes, under which there had appeared darkening circles these past few days. "It is disheartening, to put it mildly, for all these efforts of ours to amount to nothing. Nothing other than our sister having caught the eye of the Prince as a potential whor*, it would seem."

Jace might well have flinched at the coldness of that assessment. But he felt a snide half-smile unwrap itself nonetheless, "Perhaps Jonathan has his father's penchant for common women and intends to have dear Isabelle crowned."

Alec's nose twitched at the suggestion, and the corners of his own mouth sloped glumly downwards "Now you sound like my mother." Then, after a pause he deflated even further, concluding bitterly, "We have been wasting the past five months of our lives, and they say that time is money. Money lost, in this case."

The exasperation which coloured his friend's tone was more disheartening than anything, and Jace told him so, the beginnings of resentment beginning to lash in his own gut, "Since when has the pay mattered so, Alec?" Alec shot him a furtive glance, but Jace was too annoyed to notice it, "With a young man in his grave, you are chiefly concerned with the expenses of our sojourn here?"

Alec glowered, Jace tore on.

"And not just any man! Francois was our only hope for a decent King of France. Everyone knows this new Dauphin is another pleasure-monger like his father. Henry will be ruled in all that he does by his own pride, sly ambition and the desires of his wily mistress Madame du Poitiers! Francois was a good man who might have been a great king. He was certainly the only Valois I believed in."

Alec's annoyance hardened to foreboding. Fear began to leech into his next question. "What is it you are trying to say?"

Jace thrust his hands into his hair and lurched anxiously forward onto his elbows. "To put it plainly, I do not want to go back to that crowned womanizer, nor his ungrateful son and his viper of a daughter in law! Catherine is sure to be exulting in all this!"

Alec's eyes shot to the door, which remained closed.

"Neither you nor I have a choice." He insisted grimly. "There is no son of France for Valentine's daughter to wed anymore. We must go home and fling our hopes for advancement and fortune on pleasing the King of France. Our master." As though afraid there was a chance Jace may misunderstand him, Alec repeated firmly, "There will be no fleur de lis in Clarissa Morgenstern's trousseau."

"But that is the very heart of the matter," Jace raised his head to look Alec in the eye, all frustration gone. "France is not my home."

Alec's face turned Ashen, "You cannot mean that."

"I do, for little else has been on my mind since it happened. Damn me all you wish, but I am that selfish. I have no wish to serve France any longer, not with the prospect of a monarch I could respect gone. I do consider appealing to Valentine. He might agree to keep me as a permanent ambassador and his continuing link with the court of France. At best, I pray I have the courage to request he consider my application to repossess at least some of the lands which belonged to my father. Considering that I have served his family and his daughter."

"Thatis the heart of the matter," Alec interrupted, voice even lower than Jace's, blue eyes blank and dour, the only note of emotion being the continued twitch to his nose, "his daughter."

"Alec-"

"No! I will hear no more of it, no more of thisnonsense. You cannot stay with her Jace, you know that. You dare not entertain for a mere second any thoughts that suggest otherwise. She may not be marrying the Dauphin, but her father has grand designs on her and her legacy, that much he has told me, in those very words. I can see it is likely too late for me to tell you that you cannot love her, but surely even at that you can see your-" he snorted bitterly- "love is doomed. She is going to marry a prince, not an ambassador- not even an Idrisian born ambassador. And I am sorry, Jace, that the truth of this must hurt. But I have told you nothing you do not already know! You know where you stand at this court and in this world. It is far,farbelow her."

Jace shot to his feet, ears ringing as though his friend had boxed them with his fists rather than facts. The stool beneath him was knocked backwards, greeting the rough wood of their chamber floor with a scraping bang. "If you knew a damn thing about-"

Alec too got up hastily, a fresh thought of panic pouring from him: "Tell me you have not sullied her."

Jace broke off on his retort, "What?"

"Tell me you did not bed her Jace, for the love of God."

Colour sprang to the accused's cheeks, "No," he snapped aggressively, "I am not an utter fool."

Alec exhaled sharply, "Good. Then you must admit that you do recognise this is where you brief dalliance with the lady ends. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, it never happened at all."

Alec was right, as always. Jace loved the logic and level-headedness Alec applied to everything, but in this moment, he hated it. He could even hate Alec.

"God, it must be such a delight to you, to possess the shining, clean slate that is your own reputation. You really are the paragon of the dutiful son and the humble servant."

A cloud passed over Alec's blue eyes. Where anger made Jace burn, Alec froze. "You would not understand what it is to value what I value or to want what I want. Because you are still a petulant child who blames everybody else when aught goes wrong. Worse, you cannot, or will not, see the dangerous consequences of your actions. You are an immaturefoolwho refuses to see where the troubadour's song ends and where real life starts. You think there is something heroic in loving her, do you not? Are you so blind that you think Clary would thank you for getting yourself killed for her?!"

In that moment, for the first time in all the years he had known him, Jace wanted to strike Alec Lightwood. The sole torrent of rage ebbed away just as fast as it came. All Jace wanted to be out of this room, and away from Alec and his words; which would not stop making sense.

"At least I know what it is to deeply want something. All you ever do is what you are told. You want only what you are expected to want; an heiress, your castle, the ear of the King. I doubt there has been a moment where you put your heart in anything."

The way Alec flinched at the accusation made Jace wonder if it would have been less painful had he swung for him.

It was Alec who strode for the door. His furious exodus had him snarling a parting curse at Jace and almost colliding with the serving girl sent to reclaim the plates of the supper.

As the slammed door rattled in Alec's wake, Jace wished he could not see the damage of his actions.

-0000000000000-

Exhaling as subtly as possible, Luke Graymark dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead with his kerchief and tried to keep his expression interested. He had been attending them for almost twenty years, yet these damn council meetings never got any more bearable. Especially not when one was roused at the first trace of summer dawn and hauled to the chamber for yet another emergency meeting.

However, it would not do to be seen fidgeting like a crabby child trying to delay bath time. Luke had a purpose here, he reminded himself, as another trickle of sweat dribbled down the back of his neck.

At least with sessions within the Clave there were high vaulted ceilings, plenty of windows and dozens of clamouring voices from the county representatives trying to be heard. Though Luke doubted even the Clave's buildings would be tolerable in this heat. The worst of the heatwave had broken, but it was still desperately clammy. The surrounding skies were filled with the growling of thunder.

Though he had spent longer living and serving in Alicante, Luke would never consider himself aught but a country lord, through and through. He likely would have been happier to run his father's estates in relative obscurity, coming to the city only thrice or so a year to petition the court or plead his people's case in the Clave sessions. But during the days of his youth, when the sun had rose and set on Valentine Morgenstern, Luke had been so eager to please that he'd developed an aptitude for dealing with the political intricacies of the King's Privy Council. He'd been rewarded with a seat on it, which had tied him to Valentine and the court as surely as a ball and chain.

"I sent word to the Prince at Edom as you had asked, Sire, though I only received a response yesterday," Starkweather reported in his customary clipped, dispassionate tone. "The enquiries I made amongst his household could only reveal that His Highness had been off with no one besides Sebastian Verlac in his company until a week hence. He spoke little of where he had been but did assure my man that he would return to Alicante and wait for us there." Starkweather's cheek twitched slightly as he proceeded to do his best to shield himself from his own ignorance, "I am sure here is no cause for concern, my lord. The Prince is young." He tried for a spark of humour, "Long ago as it may seem to younger eyes, we were all of us two and twenty once." The surrounding table of the greatest peers in the realm chuckled obediently spurring Starkweather on with an ounce of confidence. "I daresay we are better off not knowing what Prince Jonathan and his friend are doing."

Valentine did not look convinced, leaning back and running his thumb over the carved armrest of his chair at the head of the table. "Better off not knowing?" He echoed, and at the sinisterly quiet, meditative tone whatever dregs of nervous laughter still lingered instantly melted.

"How could allowing my son to disappear into thin air not be cause for alarm Starkweather?" In the subsequent strained silence, Valentine's head snapped to the side to eye Pangborn, "This demonstrates the alarming inadequacy of the spy network which you run for me." Pangborn gaped uselessly, swallowing air frantically as he failed to form words. Starkweather stared down at the table and tried not to move, hoping stillness would make the King forget about him.

Pangborn recollected the ability to speak, and foolishly used it to protest; "Majesty, no one knew that the Prince was planning to leave his estate at Edom."

Luke hissed under his breath as Valentine's ire exploded.

"We pay you good money and plenty of it to make sure thatsomeoneknows!" The King roared. "If you cannot even manage that, one of the few tasks I give you, then you are of no use to us whatsoever. You think that the crown cannot find a dozen more where you came from with ease? You spineless, snivelling idiot!"

That proud idiot should have known better than to challenge Valentine when the Council was already treading on hot coals. The rise of a new threat to Valentine's crown- the first coherent one in years- Valentine was like a cornered bear.

It was at moments like this that Luke considered whether an outsider would find the sight of these rich, powerful, fully grown men all cowering like frightened schoolchildren. But Valentine's anger was no laughing matter. He had ordered the deaths of many a once treasured friend. His own wife had fled from fear of him. He was a man who knew very few bounds when it came to getting what he wanted.

A white-faced Clary had admitted to Luke only days ago that she had displeased the King greatly. So Luke had crucial ground to recoup here, as far as Jocelyn was concerned. And though Clary had sealed her lips on the rift between herself and her father, Luke was learning his lesson from Pangborn's failures. He had put Maia in Clary's household for a reason. Maia's lips were not supposed to be sealed on anything. Luke was supposed to hear from her all that went on in Clary's apartments. household. He needed to remind her of such duties.

Valentine seethed, "If I relied entirely on you fools, I would prove a sorry monarch indeed. From now on eyes never leave my son, is that understood? Everyone he meets and everywhere he goes, Jonathan does so with our knowledge, or better still, at our command."

"Your concern is understandable, Your Majesty," the Earl of Chene began tentatively, "And such a careless lapse of attention will never occur again. However, with respect, I feel compelled to point out that the Prince is no child. He is in his majority. Legally, we cannot bind him so."

Reliably, at the stirrings of another fit of wrath, the Duke of Lyn leapt in to defend his friend. Jack and Jill, Jocelyn was wont to have called them when she was in a scornful mood, or perhaps Castor and Pollux were she in a finer one. "Indeed, he is- though I pray not for many years yet- our future king. Surely he should be given some liberty? Your Majesty is yourself emphatic that for the sake of his future rule Jonathan is not to be coddled. It does not seem right, nor perhaps especially wise then, to restrain him so."

Not especially wise,the poorly chosen words provided Luke with the chance be needed. Hastily steeling himself, he leapt into the discussion before Valentine would lose his sense of self-control altogether and sign all their death warrants.

"My lord of Lyn, surely you see that His Majesty's orders are beyond wisdom? At a time like this, even assured of the imminent crushing of these rebels as we are, to allow the Prince's whereabouts to become suspect is the worst kind of folly. Yes, at a time of peace we can afford to allow our heir to indulge in a bout of youthful foolhardiness. Once order in this land is restored, Prince Jonathan should be left free to conduct his affairs as any adult man might, practicing his skills of government at will. At this very moment, however, the matter of paramount importance is to ensure that the royal family are protected from this rabble until they are defeated." Now Luke allowed some acid top creep into his tone, "I was under the impression that we were gathered today to discuss how best to restore the King's peace in the counties."

Luke did not need to turn his head to feel the glimmering warmth of Valentine's approval. Once, in his naivety, Luke had thought he might use his position to make a difference. He'd hoped that if Jocelyn was not to his bride then at least as Valentine's, he could help her steer Idris into a golden age together. Now he knew better. He was no different than all the rest of these parrots in their robes of state. Perhaps just a more articulate one.

Despite himself, Luke had to admit he was rather pleased with his own little speech, delivered on short notice upon the tongue of man who doubted Valentine's sad*st of a son had ever done a foolish thing in his life. Luke often wondered if Idris would not be better served if its Crown Prince had something firmer to restrain him than the gilded collar his father suppled.

Jocelyn feared that her boy had become a second Valentine, swearing that the son she should have had been destroyed by Valentine's determination to build his ideal heir. That Jonathan was now the Second Coming of his father.

Valentine dropped his chin forward until he propped it up on the top of his clasped fingers. "Indeed, my lord of Aconite." His dark eyes flickered around the table.

Luke knew that Valentine was far from blind to his son's penchant for cruelty. If Valentine suspected as Luke did, that Jonathan had played some part in the destruction of a French alliance... but why would he do so? Why stoop to such cold-blooded measures to end his sister's betrothal? It made so little sense that Luke had to contemplate Jonathan assisting in the Dauphin's murder simply because he could.

Valentine dropped his hands. "What news of- should I deign to call these ruffians rebels?" For a man who refused to even acknowledge the hordes of unhappy peasants currently marching throughout his lands toward his capital- to which the lords themselves were hurrying to return to and defend- he was certainly giving the impression that he was worried.

The ensuing report came from the flushed Marques of Edgehunt. Penhallow stated bluntly that the peasant forces in the south and east had now crossed his own lands, and with the mirroring force in the north, they were closing the net on the capital city.

Though he may feign contempt, Valentine was so short tempered and uneasy these days that Luke saw, for the first time in years, Valentine Morgenstern was afraid. He so revelled in his role as the grand puppeteer, who knew exactly what strings to pull on every man he surrounded himself with. Whenever events spiralled even slightly out of his control, Valentine struck out with anger and when that wore off, took a sharp turn to panic. To anyone who had not known the King for as long and as well as Luke, the two may be difficult to distinguish between.

What had Valentine perpetually in a bad temper these days, and saw his hand never stray more than a few inches from his blade, was the unprecedented repercussions of what he assumed would be a quick solve to a mild problem when he had allowed Oldcastle to burn.

It would appear that with their own residences smoking the citizens had simply travelled to the nearby villages with their discontent and there had found many a kindred spirit. This much Luke knew, because the peasantry appeared to have roused themselves and decided that with their pitchforks they would march upon Alicante (their rustic ignorance obvious in their failure to comprehend that the King was not yet at Alicante) and demand that henceforth the King's justice should bejust.

Not altogether a ridiculous demand, though what should have been a ridiculous mouthpiece had proved much harder to quiet than the King had at first assumed. The ragtag force should have been scattered and sent back to their homesteads by the local authorities and county sheriffs. However, treatment of Oldcastle had been one outrage too may for much of the Idrisian lower classes.

The initial uncouth displays of indignation of burning property and maiming livestock had quickly and suspiciously evolved, emerging from Broceland as this military march with clear demands. Worse, contrary to expectations, some of the local landlords and knights had sided with the rebels. There were also rumours that some of the greater lords had not reacted with the proper horror and fury upon learning of the events, while the lowlier court members were not to know of the disturbances at all- out of fear that their sympathies with the rebel cause might be such that they chose to assist it. It had never occurred to Valentine that the women of the court, the first of whom was Clary, may need to be aware of the situation. Such things were not women's troubles, Valentine insisted.

Luke had toyed with the idea of telling Clary, then dismissed it. On one level, the upheaval in her personal life had her uneasy enough, and on another Luke felt he knew her well enough now to expect that armed with such knowledge Clary was not the sort to sit idly on it. Strained as things already were with her and Valentine, the wisest course was to leave her exactly as he desired. Ignorance was supposed to be bliss.

Still, the mob were now armed with better weapons, marching in a more sophisticated fashion. They had their cunning fox of a King bolting back to his den.

And why? Because someone had harnessed this agrarian agitation, some faceless threat that had Valentine fearing and suspecting everyone. That was bad enough, but in the more recent reports it had emerged that this threat was no longer nameless.

The mysterious link between the instigators of this anger and its supporters was becoming more obvious. A link which had persuaded them to raise banners and a war chant, like a real army might. And though they claimed to be first and foremost designed to make the King dismiss his "false and mistaken advisors" and not a rising against the Crown itself, it had surfaced the name being bandied about the lips of these would-be rebels was Herondale.

-000000000000000000-

As far as Isabelle was concerned, this was not the worst thing she had ever done. Surely it was upon the list of many things that would prevent admittance through Heaven's pearly gates, but it did not top that list.

Simon Lewis was, undeniably, an inordinately sweet boy.

Sweeter than should care to spend his days on the likes of Isabelle Lightwood, and surely much sweeter than should care to share his luncheon. Yet here they were late on Sunday afternoon, relaxing in the grounds of one of the King's many hunting lodges, where they had temporarily halted. Sipping some of the wine Isabelle had spirited from her brother's chambers and nibbling the bread and cheese Simon had pilfered from the pantry.

From the hilltop that they currently occupied it was possible to watch the various smoky splashes of clouds chase one another across the sky. They often screened the sun and seemed to be growing more frequent as the afternoon wore on. Perhaps the good Lord was playing the role of Isabelle's conscience, threatening to send rain to stop her using of the trusting boy before her any further.

Nearby the horses they had "borrowed" without necessarily seeking the correct permission cropped contentedly at the grass. Occasionally, they whickered their satisfaction. It was something of a relief to take a moment to breathe. Jace was still moping about as though the world were ending and Alec was panicking more than usual as to what would become of them all. Neither of them made for pleasant company as the court was harried from house to house on the road back to Alicante.

So, guilty as she might feel about spending time with Simon, his suggestion they come out here for some fresh air and peace had been too attractive an offer.

At first, courting Simon's attentions had merely been another ploy to get her father's attention. She had hoped, as had been accomplished by her unsuitable sweethearts in the past, word would reach her father and the incensed Earl would immediately remove her from the situation. She had hoped to use someone without an ample enough contingent of feelings to be wounded when they realised that she was using them- namely, Prince Jonathan. Unfortunately, his long absence from the court made such a scheme impossible to execute.

The naive young musician had provided the perfect tactical shift.

Now Isabelle found herself in an increasingly tense predicament. Now Isabelle's grand escape plan was no longer required, but she was still seeking out Simon and leaping at the chance to go on picnics with him. Although Isabelle was not prepared to admit as much, even to herself, she was beginning to like him.

By that she simply meant that his presence was tolerable and his countenance slightly pleasing. Nothing more.

Moreover, with Clary's friendship, Isabelle was beginning to find herself almost at home in Idris.

Robert had sworn to her that she would never be back at the French court while there was breath in his body. Although when the threat had been issued Isabelle had not believed him, Robert showed no signs of relenting. Isabelle had been forced to admit that perhaps this time she had gone too far. In recent years she had thrived off picking confrontation with her father; in dressing in a way that would annoy him, being a determined spendthrift and allowing herself to be seen with unacceptable boys.

It had driven Alec almost as insane as it had their father, and for that she had been sorry. But she was doing it for him too. And even for Jace, in a way. For as long as she remained the difficult child and Alec the reluctantly dutiful, Jace's talents (which were obvious at the best of times) were illuminated. While her parents were diverted trying to prevent her from destroying what remained of their reputation and persuade Alec to make any kind of public appearance, Jace proved a balm to their ambitions. Handsome, charming, charismatic and ambitious; Jace had proved exactly the kind of child they would have wished for.

Jace was unrelentingly hard on himself, nothing he could do was ever good enough for himself. That was Valentine's fault. But at least with the Lightwoods he'd had a taste of parental approval.

Though nobody would approve of Simon serenading Isabelle.

He strummed away while Izzy sipped her wine and allowed a small smile to cross her face. He really was not so bad to look at, and his focusing on the strings his fingers danced over left her free to watch him. He did have nice, clear skin. There were a few freckles on his nose which were oddly endearing, and his dark fringe was growing out fast. It constantly had to be brushed out of his eyes.

This could be what she needed, someone she could rely on at this court, especially since her brothers were soon to be gone. While Isabelle knew she could entrust most things to Clary, her station would render her more powerless than powerful in the future, whereas Simon would always be free to do as he pleased. So long as he could perform a ballad on request. There was a great deal of freedom in being nobody.

Isabelle's scrutiny of his features had not gone entirely unnoticed, for Simon lifted his chin and grinned slowly, "You are not listening."

Isabelle shrugged and tilted her head backwards, letting her eyes flutter shut and pretended to sun herself. Her facade of nonchalance was significantly undermined by the blanket of dreary cloud swathing the sky. "To a man? Never."

Simon chortled, Izzy cracked her eyes open somewhat to watch his setting the lute aside and stretching out on his side, propped up by an elbow. "How hurtful, as I laboured ceaselessly to compose that tune which conveys my very soul."

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Simon, I know you did not compose Greensleeves."

"Ah. There you have me." She rolled her eyes and snickered, but this time her amusem*nt was not mirrored. "But in truth, you look as though you are deep in thought. You could speak to me, if you wished to."

A pause. "I would not know where to begin," Isabelle admitted.

"Nor would I, I suppose, were I asked."

Isabelle's eyed him again, with more avid interest. "What do you mean by that?"

This time when Simon smirked at her there a cynical edge to it, "You think yourself so enveloped in secrets, Isabelle Lightwood, that no one notices you have them. That is not true. I have always seen that there is something you are hiding."

For once, Isabelle didn't know what to say. Her chosen distraction was not supposed to involve even a semblance of a serious conversation.

Simon straightened slightly. "I am not going to press you," he said, in the kind of tone one might adopt in dealing with a spooked animal they did not want to bolt. "I am simply saying that I have some secrets of my own."

She swallowed another swig of wine, alarmed to find her dry throat ached, "I prefer your usual witless banter."

If Isabelle was not mistaken, he was disappointed. Well, what had Simon thought to expect? That she might bare herself to him at the first invite?

There were things she was not prepared to tell even Alec. Like how she knew fighting marriage was a doomed battle for a woman of her station in this world. That she was afraid of what might happen when her parents did not reconcile. That though it was her father's faithlessness that caused their split, Isabelle blamed herself for being the one to tell her mother of it. How it was really her fault her father had packed up the last of his things in Adamant and sped to Paris.

How could Isabelle begin to explain to anyone that she had watched Clary fall in love so easily and been both intrigued and alarmed? That she didn't believe anyone could love all of her, the spiteful and cynical heart of her, except those in her family who had no choice but to?

She was saved from having to dismiss Simon any further as the first drops of rain started to fall. He lunged to protect his lute, and by the time it was safely bundled up, the shower had turned to a downpour. Izzy had to laugh as they scrabbled about to collect their things and charged for the nearest trees.

Isabelle's laughter was stutteringly echoed by Simon. Her merriment only escalated as they stumbled and kept dropping the scraps of food and empty bottles that overflowed their arms. Cursing and giggling, she finally made it to the vague leafy shelter and turned to face Simon.

She must have looked a sight, clothes sodden and cap askew, but Simon's laughter paled away as he reached out to tenderly prise away a soaked strand of hair from her cheek.

His fingertips were a glancing warmth against her skin, and the sudden intensity of his stare sent Isabelle's breath skidding to the back of her throat.

"Isabelle-" he began solemnly, and her numbing panic was spurred to frantic action. She reached out, grabbing at his damp collar and hauling his hot lips to hers.

Silencing and distracting him the only way she knew how.

-0000000000000-

These days, Clary's things rarely left their cases. There were no more state dinners and no more revels. The past week had been one relentless haul toward her capital city, and much of what she possessed was still miles behind amongst the baggage train she had not spotted in several days.

Not that she required much. There were no more reasons to dress up. It had her exhausted, and no one would tell her why this haste was so necessary.

Clary had only glimpsed Valentine at mealtimes and prayer services, and they had not spoken intimately since The Incident.

Although since their last, disastrous private conversation, there had been no outward sign Valentine was still angry with her. He had greeted her calmly, if not coolly, since. Yet Clary still felt the tension crackling between the two of them as clearly as she saw the bright fissures of lightening split the sky these nights. She was in no doubt that while her father might be diverted at present, he had not forgiven her impudence.

It had been almost a week and still Clary's heart stuttered when he met her gaze and had to prevent herself from tensing when he walked past. Yes, on one hand it seemed that as Valentine's only daughter she was sole currency he had with which to purchase a foreign alliance. But she knew that unless he thought her an easy pawn to work through, he could decide the bother of marrying her off outweighed the potential gains. He may have her sent back to the convent for good.

Not long ago she might have leaped at the chance to scurry back to her mother. But she had seen too much, and endured too much, to be pushed aside to gather dust like that.

Even as shackled as she was to her father's schemes, at least there was a prospect of liberty in the end. Once married, she could have her own household in the very least. Even an uncertain future gave a kind of hope.

If only her present private situation was a little less uncertain than the public. But since the passing of her betrothed, Jace had given her no more than his condolences in a clipped, reserved tone. She did not fear that he had forgotten her, surely no more than she had forgotten him.

A suspicion that was soon proved to her. After some tentative questioning of Isabelle, Clary had learned that the situation was precisely what she feared. She was not the only one with her bags packed, although she did not share the same destination as the rest of the French embassy. Izzy had been quick to assure her that she intended to remain in her service, but since there were no more prospective husbands for her in France, Jace could not hope to do so.

His ambassadorial duties lay elsewhere.

But Clary had not expected him to part without a goodbye. Not until a suspiciously damp Isabelle had hurried into her chambers on Sunday afternoon baring the worst news possible, the drooping feather from her hat dripping balefully onto the floor as she hissed in her ear that Wayfarer was saddled in the courtyard.

"He cannot mean to leave today!"

"He likely does." Isabelle corrected grimly, making a show of sniffing a dab of new scent which she splashed on a kerchief and raised to her mouth, screening her lips and muffling her words so no one save Clary might hear them, "He has left in such haste before, Clary. Our- his master is at war. Since the new Dauphin is already married there is no deal to broker here, and King Francois will want every diplomat he has at hand while he continues to fight Spain. "

Clary shot her a panicked look, ignoring Maia's curious expression and her attempts to sidle closer to the other two girls. "He would not go without telling you."

"He has done before," Isabelle shrugged, "and if Alec was not leaving with him immediately, as he sometimes does not, then he would be content to let Alec say the goodbyes."

"To me?" Clary demanded, aware that the pitch of her voice was something of a whine, "He would not go without saying goodbye to me?"

Her lady shot her a look of unmistakable pity, "Mayhap it would be better that way Clary. Goodbye is always painful, and beyond that, Jace would struggle to find a suitable reason to see you now."

Clary was sick of this whole charade. She no longer cared what people thought of her being too friendly with an embassy, and she no longer cared that she was already on thin ice with her father. She needed to see Jace.

"Do you need some assistance, Your Highness?" Maia enquired, pushing her way into the space beside Isabelle's shoulder.

Clary barely spared her a glance, "No."

She rose from her seat and tossed her prayer book aside, the sudden rise disturbing her ladies. Aline and Helen glanced up in surprise from their sewing and one of her newer additions, Julie Beauvale, clumsily broke off her playing of a small harp. All questioning eyes were on Clary, and she waved away their silent inquisition with a vague sweep of her right arm. They had made to rise with her, but at her frantic gesture had to flop awkwardly back into their seats. Julie missed her stool entirely and her backside hit the floor.

"Just a moment," Clary gasped faintly to her audience, then charged gracelessly out the door.

Things grew more farcical, as her unprecedented exit startled the guards at her door. The only indication Clary had of their shock was the distinct clamour of metalwork as they seized up their pikes whirled round looking for an assailant. The closest thing to which proved to be Isabelle Lightwood, barrelling out the door after her.

Bareheaded and still trailing a small river of rainwater after her flicking train, not unlike a snail, Isabelle soon caught up to Clary on her longer legs. "Princess!" she panted through gritted teeth, "What the devil do you think that you are doing?"

Izzy tried to catch at Clary's flapping sleeve and halt her, but Clary disentangled herself and continued on her quest.

The Princess darted out into the stable yard, and splashed straight through a muddy puddle as she finally spied the dappled coat she had been looking for.

Jace was at Wayfarer's side, distinct in the set of his shoulders and the ease with which his hands flew over the various straps and buckles of tack.

It was more than her recent dash which had Clary's heart hammering as she crossed the final few paces to him.

"Jace."

He glanced up briefly from his inspection of the girth's tightness. He turned away again, only to whirl incredulously back to her when the realisation sunk in. "What in God's name are you doing?!"

"What in God's name areyoudoing?" Clary fired back, planting both her hands on Wayfarer's strong neck, as though the sheer force of her will could keep horse and rider where they were.

"You should not be here. People will talk, those grooms are already doing so."

"Let them."

"Izzy is but over there, Clary you must go back to her. Now." He tried to turn her away from the horse, steering her with the screen of his body as best he could. Despite how she might behave Clary was still the King's daughter, and he was not permitted to lay a hand on her, not unless invited to.

"No." Clary said more firmly, "Do not leave me. Do not make me put you aside."

Jace's eyes flickered around her face, as they had done before, but this time it was more than not meeting her eye. This time the scan gave the impression of his trying to memorise her every feature. To commit to memory the exact shape of her nose and every freckle on it.

"I doubt there is a man alive who could make you do anything. Better men than me have tried and failed." The dryness to his voice failed to move her any, for it still took every scrap of her self-control to keep her hands stroking Wayfarer.

"Please," she whispered instead, astonished that he heard her over the cacophony of the stable yard; the clatter of hooves, booming voices and rasping hiss of a brush somewhere sweeping up stray strands of hay. At least not all life had come to standstill at her presence. Clary knew there were still some of the grooms nudging one another and muttering unabashedly, but the lack of a total silence enabled her to continue speaking to Jace.

"I cannot stay here. Clary, I will not stay."

"Will not?" she echoed, not bothering to disguise the pain that remark had caused her. Jace threaded his fingers through the sagging reins and looked away from her. "Life goes on. I could stay, but I will not. There are too many ghosts here. And besides, even the present hurts. Surely you realise that for your father's plans this is naught but a stumbling block. Already behind closed doors they are whispering of a new suitor." Now he looked at her, earnestly and nakedly, as he dared not look at anyone else. "You deserve honesty. The honesty I could not give your betrothed- my lord- when he lay on his deathbed and I showered his bride with kisses." The raw guilt and the self-loathing was painful to hear. The harshness of his words struck home for the first time, and Clary was reminded that Francois Valois had not been a sombre oil painting for both of them. Betraying him may have meant nothing to her, in fact she had never regarded what she was doing with Jace to be a betrayal at all, but the same was not true for Jace.

"I shall try now to be honest enough for both of you. I cheated my friend and Prince. I will have to live with that. But staying here, watching you marry someone else? A stranger? That I could not live with. Yes, I could stay as your father's servant, I could call Idris home again, and I have thought of it- but the cost is too high. To see you again I would have to be the go-between between your father and husband, whoever he may be. I would have to see you on his arm, bearing his children. I do not want to live like that Clary. I will not."

Clary was practiced enough by now to hear what he would not say.

"It will not come to that," she lied.

He tried to shake her off again and wiped his face blank, or rather attempted to.

"I have a plan," She babbled desperately, "to wreck the next betrothal, to whomever it is. I wantyouJace, though they say I cannot have you. That means nothing to me, nothing means anything; except that I love you. And I refuse to accept that is wrong."

"Love me?" For a heartbeat, Jace sounded wistful. Then he scoffed, moving to sidestep her and lead his horse away, "You hardly know me."

"Very well," Clary unintentionally recoiled at the sour tone, "I hardly know you and still refuse to let you go."

The corner of Jace's mouth curled slightly, though Clary expected he was silently damning her for making him smile as he tried to walk away. It was what she would have done. He successfully manoeuvred his way past her and crossed to Wayfarer's other flank. Instinctively Clary grasped at the bridle, aware that she would look utterly ridiculous if she hung on the horse's reins to fight the departure. Yet she considered it.

Following the sound of rustling, a moment later Jace returned with a package in his hand. "Clarissa Morgenstern, one day you are going to be the fairest, fiercest queen Christendom has ever known. Isabella of Castile and Eleanor of Aquitaine will pale in comparison." Clary coloured slightly at the words, taking the package he passed to her, "I have to go today, but I never intended to go without leaving you a goodbye. I was to send this to Isabelle to pass along after I had left. I feared that unless I could say farewell from a distance, I would never say it at all."

Clary latched on to the hope his determination was faltering, "Then do not. Stay with me. We will come up with something. Concoct some plan. Some agreement. We always have."

"Would that I could," Jace murmured, reaching out to touch one of the locks of hair that had curled out from under her hood in the humidity of the air. Then he straightened up and raised his voice, "Keep Isabelle with you and keep her out of trouble if you can, though I do not expect you to have much success. Keep yourself out of trouble more importantly, Princess. Do try not to get mobbed again."

A lump rose in Clary's throat and she half-laughed half-sobbed at his parting words. She had to surrender a step back to let Jace mount, her head tilted upwards as he tipped his hat to her.

"God keep you," She managed to call, voicing her most fervent prayer in days.

"And you," Jace responded softly, nodding over her head to Isabelle before clicking his tongue and urging Wayfarer into a trot.

Unable to bear the sight of him leaving her, Clary ducked her head and hastened back to Izzy, who slung an arm around her and greeted her with a gentle, "You trod in horse sh*t," as she steered her friend back indoors.

Neither of them saw the two men who exchanged a single glance and slipped out the gate after Jace.

-00000000000000-

The silver lining to having one's hem smeared in horse excrement and your stockings destroyed by rainwater puddles was that upon return to your apartments you could be hustled away to your private bedchamber to change.

Once there, Clary sat down forlornly on the edge of her bed. "You can leave me Isabelle."

"You need fresh clothes."

"I can dress myself. I did it for years."

Isabelle nodded slowly, realising Clary needed a rare moment alone to nurse her breaking heart. "I do not know what to say Clary. I fear my words would make paltry bandages at any rate, and I have no comforting wisdom of experience to share. Sometimes I doubt I have a heart that anyone could break. But... should you need company; I am just outside the door."

Clary gave a small nod and sat still, long after the soft snap of the closed door. Eventually she did wriggle out of her soiled vestments and, clad only in her shift, crawled back onto the bed and unwrapped the paper on her parting gift.

A new copy of Malory's Morte d'Arthur revealed itself, stamped with the hallmark of Idris's primary printer in Alicante. It must have been privately commissioned weeks ago. No, it was not the jewels or fine cloths that her father might have bought for her so flippantly at small fortune, but it was all the more precious to her in its simplicity. Flipping over the cover page Clary located a single line inscribed in familiar, spiked handwriting:

For Lancelot loved Guinevere and Arthur too.

She failed to hold back the tears any longer.

-0000000000000-

The open road used to hold such peace for Jace. It had always been a symbol for moving on, enjoying new beginnings. Until now, every such journey had denoted the beginning of the next chapter.

None of these merry thoughts were on his mind as he trod down the main road heading to the western border. Jace's pessimism was not helped by the realisation that his journey back to France would take him through Broceland; the lands of an inheritance he would never have, which was currently being torn apart by riots. But he had been assured the real discontent had moved northwards and the roads were clear.

By no means was Jace eager to get caught up in another mob, considering he had only narrowly escaped the last one. Yet he could not wish the peasants ill. They were sure to be put down before they really got anywhere, but he hoped they managed to burn a few estates while they could.

Be that as it may, Jace's mind was not on their doomed revolution, rather on the girl he left behind. Telling himself that leaving her and her family again was for the best. It was not making the hoof beats that took him further from Clary fall any easier.

The same words kept ringing around in his head with each of Wayfarer's strides:I love you I love you I love you.

He wished that he could wave a sword and liberate her from the new marriage she didn't want. Here he was, meekly making his way back to his master like any obedient hound. No matter it was the master Jace told himself he'd chosen.

There had always been that integral feeling that chafed against the reality of having to bow to a master at all. Whatever part of his blood that remembered it was noble, that recalled it came from a line of toppled kings, had always railed at his role of subservience. If Prince Francois had not been dead, Jace might have gone to Valentine and called in that favour to be a duke again.

But his friend, the one he had betrayed by loving Clary, was dead. Though that was not directly Jace's fault, he blamed himself. If he could not shield his friend in person then Jace should have at least protected his interests by not falling in love with his bride.

And he had fallen in love. Jace had known it for some time now, felt that pull mayhap as far back as the moment he had first laid eyes on her as a woman, in Alicante that first night. Yes, he had half been jesting when he had flirted with her, but something about her had intrigued him from the start. He had known her, despite his blunders, in some corner of his heart. He may have blundered because he knew her, knew that Clary held a crucial part of his heart and he had wanted to protect himself.

It did not matter that Jace had admitted it to his own heart anyway, for he had never told her. He cursed himself now for not having done so now. What more damage could it have done? Clary had just told him how she felt and his instinctive, yet unforgivable response had been to brush it off. Yes, without doubt he was unworthy of that affection, but Jace might still have acknowledged the depths of Clary's affections were returned.

She would be punished enough for loving him, there had been no need to exacerbate it.

Lost as he was in his own head, and caught up in his own guilt and regrets, Jace failed to take account of the world around him, in which he had acquired a shadow.

Usually, he did not mind travelling alone and light as it made for the most efficient speed. With a wallet full of mere papers, he was never disturbed by bandits. On this occasion Jace had wanted to get away as quickly as he could. The more he lingered at Valentine's court what strands of resolve he had summoned would soon unravel altogether, and he had not wanted the company of Alec after their quarrel. Jace knew that he would soon forgive his friend, and Alec him, but he also knew from experience they both needed space for their anger to cool first.

By the time the first proper town came into sight Jace was glad to see it. The banners of smoke rising from the thatched roofs blended in with the darkening steel of another sullen summer night sky, behind which neither the rising moon nor first peeping stars could be seen.

Though Jace had a certain disregard for his own safety, not even he was willing to risk the roads at night. It had been quite some time since he had last had a tavern cooked meal, and found he was quite looking forward to it. The sturdy warmth of a homely stew would do wonders in lining his stomach for the long journey ahead. Focusing on physical needs, like the snarling hunger in his stomach and the weariness of a long day weighing on his bones, provided a comfortable enough distraction from his emotional pains.

Until, upon approaching the town's main thoroughfare, he found his way blocked by two breastplate clad soldiers in the familiar maroon and black striped livery of the King of Idris. They must have taken a shorter side road to arrive here before him, clearly they knew the territory better.

The sight of them was enough for Jace's empty stomach to clench anxiously. They had no intention of letting him pass.

Jace reluctantly halted Wayfarer before them, "Can help you, gentlemen?"

The older of the two, who would soon become apparent as the dominant of the pair, was the one to answer him, "Yes, Herondale, you can help us."

He really was an ugly bastard, with a mashed face and a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken and had never properly healed. His lip seemed permanently stuck in a sneer.

Wayfarer tossed his head and chuffed fretfully, prancing uneasily on the spot. He must have been able to sense the thickening tension in the air.

"Hmm. Bit dangerous don't you think? A little Herondale princeling wandering around Broceland on his own, at a troubled time like this?"

Jace's mouth had dried up, but he made his face stay blank. "I was told that the area had quietened. I have seen no trouble thus far. I should hardly call it wandering. I am on the business of the King of France." He knew as he said it his defence was weak, crisply and firmly as he had spoken. He doubted these thugs cared for the authority of a foreign king.

Startlingly, his new enemy donned a twisted smile, which proved nastier than his sneer. "I don't think too many will miss you. I would love to ruin that lovely face, pretty boy. Knock out a few of those pearly teeth."

Perversely, Jace was glad of the taunts, for they allowed rising anger to quench his rising panic. Maybe they meant to do no more than rough him up a little.

Jace loosed his shoulders only long enough to pull off a languid shrug, "Life's not fair, is it? A true pity that we can't all be as ugly as you. Especially since that hideous face must serve as a reminder of the bashing you thoroughly deserved and allows your scintillating personality to shine through." The guard cursed colourfully. His hand shot to the dagger at his side and Jace reached for the blade at his hip-

"Enough!" The other soldier growled.

Jace slid his knife back into its sheath, revelling in the soothing scrape of metal.

Then he was addressed again, though his biting sarcasm had not endeared him any to Morgenstern Crony Number Two.

"The King of France is no longer expecting you. Since it is not safe for you to be prowling these areas at this time, we are to escort you to Alicante, Herondale."

"Alicante? To what end?"

"That is for the King to decide," The first of them spat, "All I know is I am to get you to the Gard quickly." He grinned then, as though he knew Jace's childhood nightmares were clamouring in around him. Not even the checkerboard of rotting bone that formed the few teeth the man had left could distract Jace from the terror of the Black Tower.

"Hand over the weapons. Some very important people have some very important questions to ask you."

-000000000000000-

Chapter 13: Out of the Frying Pan

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Into the Fire

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Into the Fire

The chamber Jace was ushered to next by Lucian Graymark was much more pleasant than the one he'd occupied before. In fact, it was much nicer than any room he had ever occupied, buffering the astonishing promises Valentine had just made him.

After the declaration that it was Jace who would be his mouthpiece at the meeting due to take place, Valentine had disbanded the entire Council.

Then, alone with Jace and a chary Graymark, once word arrived that Tiller had agreed to the proposed discussion, Valentine had made Jace another proposal. Should Jace do as he was bid to perfection his reward stood to be great. Valentine announced that he could not very well send a diplomat in the pay of France to speak on his behalf. Jace would speak to the rebels as the Duke of Broceland.

Jace approached the low table in his grand new abode as subtly as he could, running his fingertips over the gilded surface of a small box that rested there. He flipped it open curiously to find it empty, at which he deflated slightly. Luke was still listing orders to the wide-eyed maid who failed to peel her attention from Jace. Jace felt his cheeks pink at Luke's mention of some soap and water. True, it had been a while since he had enjoyed the luxury of a proper wash and the fresh clothes he heard them talk of would also be extremely welcome. He pretended fascination at the various accoutrements scattered across this little desk even as his ears reddened.

Unlike the box, the inkpot beside it was full. Jace stroked at the fine feather adorning the accompanying quill. The soft texture under his calloused touch was calming, and to cement his growing composure he counted to twenty in his head after the pattering of the servant girl's exit faded before turning to face Luke.

"Will there be anything else you require- my lord?" The final two words carried as much a question as the first part. Luke seemed less than jubilant at having to complete the query with the honorific. Jace was still too shocked to appreciate it. He could empathise. Should he survive the next day his would be the most meteoric rise at this court since, well, Jocelyn Fairchild's.

"Let us not get too concerned with addresses and titles. None of them need stick until after tomorrow." He shifted his weight as Luke nodded, his lips pinched into a tight line. Graymark knew Valentine better than anyone. As well as anyone other than Valentine could comprehend what sped through that wicked, brilliant mind. Yet he plainly had no idea what to make of this either. If Alec offered to hand a dukedom to an ambassador without warning, Jace would probably look as though he had been kicked by a horse too.

Jace was an untested upstart on the verge of becoming one of the most prominent nobles in the Kingdom. For someone like Luke who had spent years clawing a life out at this court and bending over backwards to do Valentine's bidding, it must indeed be jarring to watch.

"Is Alec- Lord Lightwood still here?"

Luke nodded, some emotion beginning to thaw on his face. As though that at least he could wrap his head around, "No one has been allowed to leave the court. Both the Lightwoods are still here."

"Might I see Alec? Just Alec." After weeks of doubt and his very life dangling up in the air, Jace longed for his friend's solidity, his reliability. Their quarrel seemed so fickle now. Alec would help him untangle Valentine's intentions, then draw up a concrete plan.

"I will see to it." Luke agreed. He turned toward the door and Jace twisted away, back to his inspection of the new surroundings.

"Cease requests."

"What?" Jace's mind skidded back to the lord who had paused with his hand hovering over the doorknob. "Whether or not you remain the Duke of Broceland you may at least act it tonight. Should the title stay with you afterward, then ensure you never ask for anything again. It is when you are most uncertain you must appear utterly assured. A lord demands what he would have."

The ghost of his old amicability dashed across his face then, "You will adjust. You have lived at Europe's greatest courts, so you ought to have an idea on how a duke behaves."

"Graymark, I rarely know what the hell I am doing" The admission burst from him before Jace could measure the wisdom of making it. They had been allies in the conjuring if the Princess's betrothal, but there had been no reason to think they were anything but that. The two men barely knew one another. They were not friends. But by God, if Jace had ever felt out of his depth before, those scenarios became a puddle when compared to the depths he was frantically floundering in now.

Luke smiled in earnest now. "Then you have already mastered it." He made to depart once again, but the kindness prompted Jace to ask one final question; "The Princess, you are certain she is safe here?"

Luke halted short of vanishing through the open door and peered back at Jace with the most serious expression Jace had ever seen him wear. "If I thought for a moment Clary were not the safest she might possibly be, I would not tolerate her being her a second longer," he growled. He softened a tad before adding, "I should imagine at this hour Her Highness would be abed, but I could have one of her maids wake her before you and Tiller are due to meet?"

More than anything he had ever wanted in his short, wretched existence Jace wanted to look upon her face now, to see her one more time. But no. He'd hurt Clary enough. Moreover, if he succeeded on the morrow, knowing she would be awaiting him here would sweeten the reward. Then Jace could look her in the eye- not as her equal- but as someone who could promise his service until his last breath and know it was a vow he could now keep.

He told Lucian none of that, of course, whatever spirit of solidarity had begun to grow between them. "I see no need to disturb or distress her," Jace said softly instead, "God willing I will see her tomorrow. Alec Lightwood I need to see tonight."

Luke nodded resolutely, "Very well."

The warm water arrived before Alec did, so Jace set about cleaning himself as thoroughly and quickly as he could, before gladly drawing on a cotton shirt which was the softest he had ever laid his hands on. He was attempting to tame his wet hair when Alec finally charged into the room.

"Took you long enough," Jace commented, a genuine smile flicking across his lips at the sight of his friend. Alec looked a mess, dark hair a rat's nest and what looked like a riding coat pulled over a nightshirt. To his relief an answering smile lit up the familiar features. "I did not believe them when I was told," Alec admitted, still panting from what must have been a tremendous dash. He crashed into Jace without further warning and squeezed him into an embrace so tight that his eyes began to water. From the breath-stopping pressure upon his ribs, not real tears, Jace made a half-hearted attempt to convince himself.

"You bastard!" Alec spat, releasing him at last, "I thought you had finally done it. Achieved an absolutely idiotic and needless death, that is."

"So did I," Jace admitted breathlessly, with the beginnings of a laugh tugging at the confession.

"God in heaven," Alec drew back further and his eyes skimmed Jace's frame while he fidgeted under the inspection, "I knew, I knew something was amiss. Ask Izzy! Jace, what did they do to you? Lord Graymark said you had been arrested, then something of a test of loyalty? One that should you pass would bring with it your restoration?"

Jace shrugged. "It's nothing I haven't survived so far," He jabbed faintly at a jest.

Alec did not laugh or even smile, peering around the fashionable rooms and looking about as dumbfounded as Jace felt.

"Nothing I don't intend to survive." Jace amended firmly.

They moved to the lavish chairs by the table at Jace's behest. He sank into the cushioned perch, wishing he was in a state of mind to properly enjoy any of it. "What has already happened is of little account. What matters at the moment is what is yet to come." As succinctly and accurately as he could manage, Jace filled Alec in.

To Alec's credit, he adjusted to the sudden change in their situation well. And quickly. Just as Jace hoped he might. He interrupted rarely, and only to ask valid questions, highlighting angles of thought that had never occurred to Jace. When all was finished, Alec heaved a deep sigh. "This is unheard of."

"A peace talk?"

"Not that- this... trial of Valentine's. To determine what? Whether or not you gallop off into the sunset with your old friends? Yesterday he all but had you accused of treason. Are there not laws surrounding such things? You cannot imprison someone for a fortnight without charge."

Jace shrugged, "The King of Idris can do as he likes. He was ever an unorthodox ruler. One who handpicks his followers. Every man of significance in this country owes his power to Valentine, he knows it and it is this knowledge which keeps every man who matters in debt to Valentine. Loyal to him. Not one man sits on that Council or takes a pension from the royal treasury without having earned it. Even Jonathan has to prove himself. Why should I be any different? Besides, Valentine knew that if given my freedom again the first thing I'd do would be to bolt back to Adamant. The only offer that might make me reconsider is my dukedom. Beyond that, any other negotiator would be gutted by those rebels in a heartbeat. The only one they might pause to fell is the last Herondale. That pause we need, the people of this city need. I am the only one who they might listen to. But a French ambassador cannot carry the authority of King Valentine to weigh down his words. An Idrisian duke can. So I get a conditional title, one that has yet to be vested to me officially. If I succeed, then I get to keep it. Those are the terms of my peace treaty with the Morgensterns. It is quite ingenious really. Valentine at his finest."

"From emissary to duke. It does sound like one of your stories. Speaking of which…"

"Don't you dare," Jace pierced his friend with the fondest frown he could muster, "Iam sorry. So sorry. What I said was uncalled for."

Alec dropped his eyes, twisting his hands together in his lap as he was wont to do when he was on edge, or overwhelmed, "You need not be apologetic," he said with soft solemnity, "You were right."

Jace scoffed in surprise, "This night just gets more and more remarkable. It continues to defy all likelihoods and reason."

Alec laughed then, snorting quietly as he inhaled and thumping Jace on the arm. "Do not get too accustomed to it. Just because I am attempting to allow my heart a little more reign over my head does not mean I am going to be saying those particular three words any more often. Or ever again." Then the blue gaze steeled, "I am coming with you. Tomorrow."

"Alec, this could be dangerous. Just because we have promised peace does not mean the rebels will keep their word."

"I know. But I have known you nearly a decade. Walking down the street with you is fraught with peril, thanks to your stupid mouth. Yet I still do it."

"Let us hope my stupid mouth proves itself useful tomorrow."

Alec grasped his arm again, his grip as firm as his determination. "I am with you Jace Herondale. For tomorrow's danger and whatever comes after."

Jace blinked, struggling to dislodge the lump in his throat. He knew not what he had done to deserve Alec.

What he did know, as Jace reached out to clasp the hand of the man he had chosen for his brother, was that from the dawn onwards he would do all he could to make himself deserving of that loyalty.

-000000000000000-

Despite the brightness of the late morning sun slanting through the elaborate coloured glass of the church's windows, the pews remained shadowy.

For Clary, the chill clinging to the stone walls and ceramic floors was the only discomfort of the building. Though she knew the Church throughout Europe was divided and filled with conflict, this chapel remained peaceful.

The purity of the silence that hung in the air with the lingering sweetness of old incense made her feel as if the whole world was holding its breath, that no one could look upon the beauty of God's house without succumbing to a quiet awe. This was her only haven, surrounded by the twinkling glow of candles in the far corner and the welcoming serenity of the many icons, she almost felt safe. For the tranquil expression in the marble face of the Madonna perpetually held a kindly smile-the like of which her own mother had never worn.

One of the chaplains of the royal household, Father Jerimiah, floated about the alter preparing for the next Mass, but he was content to leave Clary be, as her presence here each morning since their return to the Gard was now a familiar one.

Just as she would ultimately face her Creator alone, it seemed that as a Princess the only thing she was permitted to do entirely by herself was pray. No one disturbed her or insisted on keeping her company while she knelt at her prie-dieu, or here in a church pew.

Her illusion of sanctified peace was shattered by the creak of the wooden pew beside her. It alerted her to the presence of a fellow worshipper. One that happened to be her brother.

Clary would not turn her head even marginally towards him, though she did raise it from her clasped hands. She felt him move in, leaning closer until the warmth of his breath stirred her cheek.

"Now, what on earth could you have confessed that requires such a long and ardent penance?"

Clary almost shuddered, for it had been some time ago that she left the confessional. Not due to the fact he had hit home with any of his horrible and seedy presumptions, but simply because it gave her a harrowing insight into how long he had been watching her.

Until now her brother had been mercifully distant, having not spoken at length with her since their return to the Gard. She had met him lounging against the water gate and grinning at her like it was his palace and not their father's she was entering.

"Why do you not look to your own conscience, brother?" She all but spat out of the corner of her mouth. Having come to appreciate that their present danger was the result of Jonathan's heavy handedness at Oldcastle and knowing of the summer burnings that had not relented in the Crown Prince's absence, she could not look upon him with anything other than disgust.

Undeterred by her hostility Jonathan sidled closer still, continuing to whisper in her ear. There was no way that Clary could flee, for striding out would only welcome more unwanted attention and she would never treat God with such discourtesy. Rationally, Clary knew there was nothing Jonathan could do to her, not here, but it made no difference.

"Tell me, do you really confess-"He slid his hand over hers- "Every single little transgression?"

Clary jerked away as though his icy palms had scalded her. "That is how the sacrament is supposed to work," she snapped, "We need to confess all sins to be shriven, not just the rare few we regret," She flung the barb at him desperately, then sent a wordless apology to the Virgin as she hastily blessed herself and clambered somewhat clumsily back to her seat.

Jonathan fluidly copied the motion and returned to her level within seconds. "Surely, were we all to confess each and every little sin, both in thought and deed, the priests would not have the time to do anything else. We are not all as pure as you, my sweet sister. Assuming you are still pure."

Clary's eyes flicked to his straightaway, the gasp wrenched from her throat echoing around the building. Father Jerimiah shot them a single questioning glance before continuing to light the altar candles. He was not about to interrupt the King's children.

"What do you mean by that?" Clary demanded in a whisper.

Her brother's mouth curved to the side in a snide smirk, "Never fret, not even our father would violate the holy confidentiality of the confessional, so whatever it is you admit to need go no further. Though what I would not pay to discover what exactly His Majesty murmurs through that latticework…"

"You are obscene."

Jonathan's smile grew even further, "Be that as it may, clearly still a prim, prudish little thing are you not? No thanks to our friend Jace Herondale."

Of the entirety of the statement it was, surprisingly, the final part Clary chose to attack first; "He is notourfriend."

Jonathan's black eyes glittered savagely, although he finally slid back across the pew from her, "Precisely. How long did you really imagine your milkmaid eyes on him would go unnoticed? I can assure you, dearest, our father is not inclined to tolerate your panting after a Herondale any longer."

Clary got unsteadily to her feet and seized the opportunity to escape, pausing only to genuflect and give the priest what she hoped was a fully convincing smile before rotating slowly to face her brother, leaning across just close enough to hiss within earshot. "Never speak to me like that again. In fact, unless we have an audience and the situation demands it," Clary drew back and began her retreat, "do not speak to me."

"Oh? Then how should I impart the knowledge you desire?" Jonathan caught at the hand still resting on the end of the pew.

"There is nothing you could have to say that would interest me even slightly."

"You think not, sister? Even in the midst of wondering where your darling Jace is this morning?"

Despite herself, despite everything, Clary froze in place at the threat laced so tenderly throughout those words.

"What do you mean?" She hated the way her voice wavered with the question, hated that she even had to ask it.

Jonathan smiled victoriously, and a slant of the rising sun's rays broke through one of the clear side windows, making the pale blond of his head burn like white hot iron. "Do you remember, when we were children how he never would stray far from you? It always made hide-and-go-seek easy. If you were behind the door in the room, he was behind the curtain."

"Jonathan," Clary fought to keep her voice down and tone reasonable, "Spit it out."

By way of answer the Prince rose fluidly and gripped her arm, tucking her hand in the crevice between his elbow and torso so tightly that he squashed it. Only when they were outside did he speak again, "You seem hell bent on blaming our current crisis on me. Did you ever pause to consider the wider implications of a rebel army who adopted a Herondale as their figurehead?"

Fear closed in a cold fist around her heart. Of course she had thought of it. Incessantly since she'd first learnt of it through Simon. Her one comfort was that Jace had left when he had, that he would be far away and safe in France by the time this storm broke.

"It would have been worse than stupid to leave him roaming around. So for his own safety Father decided to keep him in the Gard."

For a heartbeat Clary was confused. If he were still at court, Jace would have sought her out. Even if he had not, she should have seen him abroad. The rooms of the palace were confinement enough that she saw everyone here at least once daily. Then the realisation sank its icy teeth in and Clary's steps across the small green between the chapel and palace's main building faltered. She almost tripped over her own feet, clutching at Jonathan as she was jerked back upright. Her eyes latched onto the brutish prison tower.

"Where?" She breathed, beyond caring if her fright showed.

Jonathan prattled on as though he had not heard her, "It only stood to reason that Jace's name was allied to the rebel's cause by his own volition, therefore the only thing to be done was to let the Cardinal question him."

Now Clary was grateful she had yet to break her fast and her stomach was empty. She had too good an idea of what the Cardinal's methods of interrogation were.

She was gripping Jonathan with everything she had, she realised. The hands she glanced down at were chalky in pallor and not merely from the strength of her grasp. Her brother was enjoying this, damn him to hell. Jonathan was still peering down at her with nothing short of undiluted, savage glee. Because he was not finished. "As it happens," here his happiness faded a touch, "Your delicate feminine sensibilities have no reason to be troubled. Jace is still in one piece, and all the better for us. Once Father accepted his innocence, he found a use for him."

He paused at the doors to the main building and Clary caught sight of Isabelle and Aline waiting for her at the foot of the staircase. Izzy's face darkened at the sight of the Crown Prince and Jonathan in turn sighed theatrically, his sunny mood dampened at the prospect of not being the sole narrator bringing her up to speed.

"Long story short; Jace is to play the hero of the piece once more. Having swayed our father in the Council chamber into staying his vengeful hand, Jace is to intercede with the rebel leader on our behalf. He rode out at dawn downriver. The plan is that he diverts them long enough with his speech for the armies of our bannermen to arrive. His Majesty is convinced that the will of God will determine events one way or the other. You should have been praying for your beloved, Clary. Provided he does all that is asked of him, he returns to a dukedom."

Clary squared her already stiff shoulders against the violent shaking that was threatening her limbs, "And if not?"

"Every army needs cannon fodder." Jonathan concluded chirpily, the light-heartedness indicated which outcome he thought more likely. He made no effort to appear lamenting or guilty as he kept speaking, "You would do well to know that I did try to dissuade His Majesty. I did urge him to consider that a Herondale should not be trusted with such a great task at such a crucial moment. What is to stop him ushering his would-be army through the gates we have conveniently opened for him?"

"As though that is likely," Clary snapped as her blood started to boil.

"You think not? You may be more innocent than I thought. You really are a woman of tremendous faith. Or naivety." Jonathan caught at her wrist and spun her to face him. "Sister, that man hates our family. He resents us and our inheritance, and always will. Months after his return to Idris, years of peace simmer to discontent. Now we face the first coherent uprising against a monarch in over a century."

"They are not against the King, but his advisors," Clary attempted to object.

Jonathan's eyes only flared with more vehemence, "Who appoints those advisors? For someone who spends such time burrowing her way through our history tombs, you mean to tell me you cannot see that such is the complaint all rebels make until they get a real chance to depose their sovereign?"

Clary could not deny that. It was, as well both she and Jonathan knew, the card their great grandfather played when he took up arms against the Herondales. In that sense, there was an ironic justice in their situation now.

"Jace would never turn on our father," she stated instead, flatly. "He would certainly not stand with anyone who would."

Her brother beheld her with a scowl of frustrated pity, "He has used you and abused your trust, you silly chit. And should Jace stumble upon more of that damnable luck he seems to possess and come back, I doubt he has finished using you."

Clary scoffed, her noise of scorn echoing off the near empty bailey as only a lad darted past bearing a corner of a burnt loaf pilfered from the kitchens, not sparing the royal children an ounce of his attention as he sped away. The Gard was all but empty, since her father had taken a large entourage downriver with him to a meeting with the Clave.

"Of all people Jonathan, you will not beguilemewith your pretence at brotherly concern. Your surge in protective behaviour is more alarming than it is touching. Now you and I are well enough acquainted for it to make me wonder what is in it for you."

"Regardless of what you may say or do, Clary, you will always be Valentine Morgenstern's daughter to Jace. Part of him will forever hate you for it. Perhaps for now that part will not win over his actions, but there may come a day..."

Clary began to walk away, yanking herself from Jonathan's clutches so violently she almost tore the fabric of her sleeve. As she passed under the shadow of the doorway he shot one final seething prophecy at her in a vengeful hiss, "The stab in the back may not come this day but come it will Clary. If you are stupid enough to keep pursuing him after this, I hope Jace's betrayal comes when you need him most."

The curse sent yet another ripple of horror down her spine, though at that moment she wanted to run to Isabelle and shake the solemn look off her face more. One shared look at her friend and she knew they were on the same page.

"What did they do to him?" She snapped shrilly, "What have they done?"

Isabelle shook her head slowly, "I know not. I have not seen Jace, Clary, only Alec and then only briefly. I barely know what is happening. Your hands" She looked down at their joined fingers with concern, "They are freezing. Come, let me-"

"If you do not know what is going on then find me someone who does!" The command hung in the air, and Isabelle released her hands silently.

"As you wish, Your Highness" Aline finished for her, curtseying and slipping away, catching at Izzy's wrist as she passed to drag her along with her.

Dizzy and still shaking, Clary mounted the many steps to her chambers alone.

-0000000000000-

Tom did not think he had ever been this excited. Until now, the furthest he had ever gone from his family's farmstead had been the neighbouring town on market day.

Now the city of Alicante sprawled before him, Idris's glorious capital. Though from here the view was not all that impressive. All that could be seen was the squat stone walls that ringed the city, and perhaps the odd steeple behind it. You could see the tops of the Gard's tallest towers, and Jacques had pointed them out to him. He'd explained that the fortress had been built purposefully on a hill, as many a fortress was, so that the fine lords inside would be able to see any coming attackers. That meant, Jacques had explained with bright satisfaction, that the King knew they were here.

Young Tom hadn't been able to share in his joy at the time, since he had still seen so little of the city, but yesterday Jacques had taken him to a nearby hillside when he'd gone to meet with their scouts. Up there, the view had been much better. He'd seen almost the whole of Alicante, and for the very first and only time in his life little Tom had felt powerful.

It reassured him that coming here was worth it. When Jacques had first set out from Oldcastle Mama had forbidden Tom to go with him. But since all the other village lads were going, defiance had come easy to Tom. He doubted if anyone at home would even notice he were gone. True, none of them others who had gone were as young as Tom, and Jacques had been furious when he'd found Tom following him. But Jacques had agreed to let him stay, insisting Tom would be assigned chores and was to stay out of the way while he did them. Under no circ*mstances was Tom to join the fighting. All the same, another neighbour from their village had pressed a nasty looking blade into Tom's hand and muttered a gruff "just in case."

Tom had worked hard, no one could argue with that. He watered and fed the horses as he was bid. He ran back and forth between the camps with whatever message Jacques had to send. It was with no small pride Tom carried the knowledge that he was fast becoming the only one Jacques trusted enough to carry them.

But today, today was going to be the best yet.

Jonathan Herondale was coming to meet them. After a childhood of hearing about the Herondales from Grandpa's stories he was finally going to meet one. Well, not a king as such but nonetheless... The last of Idris's greatest line.

Jacques swore they would soon have a real leader, and with the help of God, a real King. Then there would be no more bad yields, no more soldiers or priests to pummel their hard earned pennies out of them. They might know some peace. Things would be better and bellies would be full.

Everything would be better.

-00000000000000-

The chosen meeting place was about a mile out of the city. The small diplomatic party was accompanied by a modest contingent of soldiers, most of whom were not real fighters. They'd been borrowed from the city guard. There could not be much difference in breaking up drunken street brawlers and stopping a tussle between peasants and royalists.

What they lacked in military proficiency, they made up for with the sheer amount of weaponry they carried. Alec could say with his hand pressed to heart that he had gone to war with less steel than he now carried. His party they were currently stocked with a range of dirks, daggers and a further array of knives, swords, and crossbows. All pointed toward the main road ahead of them. Would that he had a longbow, but being on horseback made his preferred weapon impossible.

To their right the strengthening sun sparkled off the Princewater, its smooth, silvery surface like a strip of molten metal. Although the dawn's dew still speckled and winked up at him, Alec could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. He offered up his hundredth silent prayer that this was a fortuitous omen.

As he had fallen into the habit of doing intermittently since they had first mounted up in the Gard, he sent another fleeting look at Jace, to his left. His friend's features were schooled into the neutral, borderline bored mask he had mastered years ago. If he was nervous, if he was having his doubts, he hid it well. But then Jace always had.

Whatever riot was taking place internally, Jace looked the part. He was every inch the lord, perfectly poised in the saddle and armoured; simplistic but fine, each plate so thoroughly polished they might have been silver dinner plates. He wore no helm, and much as anxiety wrangled in Alec's gut at the prospect of such a vital part of his body left vulnerable, he appreciated the necessity of Jace's head being bare. This way, every inch of those distinctive Herondale blond curls was on display. Though it was the Morgenstern banner that crackled in the breeze above him, he was flanked too by the flag of the duchy of Broceland. There could be no mistaking his heritage.

Jace had filled out since the last time Alec had seen him in armour. He was broader in the shoulders and fitted more snugly into the breastplate than he once had. Once not so long ago the thoughts would have perturbed him, or heralded another onslaught of self-loathing, but remarkably today Alec's mind turned easily back to the task at hand.

Jace's eyes were also turned ahead. Less as though he were scrutinising the terrain for any evidence of Tiller's arrival and more as if he were looking beyond the road ahead and into whatever came next. Alec did not dare wonder what came next.

He could not ignore his father's letters forever. He could not do as they bid and choose a suitable bride, for they had reached the point of a last resort. Now his mother and father had reached a rare moment of agreement; they would have to arrange a marriage for their eldest son and heir, as only a sizeable dowry could provide the landslide of coin required to sweep away the beginning of their debts. Worse, the greatest reason why Alec was not prepared to begin a contemplation of obedience had not been seen in weeks.

How exactly Magnus Bane of all people was exempt from Valentine's lockdown in the Gard was beyond him. At some point between the lakelands and Alicante he had made himself scarce. As irritated by Magnus's absence as the King might have been he was not prepared to waste men or resources trying to find him. That Magnus had disappeared without so much as a by your leave to Alec hurt, hurt in a way he had not expected it to. He dreaded to think that all they had shared had only been a diversion from an otherwise mundane world for Magnus. Another stepping stone towards whatever fulfilment Magnus strove for, for whatever happiness he could find that would not melt away when the sun rose.

If Alec had not locked his heart away tightly and buried it deep, he might have said that Magnus Bane had broken it. As his twisted luck may have it just before Magnus's covert exit Alec had almost decided that he was willing to let his heart rule him this time. If Jace could let his heart rule and get a duchy for the gamble, then mayhap Alec could live that way, just a little.

If he survived this, if he ever saw Magnus Bane again, Alec would act on what he felt. What he wanted.

His horse's ears flicked forward at the same moment Wayfarer whickered a warning and chomped impatiently at his bit. Alec's own mount, Pilgrim, tossed his own head in response. Alec scrutinised the road, his keen eyes picking out the approaching horsem*n within seconds.

They rode under no banners, and the party outnumbered the royal one, but Alec drew solace from the observation that they were not all mounted. The closer they drew, the more obvious it became they had grabbed anything with a sharp edge to pass for a weapon: axes, cooking knives, scythes, possibly even a hoof pick.

The figure that must be Jacque Tiller came closer still, stripping away from the bulk of his guard on a horse of remarkably good breeding, doubtless stolen. He was clothed coarsely, covered in mismatched pieces of chain mail. The rebel leader was younger than Alec expected, perhaps only of an age with him. He wondered what sort of miserable life Tiller had lived to accumulate so many grievances in such a relatively short time. To Alec's deepening horror he was accompanied by a child, the boy's head hardly skimming Tiller's horse's shoulder.

As Tiller and his reduced escort finally drew to a halt Alec turned in the saddle, to look to Jace for instruction. His friend was also frowning at the presence of the child, the lines upon his forehead making him seem older.

"Jace." The duo locked eyes, conveying without speech what they dared not say. The answering gold irises told him all he needed, that Jace did not like this. He did not want to give the carefully scripted oration that Valentine's Council (Starkweather in the main) had so kindly prepared for him and he did not want to be here in the slightest. He liked their situation even less now such a total innocent had been drawn into it.

But it changed nothing; they would continue as planned.

Jace was Valentine's to order. Even if he had his liberty and not his whole future at stake, Alec doubted that Jace would turn back now. He believed in what they were doing.

With merest tilt of his head, Alec illustrated that he understood and gave a final reassurance that he would stay precisely where he was now: at Jace's side.

The hint of reluctance in Jace's posture was corrected instantly. He rolled his shoulders back until his old arrogance returned, "We will match their numbers as best we can," Jace stated for the benefit of their company. "I will not traipse the exact number down there. We will need men to guard our backs. Alec and Cartwright, you will attend me," Jace was perfectly aware that young Jon Cartwright's was already much too riled up on his first taste of excitement and peril. Which was why Jace chose to keep him close, where he and Alec could keep the hottest head among them in check.

Blinking once, Jace again addressed the others, "Keep your eyes open and wits about you. Should things go...poorly" he selected the word with grim tact, "It is to your own discretion whether or not you wish to engage. You were asked to flank me, not fight with me. I will not expect you to engage when the odds are against you."

"They are poorly armed and badly trained" Jon Cartwright protested, "We could take them."

"Pray God we do not have to," Alec snapped, his voice stonier than he had intended, but milling here was unbearable now. He felt as impatient as Pilgrim. One way or another, he wanted this ended.

Jace nodded, then sharply turned his heels inwards to Wayfarer's side. The dappled horse lurched forward readily while Alec pressed forward alongside him assuming his position at Wayfarer's right. Cartwright took up the left.

As they closed the gap between themselves and Tiller, Jace suddenly began cussing colourfully under his breath. Alec glanced upward, alarmed, to find the trees ringing their meeting place surrounding by rebel men rustling in the bushes. Alec added his own curse; they were not only outnumbered, but they were also surrounded. Even Cartwright had paled at the realisation, and his fingers pressed tighter into the wood of the crossbow lying across the pommel.

"No panic," Jace growled, low and firm, "At least none they can read, you heed me?" The instruction was wholly for Jon's benefit, but nonetheless Alec voiced his own comprehension and assent. He could lead by example.

Once they had moved within hearing and shooting range, Jace stunned Alec with another order. "No further than here gentlemen." At his incredulous look Jace continued "I go closer alone. A gesture of goodwill that Tiller will have to replicate."

"They are commoners," Cartwright hissed, spitting the phrase with the same volume of disgust one might use when referring to leprosy, "It is not a case of their respecting honour or chivalry."

"There is a difference between living a simple life," Jace corrected sharply from the corner of his mouth, "and having a simple mind. I will speak to Tiller man to man. And you will do as you are bid, should you wish to get out of here alive."

That final demand was for Alec's benefit, and though every instinct barked in protest, he pulled Pilgrim to a halt. Alec's acquiescence forced Cartwright to follow suit.

Alone, Jace advanced his final few feet and waited for Tiller.

A long, tense ten heartbeats later, Tiller also closed the gap unaccompanied.

The two men stared at one another, like cats facing off on a barn roof.

"Master Tiller," Jace spoke first into the throbbing silence.

"Well met, Lord Herondale." Tiller's voice was low and his eyes wide as he came face to face with the man whose name he'd amassed an army with. Judging by the poorly concealed awe writ clearly across the weather-beaten face, Jace in the flesh did not disappoint.

Alec was watching close enough to see the bob of Jace's throat, "What can I do for you, Master Tiller?" Alec hadn't heard Jace practice the prepared speech but he suspected that the words his friend had just spoken so sincerely were not part of it.

"For me, sir?" It had caught the rebel off guard, "Not much there can be done for a poor farmer like myself. Home burnt, babe buried, wife starving. For her maybe you could do much. And for the hundreds like her." Slowly the reverence was paling from his dusty face. The more he spoke, the more Tiller gained momentum. "There is much you could do for yourself too, Lord."

Jace's knuckles whitened around the reins, on reflex. "We are not here to speak of me. We speak of the people of Idris. Of yourself mostly, for what you intend to do next is what interests me most."

"I will do what I have to. I have done what needed to be done, to make the King listen."

"I can assure you; he is listening." Jace made an inviting gesture with his left hand, his voice silky and placating.

"His council is corrupt. They are robbing the penniless. We can't live, Lord!" Tiller's voice spiked, and even knowing that one false move could damn them all, Alec wanted a blade in his hand.

"His Majesty is sympathetic to your plight. The Council less so. You are right to be angry. No one should have nothing," Jace's voice softened. His raw remorse and accommodating spirit were chipping away at Tiller's anger. These were not reckless words, though judging by the way Cartwright shook with apprehension they could be judged so. To the very last Jace would be horribly, commendably honest. He would not look into a man's face and lie to him, certainly not when he recognised the injustice Tiller fought.

"But this," Jace gestured to the men lying in wait, their ramshackle armour and weapons, "this is a doomed cause." He said it with pity. "You will lose more lives than you change. If you want a better future for your wife and your children, give them one. You disembowelled on a makeshift gallows will not give them that. You have made your statement. Now your voices will echo through history." Watching Jace work never failed to astound Alec. The rise and fall of his voice, the very tilt of his body, all steering the listener. Early into his diplomatic career that potential had been notice. Here was a man whose words could rile a king into starting a war, but equally lull him into ending one.

Jace shook his head, "Here is where your headway ends. You know it and I know it. The King knows it too, Tiller. He will have your men slaughtered if he must."

"With what men?" Tiller demanded venomously, but his voice shook. "The closest he has to an army are still days away."

Jace had once told Alec that the real art of being an ambassador, of being a courtier of any sort was never giving barefaced lies. The most frequently made and fatal mistake was filling a sovereign's ear with what lies you conjured up because you thought that was what he wanted to hear. The best lies were built on truth, and the best diplomacy was built therefore on warped truths. Emissions and exaggerations, if carefully employed, would sway a man.

"One well trained man is worth five amateurs. One good weapon worth ten poor ones. Sheer manpower does not win wars Tiller, believe me. Strategy brings victory, coupled with discipline and obedience. How many of these men do you command? Of those, how many simply follow your word because it suits them for the present? What do you suppose will happen should they get inside those gates? How many will continue to make for the Council once they find empty taverns and shops? I would wager your motely band of followers will fall apart the second they cross the city walls. How many of them have ever been inside a city Tiller? The novelty of the experience will quench any thirst they have for justice, as will stolen beer. It will be so easy for the city guard to pick up drunk, lost farmers. What started so promisingly will end in embarrassment and executions. So many executions."

He waswinning.Alec could not tear his eyes from Jace. Tiller was glowering, he spat over his horse's shoulder and pierced Jace with another penetrating stare, "Why then should I be loyal to the King that would have me put down like a rabid dog?" His pale eyes stood out starkly against the dirt of Tiller's face, now they narrowed at Jace. "Sounds to me as though you have seen war. You talk of how they're won. If I can't follow a king who would hang me, then I could follow one who feels my pain. I could follow you."

"Tiller, you do have my sympathies," Jace cut the sentiment off abruptly, his assurance somehow still heartfelt. "As do you have King Valentine's. Your issue is with his advisors, as you have said yourself, and it is those advisors who restrict His Majesty. Valentine strives to make amends. You wanted to be heard and he has heard you. I have heard your grievances, and I will see to it that many others hear all you have said here. Now go in peace. Leave this city intact, show your King that you respect his city, show the people of Alicante that you will not see them robbed and degraded. Do not have one more family suffer as you have. Your actions will speak volumes above your words. Show peace so that your children-" Jace shot a meaningful glance at the small boy who lingered feet away – "may know peace."

Tiller's grey eyes and Jace's gold slid back together, where they seared against each other. The two wills grated, loud enough that Alec wondered that he could not hear the scrape.

"I will intercede on your behalf should you do so." Sensing the dregs of hesitant doubt that still had a bearing on Tiller's conviction, Jace proceeded with his earnest, resolute promise, "I am Jonathan Herondale, by the grace of God, Duke of Broceland. I speak for the King in this, I will speak for you to the Council. If you agree to leave Alicante, to cease this now, then I swear on my honour I will see to it you are allowed to leave in peace."

Alec had not spent a great deal of time at the cards. His father's proclivities sufficing to deter him from dice or gambling of any sort, but he certainly would not have wanted to meet Tiller at the table. His features were coolly blank as he contemplated the vows and compromise laid before him, the vague dulling of fanatic optimism in his eyes were the only indicator that closely harboured hopes Jace might join their cause-or better still lead it- were being dashed.

Alec wondered if the farmer recognised the man who had fired on his townspeople to protect a Morgenstern princess. Likely not, for he would have said so. He was, like Jace, an honest man in his words. Tiller had not the verbal skill, nor the tact, to lead like Jace. His passion and undeniable drive had seen other men flock to him, but he was not a natural leader. Tiller was not even much of a soldier, what military strength he had lay with Highsmith. Had they not moved with the Devil's own speed and caught the royal court in such a vulnerable position, they would not have made it this far.

"You speak of the will of the people Lord Herondale, you say you would protect the people of Alicante. Our quarrel is not with them, I tell you. Though I admit that I can't with heart and soul swear myself loyal to a king who would idly watch his subjects starve." His voice tightened with anger toward the end of the declaration, and he ground his jaw.

Jace attempted to protest, "His Majesty has made for the Clave building as we speak. He will address men in the city who represent our counties. He is not idle."

"Nor are the people of the city." Tiller declared suddenly, the syllables fluctuating between grim purpose and faint triumph." They did not, as you lords seem to think, shrink from us. They haven't fallen atremble into the arms of the nobles to keep them safe. The people of Alicante flung their gates wide."

Jace stared for a long moment of numb silence, before colour drained altogether out of his already tired and pale features. "They are in the city," he breathed, horrified. Then he cleared his throat, a terrible, rasping sound as though he struggled to catch his breath. Alec merely tensed behind his friend, struggling to absorb fully what he was being told.

Jace spoke again, in the same low voice and with composure, but it was the glacial calm that Alec recognised his friend adopting in moments of crisis. "You mean to tell me that you have men within the walls?"

"They will be marching to the Gard, cheered on by their countrymen." Their adversary seemed to be gathering momentum again with each new word, perhaps an attempt to strengthen his own confidence. "They will speak with their King-"

"Their King is not at the Gard." Jace snapped stiffly, while Alec felt his body growing evermore rigid in the saddle. "Only his family."

His family. And those that serve them, Alec thought dazedly. His family.

Alec's sister was in the Gard. The cold veneer of shock that had coated Alec shattered with the realisation. Suddenly his heart began to quicken, beating more forcefully and frantically, blood starting to pound as a war drum in his ears. Isabelle was in danger, and he was miles away. Useless.

"Fair enough." Those two words fell hotly into the gentle morning summer breeze, the hatred causing Alec to flinch. "Valentine's family are as crooked as he is." Tiller spat further, no longer attempting to hide his disgust. "His children are no innocents. The Crown Prince is a monster who kills and tortures for sport. His sister can be no better, riches showered on her that she does not deserve. They will get what is coming to them, and those of you who stand in our way will too!"

As Tiller ranted on, all self-control tossed aside, Alec snatched at his reins, setting Pilgrim clattering his teeth at the bit. The only thing that stopped Alec from yanking the horse's head around and galloping back to the city was the fact that Jace had not moved an inch in front of him. Rationality was struggling to batter the walls of panic threatening to close in on Alec's mind. He was miles from Izzy. But he was close enough to be of some use to his friend, his brother. Alec had sworn he would stand beside Jace, so he would.

But Tiller was still shouting curses, eyes fever bright with hysteria rising. He brandished his arm to make some kind of accentuating gesture-

And there was the whistle of a small black missile passing in the corner of Alec's vision. He heard the thud.

Alec whipped his head around to find a stonily pale, Jon Cartwright shaking in his saddle, fingers still atremble on the crossbow trigger.

"sh*t," Jace barked out and Alec's gaze flew back this friend who was trying to push his horse forward again, to reach Tiller- "Keep-" he started in vain, an order he never finished.

What was he trying to say? 'Keep your wits?' 'Keep still?'

Alec's unspoken question answered itself as Tiller pitched forward, body deflating like a punctured sack of flour, falling from his horse to the ground.

He lay in the dust unmoving, a crossbow bolt sprouting from his neck.

Jace had been trying to say 'keep him on his horse'.

While Wayfarer pranced back from the fallen soldier, his rider's eyes were now once more on the narrow roadway between him and the hoard of angry peasants who had just seen their leader murdered. They were grappling for their weapons. The cacophony failed to drown out the thin, cat-like wail of the child who scurried forward to the motionless body on the dusty did not get very far. He was snatched backwards by another of Tiller's companions, who was hollering the atrocity loud enough to banish any doubts remaining as to what had just occurred.

"They shot him! Ambush! Deceit! The bastards called a truce and shot Tiller!"

Alec wanted to wring Cartwright's stupid neck, but there was no time.

The snap of branches and swoosh of movement in the shrubbery surrounding the fallen rebel indicated Tiller's army had come alive. Jace swore again, whipping a glance other his shoulder to where their own party were beginning to slowly retreat while their enemy mobilised.

Judging by the howls for vengeance and the fury flashing off unsheathed blades, the small army at Tiller's back was set to charge. None of the royal representatives had much longer to live.

-0000000000000-

A piercing scream shot through the tower, and Clary's feet froze on the edge of a step.

The blue hem of her gown swished back and forth over the stair, a sail caught in the wind stirred by her stormed ascent. The Princess halted for a breath, before continuing her climb with tenfold speed.

She did not keep a house of rowdy ladies. They were a sedate lot. Her companions tended to enjoy a day of quiet prayer or music. Dancing was rare and silly games rarer still, even when they were a merry court. Given the court climate, Clary knew that this was no tomfoolery she heard.

The hammer of running feet, a door banging on its hinges and the unmistakeable grate of raised, masculine voices brought Clary to the doors to her main presence chamber.

They were flung open and the usual guard or herald was nowhere in sight. Her harsh breaths grazed her throat. Clary toyed with the possibility of awaiting Izzy and Aline's return with help, but discarded the notion at another shriek from within.

Clary rushed onward, fingertips skidding across the wooden grooves of the regal doors depicting the wisdom and fortitude of Queen Esther as she attempted to steady herself.

With her father's absence at the palace, Clary had not been at all disconcerted by the empty halls. Now she realised that the bulk of royal manpower was either in attendance on the King or upon the Gard walls. Leaving no one to guard the interior. Now, not only had Clary's rooms been left vulnerable, they'd been invaded.

And now a rebel host was waiting for her.

-000000000000000-

Chapter 15: Actions and Words

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Actions and Words

Eyes wide as the pewter plates she now ate her meals on, Clary surveyed the wreckage before her. From where she stood by the doorframe, she could see a strange man clad in coarse wool and stained brown leather tottering around her inner chambers. He was taking large, swooping swigs from an incongruously bejewelled goblet.

The noises of distress she'd heard had come from a horrified Helen Blackthorn. Another simply dressed man had taken firm hold of her. His dirty, bruised hands stood out garishly against the finely styled spring green satin of the Duke of Lyn's eldest daughter. She tried to push the vagrant away. Helen was doing a rather admirable job of keeping him at arms-length, aided by his intoxication. Helen gave a well-aimed shove and he toppled with inebriated inevitability down to the floor. Where he rolled and cursed, his limbs tangling in the fruits of his plunder, a blue, fur trimmed cape. Hercape.

At the jolting indignation of that observation, Clary forced her eyes to scan the rest of the rooms around her. The chairs were upturned, a vase of summer water lilies smashed upon the floor- what had once been their sustenance now forming a shallow, watery grave. Chests had been opened thoughtlessly. The handful of men flitting about the Princess's tower like greedy hornets had even laid hands on her candlesticks. One of them dared haul a costly tapestry off the wall and started to flounder and flail under it as it came down.

Clary swallowed the lump of panicked disgust in her throat as she realised her very bedchamber was now open to scrutiny. Another two tipsily giddy intruders, younger than the others -one of them could not have been more than fourteen- were wrestling her bedsheets between them in a vile tug of war. Maia was bolting about the rooms and trying to salvage what she could, her arms already clinging to Clary's engraved box of jewels. Her youngest maids were weeping where they cowered in the corners.

Clary forced her cramped, anxious hands to loosen on the door handle and stepped into the room, not that anyone had noticed. She advanced inwards, counting five or six intruders in all. She made it no further before her limbs were seized in a wretched trembling, and her heart sped unforgivably. These were the rabble of enraged faces that had haunted her nightmares. It was their sneering hatred that had almost killed her before. This time there would be no Jace to save her.

Where in hell was Jonathan? The men who were charged with the protection of her life? Every scraping laugh, every rip of rich cloth seemed magnified in the closeted space. A sixth vagrant appeared from the doorway to her inner rooms, sweeping the door open with an unholy bang.

Dear God, nothing was sacred. Her beautiful burgundy bed-curtains had been torn down and were now piled in the arms of a man who could well be a sheep farmer. Clary's very undergarments were strewn carelessly across the floor.

A small, black velvet purse in which Clary had kept a few coins her father had given her was being held upward in a ruddy triumphant fist. The gold and silver within jingled traitorously.

A chorus of coarse cheers sounded at the discovery. Astonishingly it was sweet, loyal Rebecca who started to curse in protest, "You villain! Unhand that you devilish-" She made to lunge for it, the man caught her arm and twisted. Becky yelped, and her assailant laughed in her face. "Now now, my pretty one! Let me show you that better sport can be had from that dirty mouth." He grinned and his company goaded him on with raucous, ribald laughter.

Rebecca tried again to jerk backwards out of reach, but the stale, drunken mouth had already swooped down toward hers.

The sight of her maid quailing finally blasted bolts of heated feeling through Clary's shaking body.

"Enough!" The command sprang from her, loud and outraged, "What, in the name of God and all the saints do you suppose you are doing?"

All movement stopped.

The man who'd been trained on Rebecca swivelled his attention to Clary. Rebecca tore herself free and fled to behind Clary.

Clary held herself still, chin high even as her heart climbed to her mouth. The man who'd tried to kiss Rebecca advanced on her. He sneered at her through wine-stained lips. "Something the matter, sweeting?"

Clary managed to shoot out a retort, "The matter would be your presence in my chambers!" Belatedly she considered if admitted if claiming possession was a grave error.

It certainly seemed to awaken a gruesome, threatening delight in her foe's face. "Princess!" He cried with crass celebration, "At last, the Morgenstern welcome we deserve."

Now he was close enough for her to smell his alcohol sullied breath, close enough to see the broken veins and ruddy colours to his cheeks.

Clary dared not unlatch her eyes from the man before her. She could hear the shallow, frightened breaths of her ladies and maids, alongside the anticipatory huffs of the rebels.

"What are you doing here?" Clary demanded again, letting her anger level her tone instead of raising it. She had first-hand experience of the effectiveness of her mother's cold, quiet wrath, so she tried mimicking it now.

He leaned closer still Clary could feel the slow burn of bile creeping up her throat.

"I've come for some damn justice" his spittle showered her face. But if there was one thing Clary had learned since leaving the convent in Broceland forest it was that pretence was the bread and butter of any courtier. Master false confidence and you could accomplish just about anything here.

She made her eyes flit around the chamber with an air of unimpressed cynicism, "And you thought to find it amongst my undergarments?" She punctuated the scathing enquiry with a sole raised brow.

The man before her reddened further, now from real anger. "We are a force to be reckoned with! The bringers of justice! And with the Duke at our head-"

"The Duke?" Helen interrupted with harsh anxiety. Naturally, in her mind there was only one duke, her father.

"The Duke of Broceland," the rebel crowed, something close to smile splitting his glowering expression.

Clary ignored that, his haughtiness just as intolerable as his rifling through her most personal belongings, "The bringers of justice?" She scoffed, holding her back straight. Though the half inch the raised chin added to her height did not bring her even close to her opponent's level, nor make her intimidating, the movement did make her a tad braver. "You wage war on women and a wardrobe? How grateful the common folk of Idris must be."

There came a yelp of steel, and the next Clary knew there was nipping sensation at her throat. Confusion mingling with surprise, she attempted to look down, only to feel the cold bite of metal in earnest and the answering heat of her own blood starting to slide down her neck. She jerked her head upwards and back from the dagger pressed to her throat, her stunned eyes consequently skidding back to her assailant.

Mayhap he had not intended to really harm her, for he had eased up the pressure on the knife. But he'd kept it against her vulnerable flesh. At the sight of her new danger one of her women screamed. Even drawing a sword in the Princess's presence was death, the act of drawing her blood was beyond unthinkable.

Astonishingly, the first person to vocally protest was another of the rebels. "Christ!" he cried into the gasping quiet, "She's near a child! And a mousy little thing, you dolt." At any other time that would have been insulting, Clary's apparent maturity and assessed appearance was the very last of her objections here.

"The mouse squeaks too much" Clary's assailant snarled, unrelenting. "I'll keep her quiet until the Duke gets here."

Clary's blood was pounding in her ears louder than ever, as though it was aware some had been spilled. The slow ebb of it from her wound sluggishly trailed down her stiff neck and began to seep into the lace chemise peeping above the neckline of her bodice.

Helen asked the question Clary wanted answered, "What do you mean by that?"

The more rational of the intruders present, the one who had reprimanded the dagger, replied. "We came through the gates at dawn. By now Tiller and the Duke ought to have come to an agreement. They will come through into the city together in the second wave and take Alicante."

He sounded as though he believed it. Good God. There were more of them to come.

The muscles in Clary's neck continued to ache with the effort of holding herself still, "Clearly you do not know the Duke of Broceland very well. His purpose today is to act as the King's representative. I can assure you that it is to our interests he works today, not yours. The last thing he will do is take your part. He is one of us."

"Shut up."

He reminded Clary of the tempestuous tantrums Jonathan used to have as a child, all stamping feet and shrieking. A sullen child being told something he did not want to hear. The sight stoked her courage.

Once she had been afraid. But this was not Oldcastle, and she was not the scared little girl she had been three months ago.

Not so long ago the man she loved had pushed a legend into her hands. He'd told her she would be comparable to some of the greatest queens in the world, her cherished heroines from the histories. Clarissa Morgenstern refused to recoil from the sting of battered steel and stared down the man holding it.

This was her house. Her family's keep. No one could stride in here and make her feel small.

The knife dug into her again, and Clary could feel her quickened pulse at the edges of the blade, trying to push the peril away. "Go ahead" she snapped out, feeling the challenge as ferociously as she said it. "By all means, cut my throat. See how susceptible your Duke is to your justice then. See how eager he will be to fight for you. He shared my toys as a child. He has shared my table and kept my secrets as an adult. If he learned you had harmed me, he would destroy you. Return every mark on me tenfold."

Jace did not belong to these thugs. He was hers. The zeal in her assailant's expression dimmed and Clary welcomed the success with a wide smile. Not the dainty, sweet smile she painted on when speaking to her father or the court, oh no, this was a wide, savage grin. "You are divine retribution incarnate, so please. Seize an empty castle and murder a seventeen-year-old girl, after you have pilfered the price of a new pie from her petticoats. How joyously your children will remember you then." She let her voice drop again, "For that is all you will give them to remember. Your failures. It will be a race between my father and the Duke of Broceland to kill you. Have you not tasted enough of His Majesty's vengeance?"

She knew by this ruffian's accent he had to be from Broceland, that and the reverence with which he spoke of the Herondale duchy. Even should he not be from Oldcastle itself, he had to be from nearby. Clary would not waste her possibly numbered breaths on empty blows. She knew she had struck a tender spot by the loosening grip on the dagger hilt. The two of them kept staring at one another wordlessly, until Clary's fearful impatience flickered once more, "Unhand me, you braggart!"

Flinching away from her rough demand, he stepped backward and shoved his blood-speckled knife back into his belt. The removal of the dagger's press sent another course of hot blood from her nicked skin. Clary, normally so squeamish, felt her right-hand drift upwards. When she peeled her fingers away from the cut, they were stained dark red. Clary found herself recalling summers at the convent, when she had spent her free evenings picking blackberries for the nuns.

The shaking starting to return. Clary grasped at what remained of her composure. She raised her bloodied fingers and spoke slowly, loudly, and frostily in her reprimand; "No man is permitted to lay a hand on a Princess of the blood without her express permission. Yet..." she moved her fingers slightly in theatrical disbelief, "I am bleeding." She paused for effect, finding in a perverse way that she was enjoying the sight of these brawny men starting to quail before her. They were puffed up on a sense of righteousness and too much to drink, but the group had broken in here expecting no resistance from a crowd of hysterical women and thought her belongings being easy pickings. They were here because they wanted to avoid the conflict and the main action. But they had made a catastrophic mistake in injuring Clary, however slightly. It was not justice any longer, it was treason of the highest order.

"Now. I'd say you have less than an hour before His Majesty returns here with a host of highly trained soldiers. I do not expect him to be pleased that his palace has been invaded. There is the army loyal to the King less than a day from the capital. They shall gladly rout you all from wherever it is you think you can hide in Alicante."

She took a step forward and the closest men stumbled back from her. Clary must look eerie, her already pale skin bleached with the shock and strain of the encounter and a thin rivulet of blood slowly leaking down the arch of her neck. Still Clary kept speaking with her now mastered light, cheery threats, "Were I you, I would want to make it out of here as quickly as possible. I would hasten from this city while I still could, and hope that I outrun the King's wrath. Unless you all have a burning desire to be hung, drawn and quartered, that is." The graphic, barbaric truth of the penalty for treason was the final shove needed to propel them toward the exit. Little coins were still falling free of stolen garments and crammed pockets, thudding noisily onto the floorboards. They rolled back toward their mistress.

"Oh!" Clary said drily, as if it had just occurred to her, "And I should not imagine that I would want to be caught bearing anything that might connect me to the Princess's person, once the hunt for the man who wounded me begins."

It might have been funny had she not been dreadfully lightheaded, the manner in which they flung all their loot from themselves as if it had just caught fire.

Their whole campaign struck Clary as tragically farcical, once she beheld this unfortunate band of moral clowns speeding back onto the streets.

She almost pitied them.

-000000000000000-

This new flash flood of alarm in the pit of Alec's stomach did not manifest itself immediately into action. He was frozen in shock and dread, watching the grotesque tableau of their demise unfold. The heron flag being slapped repeatedly by the rising wind seemed to mock him.

Perhaps the Church was correct; he was a monstrous sinner. Why else would God curse him with the fate of dying under the banner that had rallied their enemies in the first place?

"Alec, I need you to stay here. For the love of God, for whatever love you bear for me as your brother, I need you to not move. Not a single inch, unless you wish to guarantee I die." The words were brisk, each syllable sharp with purpose.

Before Alec's lips dared even start to shape a protest or question- whichever might come first- Jace dug his heels into Wayfarer's sides.

At least one lesson had been learnt in the past few minutes, the only move Alec did dare make was to fling his weight to his stirrups as he stood upright in the saddle and made a forward lunge for the bridle of Cartwright's mount. His fingers curled urgently around the leather straps, and although it wasn't graceful or heroic, Alec succeeded in stalling Jon's attempt to charge after Jace.

Having averted at least one more disaster, Alec allowed his head to snap back in Jace's direction.

His friend was cantering, alone, toward the assembled rebels.

Fearlessness personified, he looked as though he belonged in a painting. A one man cavalry charge, his voice booming out not a challenge but a command, a rallying cry.

"Hold!"

A shaft of sunlight turned Jace's armour a blistering silver and illuminated gold curls. They shone brighter than any crown.

Not one arrow was launched, not a single soldier charged. Where there had once been bays for blood now was silence. Like Alec, every man was holding his breath. Waiting, waiting for Jace's next move, his next word. Jace drew up his warhorse just before the first of the enemy lines, still bellowing that sole command:

"Hold!"

Remarkably, miraculously, they obeyed.

They were enemies no longer, Alec realised, shaking his head with dizzied disbelief. His friend was riding up and down the rebel frontline, still calling out orders and a promise. He was their leader now.

Riding down that road without so much as a drawn sword he had put his fate in their hands. Now they would put theirs in his.

The spell was finally broken by the scramble of King's men behind them and their disjointed, confused rumbling. "We need fall back, make for the Gard." Cartwright spluttered out hoarsely.

"Or engage. Attack while they're distracted" an older, scarred city watchmen suggested in a growl, alerting Alec to the fact that much of their own following had drawn level with him. "You heard the Duke of Broceland" he snapped out, swiping his eyes over the uncertain expressions, his low urgent voice making him sound older than he felt.

"But- he is with them now." Cartwright pointed out, face flushed and more beads of sweat popping up on his forehead.

"If he were with them" Alec began, in a low and intense voice which made him sound much older than he was, "Do you imagine we would still be alive? They would already have attacked and killed us." The tussle for dominance ended as quickly as it had begun, Jon's head dropping in a submissive concession.

"We hold" Alec repeated, loud enough that all the assembled royalists awaiting orders might hear. His voice sounded a weak imitation of Jace's unyielding, daring authority, but for his friend's sake, for all their sakes, Alec persisted: "We hold."

-0000000000000000-

Ultimately there was a thin line between the pragmatism of self-preservation and cowardice, no one could argue with that.

Jonathan Morgenstern chose to believe that his actions veered more on the side of the former than the latter. After all, upon hearing that some of the useless, pox-ridden commoners that lived and worked in the Gard had opted to admit some of the rampaging peasant force of peasants into the fortress, he failed to see his strategic retreat as anything other than the wisest course of action. Engaging them would not have been admirable, it would have been suicide.

As it were, he was far from alone in his preference to continue living rather than dying stupidly. How could the Crown Prince be expected to make a stand when none of his own men were inclined to? Besides, there was no honour in ambushing a man in his own home, so there was no reason to reciprocate with some gesture of idiotic chivalry.

Jonathan opted to retreat to the small barracks within the Gard's walls with the group of men who clustered around him. He did not particularly care if that order had been met by a look of disbelieving disappointment from the man who had brought the word that they had been breached. His primary concern had been getting himself out of the open and finding as many men as he could who were prepared to make a stand where they were strongest.

It was not as though he'd been lounging in luxury while the world went to hell, for the barracks had been one of the vilest places he had ever been in his life. It had stank of unwashed bodies, unemptied chamber pots and bad wine.

Still, word that the King had returned and had sent for him did not come as a relief.

His Majesty had returned from his meeting downriver, to discover his supposedly impregnable fortress had been breached by a mob of drunk farmers. If Valentine had been angry before, he had now crossed the line into an unrestrained rage. The sound of his roared reprimands could be heard echoing down the hallways even levels below his rooms. Hence Jonathan's incessant mental repetition of his defensive arguments.

Approaching the King's quarters his son found himself throwing most of his weight forward into his toes, as though he were a child once more, attempting to tiptoe past the doors.

"The Crown Prince" the herald preceding Jonathan mumbled warily before making his own hasty escape. Fastening his clasped hands behind his back and fixing an innocently blank expression upon his face, Jonathan marched into the room with solemn purpose. A good soldier reporting for duty.

"Your Majesty," the formality slid from his mouth softly. There was no need to stoke the already blazing temper by trumpeting his presence. Jonathan held himself in a low bow for as long as he could, only daring to glance up questioningly when no snapped order to rise was forthcoming. The bunched muscles in his back where beginning to whine in discomfort.

Valentine was striding back and forth, either oblivious to or actively ignoring his eldest child. He continued to verbally flog the captain of the guard to within an inch of his life. Valentine's younger child was sat before the empty fire grate, her green eyes on Jonathan; sharp with the accusation that Valentine had yet to voice.

Clary looked even paler than usual. She capitalised on their father's preoccupation to express the unveiled hatred she levelled at him now. Jonathan shifted an involuntary step backward. He caught himself. The girl was just that- a girl. He had absolutely nothing to fear from her.

Oh but you dothat acidic little voice in his head hissed once again. Every day these little doubts and fear corroded a little more of his confidence, his peace of mind. It had been months since Jonathan had first recognised Clary for the threat she was to his inheritance, yet despite all his schemes and one gruelling ride to and from France, he was no more secure than he had been. Yes, he had weeded out her union with the Dauphin, but that was merely a stay of execution. He could not dispose of every suitor in Europe. Sooner or later Clary would have a powerful husband at her side and an army to buffer her own claim to Idris's throne if need be.

In fact, for all Jonathan had done and risked, his position was worse than it had been when she had first arrived at court in the spring. Now the realm had a Herondale duke once again. Yet another alternative heir to the throne. Valentine could not acknowledge the legitimacy of Herondale's title without acknowledging his claim.

With effort, Jonathan looked away from his sister's unspoken promise of vengeance and drew the frantic cogs of his working mind to a halt. Valentine had not acknowledged anyone. For all he knew, Herondale had got the sword in the gut he deserved today at long last. Jace was not anything yet.

Nor for that matter was Clary. There was a long, unpredictable road between the scratched signature on a betrothal contract and the murmured vows at the wedding altar. Anything could happen. Surely his little sister had used up her supply of good luck, having escaped both Oldcastle and now this unscathed in any way that counted.

As Valentine barked a permanent dismissal at the solider before him, who scuttled away having all but soiled his breeches in his distress. Jonathan felt the edge of a smirk teasing the corners of his lips at the observation and the anticipation that one day men who had seen multiple wars would cower before him just like that.

However, now of all times, he had the rare phenomenon of his father's undivided attention. "I would ask where in hell you have been, Jonathan, but sadly I already know the answer to that." The great doors behind him shuddered shut while Valentine closed the gap between himself and his only son, "You seem to have grown a tad too fond of making yourself scarce of late."

Jonathan swallowed back whatever pathetic remark he had been about to make as his eyes flickered away from Valentine's at the derisive attack. He realised that the three of them were now unattended, more alone than they had ever been together. The closest they had come before were family meals in private with the King, during which fine food was consumed and nothing of any consequence was discussed. Now there were not even any hovering servants with jugs of wine whose presence might dissuade the King from unleashing the extent of his sickened disdain for his son. There was only Clary, who watched this all stiff-backed in her chair and likely with hunger rather than distaste.

Worse, now Valentine was not inclined to bother with his royal pronouns anymore Jonathan knew that this was personal. Father to son. Since he'd been a boy, Valentine only divested of his royal persona between them on the occasions of Jonathan's misdemeanours or shortcomings. Then, Jonathan was no longer the Crown Prince of Idris, but merely a boy who had behaved inappropriately. There was no formality for discipline. And while Jonathan was no longer a child that could be pulled over the King's knee and punished with the rod or belt, there were still a great many, much worse things that Valentine could do to him.

"I did naught wrong, Sire." He hazarded a sideways look into his father's eyes with the opening of his vindication.

He was viciously interrupted, "Preciously Jonathan: you didnothing!"

The vehemence with which Valentine hurled his disgusted accusation at his son chilled Jonathan's insides and sent his gaze hurtling back to the floor. "While your sister and her women were left defenceless. The enemy were in the heart of our home and you did nothing to stop them. You made no effort to devise a strategy. Oh no, you cowered and waited until I came back to clean up your mess. I left you here to protect Clarissa, to guard the very centre of our city, our seat of power: and you failed on every count. You beg for the opportunity to prove yourself and for more power, yet when I leave you with the most basic of tasks, to do the very least I would expect from a servant of mine, you disappoint." Each lashing of Valentine's tongue was as potently painful as a whip's, yet the King was not close to done- "Do you know what finally chased the bulk of those scoundrels out our doors? Your sister. She seems to have been the only one with a scrap of courage. She chased them out; my men needed only to round up the remainder of the drunken rabble while they raided the kitchens. "

Jonathan threw a glance toward Clary, taking stock of the way her left hand was gripping the armrest of the chair and her right pressing a blood trimmed kerchief to the side of her throat. She had changed her gown from that morning too, now she was clad in a green which only made her skin seem greyer and the trusty yellow kirtle and hood which normally suited her so well. The arch of the gold over her head made her look like she was crowned with a halo, as the saints painted and hung in the chapels were. How appropriate. Saint Clary.

The continuing torrent of rebukes snapped Jonathan's awareness back to Valentine, "Meanwhile you- you maliciously blockheaded, craven fool- choose to conduct yourself in a way that makes me wonder if you are my son at all?"

He may as well have kicked Jonathan in the stomach. The jibe knocked the breath out of his lungs and made the edges of everything in his vision blur, as though someone had doused his eyes in water. Then Jonathan blinked and it all cleared, though the sting in his veins remained.

The shrill little intake of breath to his left sent another glance in his sister's direction before he could stop it. He had been expecting utter jubilation and triumph, or even dark satisfaction since she could not openly celebrate the opportune repercussions that statement might have for her. What Jonathan found in his sister's face was even more harmful. She was looking up at him with damp eyed pity, their eyes meeting, for once not to taunt or challenge one another, but for a brief second of understanding unity.

"Your Majesty." Clary began to intercede, quietly but determinedly, her voice causing Valentine to break off his next, undoubtedly more destructive round of ranting.

Whatever dreadful chastisem*nt he was to inflict upon his son had yet to be revealed, and the miracle of the Morgenstern siblings' new accord was eclipsed by the announced arrival of the Duke of Broceland.

Whatever hope, whatever concord Jonathan and Clary had been turned toward was shattered instantaneously.

No, Jonathan could not be grateful to her, he could not be thankful for anything in that moment. The doors opened at Valentine's enthusiastic gesture to admit a dusty, grim Jace Herondale.

Clary had been making to rise with her protest, now she fell back to her seat. Jonathan could imagine how her silly little heart started to patter now she saw her love alive and well. His own heart had sunk to find his nemesis falling to a breathless bow, still half-stunned and with a minor scratch on the right cheek. Otherwise, miraculously untouched. How in the name of God these two did it was beyond Jonathan. It was as though they were invincible. Some angels or devil truly smiled on them.

The only grace of the situation was that the King's berating of his son seemed utterly forgotten. Not only was Jace Herondale the apple of Valentine's eye, but he was the only one in his eyes. A moment ago, Jonathan would have thought nothing more painful than his father's words of disownment. Now he realised that watching the glittering praise in Valentine's black eyes as he beheld Jace was much more vexing.

Jonathan had always felt growing up that Valentine wished that his own blood could have a character more like that of the traitor's spawn. A situation that had baffled Jonathan as much as it disturbed him. The Herondale brat had been gifted endless books and toys, then with the same access to scholars and tutors as any true-blooded prince. His childhood had mirrored Jonathan's exactly; down to the same birthday presents. Frustrating as it had been for a lesser born boy to be given the same trappings as the future king, to witness how Valentine softened when he spoke to Jace close to unbearable.

That was not the only reason he and Jonathan had not been friends. Jace was hatefully adept at all he turned his hand to; languages, sports, even mastering several musical instruments and receiving training for the high, clear singing voice that was sweet where Jonathan's attempts were sour. That might have been overlooked, but any possibility of harmony betwixt the duo in any aspect of their childish lives was destroyed by Jace's own stubbornness. The two would never like one another, that was obvious, but despite Valentine's beatings and their governess's cajoling, as they got older it grew apparent that the boys could not tolerate one another. At least golden boy's many talents made him easy pickings for the bigger group of boys who orbited the Prince. But where others knew to lie down and take whatever goading or violence the young heir saw fit to inflict, Jace had always fought back. Clearly that insufferable attitude had not paled any with the arrival of adulthood.

"I understand I owe you a great deal of thanks, Jonathan." The Crown Prince had begun to suspect that Valentine only persisted with using their name to irk his own son. Nothing Valentine had to give could be solely his. "As does this city."

"They breached the city." Jace pointed out, which was the exact kind of useless observation that Jonathan expected from him.

"They are being chased from Alicante as we speak. A few burning townhouses and looted shops will be left in their wake, but the damage was not all it might have been." Valentine corrected, backing to a nearby seat and settling himself there. He propped his chin up on his hand and to Jonathan's horror chuckled softly to himself. "Their leader is dead and with him their desire for conflict. You did spectacularly today, Jonathan. Spectacularly." The King repeated himself, packing yet more approval into the phrase.

The contrast with the flaying Jonathan had received made his chest feel as though there was a great weight laying upon it. It squashed his breaths and sent a disconcerting prickling to the backs of his eyes.

Valentine's praise went on, "You salvaged the situation by your show of tremendous courage. Had you not prevented that army from charging the city would be in greater uproar. And a force far more formidable than some petty jewel thieves might have entered the Gard. Men who would not have been so easily hounded out." The King looked to Clary as he reached the end of his appraisal, but unsurprisingly his daughter's eyes were pasted to Jace Herondale, and had been during the entirety of her father's speech.

A speech which to Jonathan's ears sounded too full of "might haves" to warrant the praise that saturated it. Jace must have heard the littering conditionals too, for he was fidgeting slightly before His Majesty, something that Valentine would rage at anyone else for.

Valentine was ignoring that however, turning now to Jonathan once more "You see, my son? It is as I told you, one man can be worth ten if he be the right man." The tart dryness was not lost upon Jace, who glanced at the Prince curiously as Valentine continued, "And this one is certainly worth ten. Which is why he will henceforth have a permanent seat on my Council, as is the right of the Duke of Broceland."

Sweet Jesus Christ. Jonathan stared at his father, unabashedly appalled. Broken vows were like broken eggshells to his father. Jonathan knew that well, having both experienced and inherited his strategic dishonesty. When Valentine had offered the duchy to Herondale his son had not batted an eye. Why should he, when Jonathan would have done the same if he were King- said whatever he had to so the chips fell in his favour. Valentine had said the only thing he could to inspire Jace to face Tiller. He was not supposed to have meant it.

But Valentine was still smiling, as though he were about to end a long race victoriously. Jace was bowing again and murmuring with relief a humble, "As Your Majesty wills it."

Jonathan found himself inspecting the small patch of exposed skin between the back of Jace's collar and the bottom of his hair. He wished he were the axeman surveying that final bump of his spine to mark his target.

Clary, meanwhile, was all but vibrating with desperation to speak to or touch the new duke. The King still prattled on about arrangements for Jace's new apartments and imminent investiture, but from the corner of his eye Valentine watched her, watching him. Clary was staring with poorly stifled hunger and disbelief, a starving woman before a feast. Her hands had fallen to her lap now and so her own war wound was on full display.

Jace's eyes widened as they fell upon the clotted cut and he blurted out, "You are hurt!"

It seemed the events of the day had shaken him more than had been immediately apparent. For a man who had just become a duke, Jace seemed to have forgotten the court etiquette he had once thrived upon.

And Valentine was remarkably forgiving of it, pretending instead that no one at all had spoken as he barked some orders at a beckoned squire.

The shift in attention left Jonathan in a position almost as awkward as he had been while his father had torn him to shreds. He was unable to escape, as no one left the King's presence without a dismissal. Instead, he was frozen in place and subjected to the exchange taking place right in his ear.

He determinedly turned his cheek as Clary's eyes started to glaze over in a way that warned of tears just held at bay. "It is nothing. Naught compared to what you inflicted." Her voice wobbled.

"I can but offer my plea for forgiveness. And beg for a chance to demonstrate my remorse."

"Granted," she replied equally breathlessly, barely a moment later. Apparently, she could only hold grudges against her brother.

Jonathan opened his mouth, to protest at the sickening adoration the two were staring upon each other with or perhaps just to be sick. But Valentine interrupted them with a soft suggestion that Clary retire for the day.

Then he gazed pointedly at the two young men still before him, side by side but with a distinct gap between their shoulders. Whatever line of discussion was to he travelled down next was not for a lady's hearing.

Valentine turned away from them once again, to issue a summons for the Council to meet. It gave the exiting Clary the chance to touch Jace on the upper arm, squeezing as she brushed past. She even strained upwards so she might move her lips in a brief stream of words Jonathan could not hear right by her beau's ear.

After her departure, the King had Jace expand on how he had halted the rebel charge and offered his own services as their ambassador to the King. At this, Jonathan could not resist a snicker- for it implied his foe had come so far and yet nowhere at all.

Yet here they were. A bloodless, peaceful victory. The only condition being that the rebels disband immediately and depart from Alicante, on Jace's word that they would not be pursued. Peace for peace. It would seem Jace Herondale had gained the trust of a great many people today.

Had Jonathan been King, he might have had the stupid bastard flogged for his insolence in straying from the path of orders the Council had laid down for him, and for having the audacity to presume he could speak for both the whole of Idris and its King. But their own army was not as strong in terms of men and arms as they had hoped- were the most recent, alarming reports to be believed- and still a good two day's ride away at best.

Valentine was content to acknowledge a disaster averted. All that had to be addressed now was limiting the damage caused by those still inside the city walls.

Just as the lords of the Council were filing into the chamber meekly, Jonathan felt a feathery touch upon his shoulder and turned to find that he and his old ally the cardinal were the only two lingering at the doorway. At this point in the day which had arisen as one of the worst in Jonathan's life, he could not even be bothered to vent his irritation at the interrogations Enoch had botched.

However, that was not what the clergyman wished to speak of. "My Lord, I feel duty bound to comment on how you were outdone."

Cheek twitching with the falling of yet another verbal slap, Jonathan bit off the end of the sentiment before the Cardinal could complete it; "You know of all the courtiers my father tolerates, I used to find you the one least prone to inanely echoing all he said. I daresay there is not much you can have to add, Your Eminence. The King has already emphasised that I was gloriously outshone by that bland slip of a girl today."

"Oh Highness," the corners of Enoch's bottom lip slumped with faux sympathy while he embellished his silkily scathing remark, "That is the very least of your concerns." He blinked up at Jonathan bluntly and gently shook his head, "You are not the one who seemed a prince today."

He swept away to re-join His Majesty then, swiping a hand over Jonathan's shoulder as he passed, either to console or caution further the Prince knew not. But the touch combined with his final comment sent blazes of painful anger through Jonathan once more. He ground at his teeth in frustration.

True, it did not bode well for Enoch that Jace was so firmly in Valentine's favour, since he had most certainly made an enemy of the new Duke. This would be something the Prince could chew on in private. It might strengthen his alliance with the Church for now, but this court was ever changing. No one stayed in Valentine's good graces forever. What bothered Jonathan most was still the image of his sister's blushing cheeks and dainty smile as she leaned in to whisper whatever secret she had to share with Herondale.

Today had made Clary bold, in the way only dancing so close to death and triumphing could.

Separately they were keeping him awake at night, and now when Jonathan pressed his eyes shut, he had a new, freshly revolting vision. Together...

Jonathan wanted to grasp his sister's shoulders and then shake her with sufficient vigour to rattle some sense into her. Anything to make her see that while she may be looking upon Jace through some hazy heartsickness, his sight was assuredly much clearer. Jace Herondale would not be content with being third in line for very long. No, he would soon be reaching out with a lover's caress for second.

He only had to deflower Jonathan's foppish chit of a sister to back Valentine into a corner. If she were no longer a virgin, then Clary would no longer be of any worth at all in the marriage market. No Prince or Lord would want an impure woman for a bride. Jonathan wondered if he ought to just sit back and let it happen, since it was entirely possible that once she'd whor*d herself out, the King may banish Clary back to a convent and remove Jace's head.

But if Valentine would elevate Jace to a dukedom, then where might he stop? If Clary let Herondale in her bed now, would their father insist Jace put a ring on her finger and stay there?

The first of many questions Jonathan had to answer for himself was whether or not he was prepared to risk it.

-0000000000000-

Evening took its time in coming. Despite the many things that had occurred during the morning, they already felt like it had been years ago rather than hours. Once her ruffled but rapidly recovering ladies had been reassembled in her chambers, Clary had them set about repairing the damage as best she could.

It was not over yet, whatever her servants were determined to tell her. Somewhere in the city the remainder of the offensive rebel forces (such as they were) lingered. Their assembled army beyond had yet to fully disintegrate. Even from behind the restored safety of the Gard's mighty walls, Clary could see the dancing red lights of burning townhouses. She'd heard that priceless heirlooms of many of Idris's great families were currently scattered in the river.

But she believed Jace when he said that they would disband. That he was taking his role as their chosen champion seriously was obvious. It would still take days for the dust of the whole disturbance to settle. Once it had, Clary had the feeling that the world revealed would not be the same as it had been. That was not necessarily a bad thing.

Much as it almost physically pained her, Clary told herself that after the weeks of turmoil she had spent without Jace, she could survive another few hours. It still took an immense amount of self-control to stop herself staring out the window every five minutes as the sun simmered from white to red and sluggishly slipped toward the horizon.

Thankfully, the upheaval supplied Clary with the perfect excuse to disappear early to her mended quarters.

After bidding herself lie still for what might be deemed a reasonable time, she nudged Isabelle beside her, who was starting to doze off. Clary's cold, bare toes soon remedied that.

"What?" Izzy mumbled, trying to thrash her off huffily.

"Get up and dressed," Clary hissed.

"What for?" A pause. "Clary, I swear to God, if you are about to say Mass!"

The Princess fumbled about in the violet darkness for a candle and flint. She paused only to thump her friend's shoulder as she tried to turn over and huddle back under the blankets, "Isabelle!"

The other girl whined like a scolded hound, "The danger has passed! You can thank the Virgin Mary in the morning!"

Clary was grateful for the darkness she had not yet lifted and her friend's turned back, for a dreadful heat crept to her cheeks at mention of the Virgin. She did not think that the Holy Mother would approve of the exploits she had in mind. Fortunately, that meant Isabelle certainly would. "I want to see Jace." A small flame finally fizzled to life between her fingers, hissing alongside her whisper.

"Now?"

"He will be waiting."

The sheets rustled and Izzy sprang upright, no trace of fatigue dulling the candidly questioning look she gave her young mistress in the spreading light.

"We need to talk," Clary stated her defence, grappling about for her slippers and looking everywhere but her friend.

"People do not seek out members of the opposite sex at this hour to talk, Clary. Not even a convent upbringing could excuse that ignorance."

Clary did not reply. She set about wresting free the first gown that came to hand and shaking it out. Izzy's hands joined hers on the dark velvet, once her unwavering determination became clear, "Very well then, but why do I need to come?"

"To assist me in my crossing the castle to his rooms, since you seem to have no trouble creeping around with Simon and maintaining your covert relationship. I will also require a lookout once we arrive. There is no one else I trust to do so."

Isabelle scoffed, pretty nose wrinkling. "Combat has changed you." She concluded chirpily.

Clary waved away the proffered headdress, opting to leave her hair loose. She at least had the decency to look indecent while she behaved as such.

"You really are so small Clary. Sometimes you seem so breakable. I have to keep reminding myself how strong you are." The flat, plain praise sent another flush to Clary's cheeks. Getting a good word out of Isabelle was so rare that she was honoured to be held in such esteem.

The good feeling did not last though, and sneaking across the castle entailed several palpitations, and stubbed toe that had to be suffered in utter silence. By the time she did arrive at the necessary doors, Clary felt a little faint.

"Clean towels for the Duke" Isabelle declared sunnily to the grim guard at the door. Clary wondered why he was stationed at the entrance to Jace's apartments. To keep anyone from breaking in? To prevent the new Duke from walking out? Isabelle exhibited the one prop to their hurriedly concocted performance: a basket of linen, while Clary kept her chin pressed against the base of her throat, where it felt as though her heart was pounding.

The only thing the girls had to hand that even resembled a towel in Clary's bedchamber were the clouts used for her monthly bleeds (of all things!) which she prayed might suffice.

The man at the door heaved a sigh and did not spare them a second glance, having clearly never laid eyes on such items. He waved them through. Izzy halted on the threshold, giggling and twirling a lock of raven hair around a finger as she peeked up at the guard from under her lengthy, sooty lashes.

Distraction underway, Clary scurried onward. Her time was limited.

She paused only for a second, steeling herself and patting down her skirts nervously. It had been so long. And Jace had not agreed to meet her, not exactly. He'd had no chance to reply.

Then the bedchamber door fell open and there he was, letting the book to hand flop shut with a thud as Clary crossed the room to him.

Jace's eyes shone with disbelieving admiration, "How?"

She pressed a finger to Jace's lips to hush him, marvelling that they were as warm and soft as she remembered. "You are still awake."

He smiled under her fingertips and she dropped them so he might reply, "You told me to be." She recalled a similar conversation by a water gate, not long ago. It still stunned her; that to his mind there need be no explanation. What she asked he would give.

Jace fell to both his knees before her, tossing the book aside with an abandon she felt she ought to scold him for- but later- for now he was encasing her fingers in his. "Forgive me."

"There is naught to forgive."

He bowed his head, like a man about to knighted, or a penitent pilgrim. "Yes, there is. I was a coward Clary. I left you."

"You were no coward today," She pointed out quietly.

"It does not pardon me for being one before. I broke your heart, craven fool that I was." He lifted his eyes to her at last, brighter than any candle or star, "But I will never forswear you again, Clary Morgenstern. I will stay by your side, come what may, for as long as you will allow it."

If Clary had thought she loved Jace before, now she was sure of it. The strength of that emotion might have scared her, likely should have, but she truly felt she was stood at the birth of a new beginning.

All could change in a second. Each moment ought to be seized.

"I am yours, heart and soul, and ever will be."

Kissing the hand she clasped, she drew him upwards until he stood over her once more. There was not enough time to say all she wanted to. In faith, Clary could not be sure she had the capacity to verbalise what she needed him to know, all she felt.

Jace attempted to be the voice of reason, "It is very late. I have said all I need to for now, surely you had better-"

Clary leaned forward and sealed his protestations shut with a blistering kiss.

-000000000000000-

Jace's arms tightened around her.

He was no stranger to young ladies alone and behind closed doors. But Clary was not just any girl.

He bade himself be sensible, but the resolve was not sticking.

His body did not react to Clary's in the way that it did to any other girl's.

He nipped her lips and she opened for him, her tongue flickering against his upper lip. Tonight, she answered him with a scrape of teeth. That was new.

As was the way Clary gripped him, pressing her body against his. Jace could feel the firmness of her bodice, tight to his chest. Feel the sharp tug of her fingers in his hair, hear the breathy moan that escaped her when he gripped at her hips.

She'd never been so forward before. Her hands had never had such determination, such purpose as they moved up his back, fisting in the thin linen of his shirt.

This was new too.

It was also the most secluded they had ever been together. This was not shadowy garden pathways or forgotten corners of a hall.

It was a closed door, with a lock. A bedchamber.

Should they be discovered, it would not matter what they had or had not done. It would ruin Clary. She could swear on the Bible he had not touched her, nobody would believe her. No one would listen. There would be no more suitors, no more talk of alliances.

Though Jace was touching her, and she him. Devouring him, almost, with her frenzied mouth and her eager hands. She'd tugged her way up under the hem and her hands were on bare flesh now.

It was maddening. Jace was losing all sense of politics and risk, fast. His mind was quick filling with thoughts of Clary, only Clary, of the heat of her breath and the warmth of her mouth, and the array of irresistible, astonishing little noises she was making.

Not to mention those she was wrangling with embarrassing ease out of Jace.

He was no novice when it came to women in his bed. Yet she had him trembling, coming apart fearfully rapidly, and they had barely touched yet.

Emboldened, Clary found spread her hands on his firm chest and gave Jace an encouraging shove backwards.

Jace stumbled and broke off the kiss, his left hand rising to her cheek as he peered down at her curiously. He opened his mouth, to question. Clary cut him off with another shush and a shove in the right direction.

Mutely, Jace let her to steer him backwards to the bed. He half sat and half collapsed back on the mattress as their lips met again.

Clary twined her arms around his neck and pulled herself into his lap, letting instinct and impulse guide her.

Jace emitted a poorly stifled moan when she shifted her weight.

This wasn't a matter of Kings and Princes. It was much simpler than that. An ageless thing, an inevitable, irresistible push and pull of two wanting bodies. A basic human desire that predated crowns and kingdoms.

Jace moved underneath her, until his back was against the pillows. It left Clary's knees planted on either side of his legs, his face perfectly level with her chest.

He couldn't help himself. He pressed hot kisses to her neck, answering her teeth from earlier with swift, sharp little bites he soon soothed with the flat of his tongue. Careful not to sink deep enough to leave an incriminating mark, but insistent enough to show her what he wanted, what he knew.

Clary shuddered, her breaths coming hard.

Jace's shirt made its way to the floor. His fingers traced the ridge of her square cut neckline. She was wearing no chemise, huddled as she had been in the cloak she'd left somewhere near the door. She likely wasn't wearing anything at all under it.

The thought heated Jace's blood further and sent it swooping downward.

He tugged at the back fastenings, a silent plea. Jace was half certain that she would stop him, recognizing this had already gone much too far.

Clary did not. On the contrary, she pleaded.

Jace ripped at the laces and tugged at the pointed bottom of her bodice, struggling to balance gentleness and urgency. The joint effort loosened it enough for his hands to slide under and confirm his suspicions.

She rocked her hips into his when he cupped her bare breast, gasping his name.

Oh, this was sinful.

Jace was going to need months, years in the confessional after this.

He brushed his thumb over her nipple, surging his lower body upward to meet her. Jace felt the nipple harden under his touch, and repeated his ministration, returning his open mouth to hers, swallowing her moans with each darting touch.

They broke apart, Clary's fingers tightening in his hair, tugging sharply. His stuttering hips quickened against her as he kept his right hand pulling at the fastenings until the bodice came further down.

They were designed to push up and plump the breasts, a design choice that had mortified mothers and matrons out a fortune in more seemly lace chemises to lessen the effect. Jace was grateful Clary had dispensed of hers tonight as his mouth followed his hands to cover her breast.

He kissed and sucked a pathway over the gooseflesh pebbled skin, eliciting more gasps and pleas from Clary, her fingernails scraping the back of his neck.

He gave her a much as he could, devoted himself to showing her just how good he could make her feel. He heard fabric ripping and Clary begging him breathlessly for more.

They could have died today. Both of them knew it. They might have perished, and the other never have known the depth of what was felt. Jace could have lost her, and that was the only excuse he had for the way he held her now. For kissing her like he never might again, for showing her in desperate, staccato movement of his body what he'd never been able to say.

He broke away momentarily, to get some air, and she returned his greedy touches.

Clary pushed him down further, until his back was to the mattress and her palms were tracing the planes of his exposed torso.

Jace drank in the sight of her, mouth reddened and cheeks flushed, eyes huge, desperate and hungry in the candlelight.

Women had grabbed at him in voracious handfuls many times, and Jace had enjoyed it. Nothing he'd felt before could compare to the emotions that arose at the tenderness with which she sketched her fingertips over the mottled flesh of his scar.

She didn't seem repulsed, nor did she look with pity.

She took it in with the same eagerness with which she traced the rest of him. This was the newest sensation of all to Jace, to be caressed by hands that loved the soul his body held.

She rocked forward until she could kiss him again, bare flesh to bare flesh.

Her skirts had rucked up, Clary brushed the waistline of his breeches.

Jace's hands moved of their own accord, slipping under her lifted him, sweeping over inches of bare thigh.

Clary placed a stream of perfectly loving, chaste kiss on his bare chest, where she could feel the steady pound of his heartbeat thudding against her puckered lips. Strands of her loose hair tickled over skin as she moved downward.

"Clary" He tried to warn her, to coax her back to some caution, but Jace's hoarse rasp only spurred her on. Still he wasn't were she needed him most, and she must see for herself the effect she had on his body. Her palm rocked over the bulge and Jace swore, surging upward into her touch helplessly.

They were fast approaching a Rubicon here, and if Jace did not claw back some manner of control here he would either reach the peak too quickly or do something much worse. Something infinitely more regrettable. Something with real, damnable consequences.

He flipped them over, catching Clary by the wrists and pinning them down.

She stared up at them, her face half in shadow and cast in a haze of lust. Jace's mind was sluggish, he felt almost drunk, looking down at Clary's expectant, questioning face.

Their chests rose and fell too quickly.

Jace was supremely conscious of her legs bracketing him. Of how her skirts had been pushed upward. Of how there were no further barriers under them, evidenced by the stark brightness of her pale leg, right the way up to the thigh, fully on display. He had only to move his hand mere inches, less, probably, to touch that thigh. He could follow its curve all the way up.

She'd let him do this much. Jace didn't think she'd stop him there. He didn't think she'd stop him at all.

Jace swallowed roughly, his pulse thundering in his ears.

He could have her. The King's daughter.

Hadn't he just been thinking that it wouldn't matter what occurred between them if it should be discovered Clary had paid him a visit, late at night, alone? Might be not as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb?

Jace had Clary Morgenstern beneath him in his bed. Dress shredded. Limbs splayed and eager. She wanted him, and he wanted her.

It was an exquisitely simple thing.

And it would be a dastardly one.

He could take her, here and now. Jace was a single impulse and a few minutes away from doing something irreparable.

If she was compromised before marriage, Clary would not be going off to some distant kingdom. She would not be going anywhere. Valentine might have her sealed up in the convent she'd come from permanently, and take Jace's head off to boot. Or…

Jace would leave Valentine with but one way of salvaging things, only one means of countering Jace's sin by naming it clean. By insisting Jace and Clary do the honourable thing and marry.

He could have the woman he loved; he could have his way into the King's family. Undeniably, this time.

It was a monumental gamble. On another night, with another girl, the Jace Herondale he had been might have made it. May have done what felt good and let all else be damned.

But this was Clary. He looked at her, at her puzzlement and rising hesitation. He couldn't do it.

He couldn't do it to her.

"I cannot."

"But-"

"Stop." He caught at her hips and stilled them, "We must stop. While we still can."

"I know." Clary's eyes dared away. She swallowed, more capable of expressing fuller thoughts than Jace. "I have to be untouched on my wedding night. Yet I still want you."

"I know." Jace echoed, his voice surprisingly tender given the heat of the moment. He stroked her cheek, a starkly sweet gesture despite the heat of the room and their bodies. He drew her eyes back to his, "You may not be betrothed anymore, but you are still not mine."

"I do not feel untouched."

Some of Jace's wry mirth flickered back, "In this position, I think it would be hard for anyone to."

It was true, Clary looked thoroughly ravished. Jace suspected he'd fared little better. He fell back toward sitting, giving her the space needed to sit up and attempt to rectify the mess of her dress.

The two of them jerked apart entirely at a rapid clatter of knuckles on the door.

Jace whistled ruefully, "It would appear our time is up at any rate."

His words were only accentuated by another rap, this one more impatient.

Clary rubbed her hands across her reddened face in an attempt to pull her composure back together.

"Coming!" She called out before Isabelle could knock again, wincing at how trimerous her voice sounded. She got off the bed on unsteady limbs and continued in her attempt to right her askew clothing. Clary quickly surrendered the losing battle and settled for huddling back into the cloak she rescued from the floor. They must rely on it to hide the damage.

She glanced back at Jace on the bed, where he had propped himself up on his elbows and was trying to use the scattered pillow in his lap to disguise the evidence of how unsatisfied their interrupted rendezvous would leave him.

Clary placed a quick, parting kiss on his lips.

"We still have much to discuss." Jace acknowledged with a half-smile, "Goodnight, Clary."

-00000000000000-

Chapter 16: On My Word of Dishonour

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: On my Word of Dishonour

Princewater Palace, Alicante, Late September 1536

Staring at herself in the looking glass, Clary marvelled that her face did not betray the many years she felt she had aged in the weeks since she had last sat in these rooms. If she was not mistaken, her remaining childish plumpness had been stripped away. Her cheekbones and chin were more defined. She would never be the prettiest girl at court, not by a mile. But she was no longer as preoccupied by it. Beauty was the most apparent currency a woman had to hand, but there were other means of making herself valuable. And if nothing else, her father's court had taught her not to trust appearances. Little was ever as it seemed.

Clary's eyes no longer flickered away from her own reflection out of despair at her plainness or worry she would be accused of vanity. She looked herself dead in the eye.

"The pearls?" Rebecca enquired behind her, to which Clary nodded. Once they were in place, she brushed her forefinger against the garnet locket which hung between her collarbones. She drew a final piece of confidence from the bright colour before turning away from the mirror altogether. She rolled her shoulders back and pinned in the matching earrings by herself as she marched out of her bedchamber.

"His Highness agreed to meet with you, Princess," Aline chimed as she passed by, "He awaits you in his rooms."

"Good." Clary declared humourlessly, making straight for the doors, "You and Maia can join us."

The court was at long last inching its way out of its shell, now that the last of the rebels within the city had been put down or chased out. There were more occasions on which the women and men of the court came together. Be it dancing or feasting, Clary never let her eyes stray too far from her brother. So far, Jonathan behaved impeccably. Clary credited that to her father's fury, rather than to anything she could possibly ever do to cow Jonathan.

Having seen how the King treated his son behind closed doors, Clary had the beginnings of a sympathy for her brother. That did not mean she trusted him. Nor did it mean he was not still doing his utmost to unseat her place in their father's affections. Or do greater harm still.

Though Clary may find it in her to pity her brother, she could also recognise that stream flowed only one way. It would not lessen his irrational hatred of her, and to let her sympathies cloud how dangerous Jonathan could be might prove fatal.

And yet, her brother could still have his uses.

Clary once thought the King was the only person on this earth Jonathan feared. That was not true. Her brother was more frightened of Jace. Those fears were stoked the moment Jace had returned to Idris. Valentine had only fed the flames of Jonathan's distress since. Returning Jace's title, his position at court and on the Council; now they lived in one of Jonathan's nightmares.

When she finally came to the doors of the Prince's apartments, Clary was startled to note it was the first time she had ever done so. She could count on one hand the times she and her sibling had willingly and personally sought one another out. On each of them Jonathan had come to her.

What she had expected to find in Jonathan's personal rooms Clary could not have said, but she had been anticipating something to the effect of a torture chamber. Dingy walls, the eerie yelp of water dripping onto stone, bits of animal carcasses dangling from the ceilings- that sort of thing. A holding pen for whatever perversions he could not pursue in the public eye.

On the contrary, the Crown Prince's apartments seemed not so very unlike her own. But where Clary's were full of blues, greens and pink, Jonathan's were dressed in masculine colours, reds, browns, silver, and black- a great deal of black. She glimpsed a small oil likeness of a silver haired woman over the mantelpiece. Their grandmother, Queen Seraphina, Clary recognised eventually, who had died before she was born.

The only objection she could make of her surroundings was that they were something of a mess. Cushions were squashed into chairs and not plumped up again, a hat tossed onto the first surface by the door (which so happened to a gilded candlestick). The fallen soldier of a quill lay injured, withering in the open air, the bleeding ink blots hardening on bare wood. It would seem the reluctance to tidy after one's self ran in the family.

She approached her brother, who was lounging in a seat by the window. One long leg folded over the other, his foot resting upon the opposite knee.

He did not stand on ceremony, opting to crack a vicious grin up at Clary instead. "Sister, you never cease to intrigue me."

She had left her ladies loitering behind her, far enough to not appear obnoxiously intrusive but close enough to remain in hearing distance. Clary knew she would require witnesses.

"I should hate to bore you," she replied mordantly, to which he narrowed his own gaze and reassembled himself on the seat until he was leaning forward.

"Never that, Clary."

Clary scoffed, but just as she began to frame another sharp retort, Jonathan pressed on, "Listen, much as I adore sparring with you little sister, I do have better things to do. It just so happens that the Council has a spot of anarchy to deal with. Since we only get one life apiece, let us not waste any more time pretending interest in one another. Say your piece and go back to your psalms, or charity or... whatever it is you do with yourself here."

Clary's hands had drifted to her hips. She had to force them to smooth down her sides before she really did adopt the stance of a scolding housewife. She could not let him irritate her, not now. She had too much to lose. If this plan of action failed, she did not know what else she could do.

"I hear I have another suitor on the horizon," Clary deadpanned, scrutinising the Prince with what she prayed was a blank face.

Jonathan lost interest in the fingernails he had been pretending to clean, "You heard correctly."

Clary sucked in a breath as best she could past her skin-tight stomacher.

She had not wanted to believe it when it had first been whispered to her by Maia three days ago but had not doubted for a moment it wasn't true.

"The Dauphin is scarcely cold in his grave." She rubbed her hands together, sighing ruefully, "Such is the advantage of an unofficial betrothal I suppose. No expected period of mourning. No reason for another not to be immediately pursued."

Jonathan hummed in agreement, returning to his preening, "Father is most heartened by the values of the situation. Though I daresay that even had you been officially contracted, he would not have paused too long before seeking out another match. The King knows he wants of you Clary and he will not dally in getting it. The ambassador arrives from Nancy this afternoon."

"I know."

He taunted her with a gasp, "My, my. Aren't you well informed."

Clary did not deign to respond to that, pressing on her one line of enquiry, "So itisthe Duke of Lorraine?"

"I cannot tell you that; all on the Council are bound to secrecy on the matter." He laughed then brashly, "Father seems to think that were you aware you wouldmeddle."

"You already just told me of it." Clary pointed out, exasperation rising.

"No, I did not. Though I cannot think who did drip that pleasant titbit of knowledge in your ear, since even our favourite Herondale is still in the dark. His Majesty knows he may as well have Father Jeremiah bellow it from the pulpit as tell Jace. His tongue could hardly move quick enough to tell you."

Clary strove to stay focused. She wouldn't fight with him over Jace, not now. She needed an accurate assessment of all possible threats here, and only Jonathan would be well enough informed and easily enough goaded into telling her all of it. "What of the previous bachelors? I know the King of Scotland has since married, but what of the Hapsburg boy?"

"He'll not be ready for a wife for nigh on another decade," Her brother finished for her, still refusing to diffuse the blatant mockery in his tone. "As for dear old James, Madeline de Valois broke her father's heart in insisting that he let her marry him. She is a sickly thing and will not last her first Scottish winter. Unless the Duke of Lorrraine is as impatient to close the deal as our father, then you could well find the King of Scotland back in the game soon."

"Let us be frank with one another then, for a change. I do not wish to marry the Duke of Lorraine."

Jonathan's mouth twisted into a smile in earnest. He seemed genuinely amused by her. "Dear heart, I do not care what you want."

Hidden behind the flare of her yellow shirts, Clary's fingers twitched. Seeing her barely curbed infuriation Jonathan had the audacity to dart his hand out and pinch at her cheek, tugging ardently on the entrapped flesh. "Come now! It is not the worst match! Yes, the Duke of Lorraine is old enough to be your father, but take comfort, that means he may well be impotent! Even should he find the energy to paw at you, he is already a widower with issue, which takes the pressure off you to present his heir."

Her cheek still ached from where her brother had nipped it and Clary's stomach rolled in riot at the prospect of being wedded to a man almost forty years her senior. But Clary made herself smile.

She took several bouncing paces backwards, wrapping her fingers around the smooth back of the nearest chair and then hauled it over to where Jonathan sat. She dropped merrily into it and clasped her hands before her, prepared to talk proper business at last. "There are many differences between the two of us brother, anyone may see that. But the real distinction? Unlike you, I make it my business to care what you want."

Jonathan stiffened, lowering his arms to the armrest and dropping his leg to cross his ankles. He asked with hefty bemusem*nt, "Which is?"

A slow, vulpine smile unfurled on Clary's fine features, "You like the notion of my being married almost less than I do."

"What makes you say that?"

Clary swallowed and calmed herself. She had some insight into the workings of her brother's mind at last and she intended to use it. Was that not how her father operated? Knowing a man meant knowing his fears and desires. Then you threaten one and offer the other, whichever the situation may warrant. She shook her head slowly, as though she were about to reveal some terrible tragedy, before uttering with sharp melancholy: "Our people do not cheer as you ride past."

"The people do not cheer as any of us ride past," Jonathan snapped, the terseness in the phrase declaring to Clary she had begun to really get under his skin. She continued her lament as though he had not spoken, "The courtiers obey you, but they do not respect you. There is no enthusiasm to carry out your bidding. Fear, but no loyalty. Few would choose to follow you."

"How-"

"Now, let us say that I do become duch*ess of Lorraine. Let us say that from the union a son is born. Another boy with Morgenstern blood in his veins. Denied an inheritance of much merit, as you yourself just said, by his elder brothers from his father's first wife. What then, if he turns to his maternal line? What if he starts to look at Idris? What, indeed, if he becomes the sort of man who men will want to follow? Idrisian men, even."

Jonathan made a show of snickering at her, "You and your wild imagination. Am I supposed to quiver at the might of this prince who does not yet exist?"

"You are supposed to see the mutual benefit in my remaining unmarried." She offered another smile.

Jonathan tapped his chin and rolled his eyes at her.

Clary dropped her voice, "Am I supposed to pretend you require encouragement to remove my bridegrooms?"

He threw her a gaze sideways, "Careful now Clary. You have pushed far enough as it is."

She shrugged, "I hear that the late duch*ess of Lorraine died of negligence. They say that a doctor was not called for her illness until it was too late."

"You hear too many things," her brother chided irritably. Oh, she had him eating out of her palm now, though he was too furiously thinking to fully see it. "Our father has too many eyes on me as it is, sister. I do not wish to antagonise him further by interfering in the matter. Although I suppose I can investigate the Duke somewhat, if only to allay your fears that you would not be well cared for. That I can promise, on my word of dishonour. " He gave her the beginnings of a smile that was anything but merry.

"I thank you." Clary found herself feeling more hopeful than she had for days. Ruthlessness was the one aspect of her brother she could be sure of. She gratefully trusted in it now.

She was not utterly heartless, she had suspected that the King had Jonathan all but under lock and key and he had confirmed it. She need not fear for the life of the new favourite for her hand. There were still many ways to wreck a betrothal. Even should Jonathan fail to completely halt the coming one, he could at least hamper it. Time was a much greater luxury than costly furs or jewels to Clary now. One she would not squander.

The Princess nodded to her new unlikely ally now, "Shall we have some wine?" she suggested chirpily, "To celebrate our being on the same page at last?"

"Later," Jonathan growled, "I do, in fact, have another appointment this afternoon."

"A pity," She uttered it the way another girl in another scenario might have said 'a party'.

Without the slightest reluctance, Clary bounded up and made for the door. Jonathan called after her, voice stridently curious, "Say Lorraine's suit is rejected by His Majesty, for whatever reason, what then? If you truly wish to stay unmarried Clary, you would save us both a great deal of trouble by opting to return to that convent permanently. God knows, you pride yourself enough on being pious. Holy orders shouldn't be much a stretch."

Without turning Clary smiled once more to herself, the expression no longer feeling as foreign or false as it had moments ago.

She pressed through the doors, Aline and Maia a solid presence at her back. Outside, she answered him in a muttered confession, "I said that I wished not to be wed to the Duke of Lorraine, Not that I did not intend on marrying at all."

-000000000000000-

Summer began to surrender to the autumn at last, but it was still fair enough to make a walk in the palace's walled gardens enjoyable. A pastime made all the more pleasing by the frequency with which the Princess was located amongst the shrubbery and fading roses of late. She had developed quite a penchant for outdoor pursuits.

If the new Duke of Broceland happened to find himself stumbling into the company of that lady almost every day, that was played off as pure coincidence. Jace hoped.

Each time he would bow, she curtsey and invite conversation by enquiring how he was adjusting to his raised status at court. She would offer various lines of advice or consolation and he would offer his arm. Once he had her small hand tucked in the warm groove of his bent arm, they would wander onward. Clary's accompanying ladies would then develop an inexplicable lethargy and find themselves incapable of keeping up.

Clary had once mentioned in passing that this were the tried and tested method employed to maintain a friendship with Simon, a fact Jace battled to accept in silence. He crushed the wriggle of jealousy under his skin with the argument that surely it was of no consequence who had been at her side before when he were there now. If anyone had cause for envy now it would be Simon, not he.

Jace gently scouted that terrain as best he dared, "And your musician friend does not mind the deposition in favour of me?"

Clary had laughed and shot him a conspiratorial look, "Oh I daresay not. Simon has his own distractions these days."

"Dare I enquire as to the meaning of that?"

She had scrutinised him with some disbelief, then shook her head, "Naught. It means naught."

Jace entertained the possibility of pressing her, then dismissed it. They bickered enough as it were, a continuity he was glad of. Besides, of all the many people on this earth that Jace found interesting, Simon the lute player was not one of them. Clary did get a tad flustered when he teased her about Simon's commitment, enough for him to garner that he had been a sometime suitor.

"Is this a particular vice of yours Princess? Men beneath you?"

She glared, but lacked the incensed response that would have revealed a grasp of both layers of his lewd jest. She really was too pure for him.

"There was nothing of the sort between Simon and I. And you are not so far beneath me anymore,Your Grace."She teased him ceaselessly with the honorific these days. As she taunted him, her eyes slid down the tawny doublet, new jewelled dagger, heavy golden chain and boots that were- for the first time in perhaps twenty years- perfectly polished. Not that he had donned rags before, but Clary seemed to approve these trimmed coats.

"I should think that of the two of us, you have a longer line of scorned suitors." She was only half-jesting and did not meet his eyes as she spoke.

Jace should have anticipated the chiding enquiry sooner, since they had elected to explore... whatever this was. If they were to engage in this most unconventional courtship (had he been permitted to court her) then they must be honest with one another. This must have been troubling her for some time, and the tension of her shoulders and quickened pace indicated how deeply so. Clary strode in the direction of the little labyrinth recently installed in the palace grounds for the King's pleasure.

Jace swallowed and forcibly slowed their strides. He pulled them to a halt under a wilting apple blossom tree, its pink and white splotched flowers sagging. They were subjected to a drizzle of damp leaves and sodden petals, one of which Clary had to prise off her cheek.

Jace loosened his hold on her a touch, gauging the deliberately loud giggles of Aline and Helen at a safe enough distance to pursue the subject he was about to.

Much as Clary seemed to trust them, Jace could not share in her faith. Perhaps she had secrets of their own in her pocket, but that did not mean the girls stopped whispering in the ears of whoever it was might bulk up their wages, or assist in the finding of an advantageous husband. Or even, should that ardent listener prove to be the Crown Prince, promise protection from whatever terrible, clandestine knowledge Clary held over them. Jace had lived in this world a little longer than she had; he knew every man and woman had their price. Even those who swore they could not be bought had something they would do anything for, or someone. Aline Penhallow for instance, was a full cousin to Sebastian Verlac and every noble family was its own faction at court. For God's sake, even Jace had his spy in the Princess's chamber: Isabelle.

He still weighed his words when addressing Clary. Unless they happened to be closeted in a bedchamber (which was distressingly unlikely in the immediate future) he assumed someone was listening.

Still, this had to be said now. "Clary, whatever it is you wish to know I will tell you. You know of Kaelie, but believe me, that was not something that meant anything. None of my past...affairs...ever meant anything. I am rather ashamed of that. Yes, there have been others besides Lady Whitewillow. However," he stared her straight in the eye, heart pummelling his ribs, trying to impress every piece of sincerity he had upon those openly hopeful eyes, "there has never been one like you Clarissa Morgenstern."

Her mouth trembled to a smile, that breath-taking flash of happiness that Jace would happily tred hot coals to keep there. So he added, "I must admit, this love, all of it is as knew to me as it is you."

Clary's eyes batted downwards and Jace felt a dash of distress as she blinked hurriedly. He should have known the pain an admission of his past exploits would inflict. She was sickened, despairing. His hands released hers and caught at her face, fingers tucking naturally under her chin as he gently tilted her head upwards again, "I meant not to upset you, sweetheart."

"You have not," Clary insisted, one final flutter of her lashes drying the buds of growing tears, "But that is the first time you have told me you loved me."

His thumbs swept as soothingly as they could over her jawline. "I do."

The edge of her usual humour crept back and Clary unsheathed the blade was her tongue once again, "Sweetheart? Really?"

Jace attempted to swat it aside with another laugh, as she returned her hand to its perch on his arm.

The endearment had just slipped out. Normally such play names sickened Jace. But it had felt right in the moment, despite the obvious torture he was about to endure for it.

Clary laughed alongside him and nudged him onwards. They struck up their walk just in time, for her companions turned the latest corner and came within sighting distance once more. The Duke lowered his voice anyway lest they heard, as a precaution. "You dislike it?"

"No." Clary said with quiet satisfaction, "Not at all." The kept walking in a comfortable silence for a short time, before Clary broke it with a sideways glance and a more sober question; "Can we be serious for time?"

Jace flicked her a crooked smile, "If we must."

She pinched at him in reprimand. "We must. There is a new battleship on the horizon, sooner than expected."

Jace frowned, "Is that a metaphor? If so, I am hopeful it is the request to resume our night-time explorations."

Careless of what her ladies witnessed, Clary shoved him headlong toward a hedge. Jace only righted himself in the last moment, his palm skidding some thorn bushes. "I take that as a no," he muttered once he regained his balance, clapping a hand to his head to right his cap and stumbling after her.

"It is code, you dolt."

"I am going to separate you from Izzy. She is a bad influence. A code is something you agree with all parties before-hand Clary. Not words you simply fling at them and then flingtheminto a wall of greenery when they fail to comprehend!"

"You know that is not why I pushed you. And you agreed to be serious." She snapped, though lessened the hostility by taking hold of him again. "It means," she said, in a voice scarce skimming the head of murmur, "That the Duke of Lorraine has approached my father for my hand."

He knew aught like this was coming. It did not prevent the swooping trepidation in his gut. This must be akin to what a condemned man felt when he walked out of his trial with the axeman's blade pointed toward him. A death sentence.

"Jace," Clary's voice dredged him back to the present, where she was peering up at him with a curious blend of sympathy and impatience. He cleared his throat and played at being calm. Unleashing the full extent of his panic on Clary would not reassure her any. Whatever he felt she must too, only a hundred times more strongly. He must ease her fear as best he could, until he could contrive a way to defeat this scheme.

"That would explain that odd cross-eyed man from Nancy."

"I have it under control."

Jace's dismay amplified at the annunciation. "What the devil do you mean by that?" he demanded, more harshly than he had meant to in his disconcerted frame of mind. "Clary, you cannot simply dig in your heels and refuse to marry him. Nor can you sweet talk the King out of it."

Clary's head jerked up defiantly, "No. I know that."

Jace continued anxiously, "He will not have you prying in the matter either. You know how he felt about your manipulating the French suit. He does not expect you to have a mind in the matter, much less speak it! Have you forgotten the catastrophe that was that damned stupid request you thought to make?"

They were whipping their way through this spiralling maze now, tossing up scattered leaves and strewing stray pebbles underfoot. Their voices were lifting with their tempers, Aline and Helen long forgotten.

"What possessed me to tell you of that I will never know," Clary grumbled angrily, "Perhaps you should reconsider the value of my 'damned stupid' pursuits Jace, since you are one!"

Jace sighed, the sound rather strangled and not unlike the noise usually made after one was winded.

"That I did foryou, folly though it was. But I do learn from my mistakes. I have no intention of being so direct this time. I may be prohibited from meddling, but Jonathan is not."

Jace had to squeeze his eyes shut and bite down on his tongue. Here he was, trying to counsel Clary against the extreme folly of baiting Valentine while her solution was to enlist Jonathan, who was unspeakably worse.

"Yes, Jonathan is a dangerous enemy. Therefore a useful ally, no? Come, you know how it is: 'the enemy of my enemy.'"

"If you think that you can harness Jonathan for your bidding or exploit him, think again. He is your primary enemy at this court, Clary. Your downfall is his aim and if you give him a foothold in this, inus, then you are aiding his arsenal. You are playing with fire with hands smeared in gunpowder."

"I do what I have to." Clary continued stubbornly, "Jonathan knows nothing of us, nor of what I want. Anyway, it is too late to retract now. It is done, Jace."

Jace looked away in grim despair. They quarrelled and needled one another but never before had such opposing stances.

Yet Clary had a point, however much Jace disliked it. There was no rewriting the past. It would appear he and Jonathan were now allies.

"I will not grow to like this," he grumbled bluntly, while Clary tucked her fingers firmly back around his arm in a move of reconciliation, the tips of them starting to cool in the outdoor air. She extended her free hand to skim over the velvet material of his sleeve, as though she hoped a few strokes would lull him back to a peaceable state like it might a dog or cat. Rather than annoying him yet further, Jace felt the edges of a laugh scratch at his throat.

"It is not that I have enlisted Jonathan's assistance here that vexes you," Clary began knowingly, "But that I did not turn to you first."

"Should it be so terrible if that were so?" Jace demanded with gruff exasperation, "I cannot bear being helpless. What is the point in having a title and a seat on the Council if I cannot use it to aid you? I swore to serve you Clary, yet you will not let me."

"That is not so. What I need from you I cannot ask from anyone else." She wheeled them around another corner and all but sprinted a few paces, dragging Jace after her. This was utterly absurd, all these ungainly dashes out of earshot. Jace wondered if they were not lost in this little maze by now as Clary spun to face him.

His heart gave another jolt as she spied that she was biting her lower lip and the hands she had just detached from him were being rubbed ferociously in a fit of nerves. "I know there is no guarantee that Jonathan will be able to prevent my marrying the Duke of Lorraine. Even were he able to, Jonathan is the sort of person who may well sit back and do nothing to spite me. There was another thing he spoke of while he was mocking me earlier. It was intended to distress me, I know that, but I cannot dismiss it."

Wanting to batter the Crown Prince was not a new desire of Jace's but this was perhaps the most keenly he had felt it since the day of Tiller's invasion. "What did he say?"

Clary shook her head and nipped at her own fingertips, her eyes sliding from Jace's and weight swaying a tad as she hastily stated her fears, "He spoke of my marriage bed."

Jace did not know what to say to that. He could not lie to her; very few women had good words to say of their first experience of marital union. He respected Clary too much to fill her ears with shallow reassurances. Jace could not guarantee that a spouse selected for her would be gentle or care for her pleasure. Husbands tended to look elsewhere for nights of passion. Wives were for siring heirs and all other gratification could be purchased elsewhere, in houses and taverns of ill repute.

Thankfully Clary kept speaking for him, "I could not help but think of what occurred between us that night by comparison."

Jace could not lie to himself either, memories of their brief embraces in his bedchamber were not likely to dull anytime soon. He wanted all of it, all of her, again, properly.

Admitting to that, however, was likely to do the opposite of remedying anything.

"My wants and needs are never going to matter." Clary stated plainly. "But I do not want to lie with a man for the first time and that man be a stranger to me. It seems nonsensical, when there is a man right by me that I love. Who I want."

"Clary-" Jace made to stop her half-heartedly, both alarmed and allured by what may come next.

"I am supposed to be a virgin on my wedding night, I know that. Yet I have heard things. Women have their secrets and I know that there are tricks, ways of pretending-"

"Clary!"

"No one would know of it but us." He could hear the begging in her voice, shredding at whatever vestige of restraint, of honour, Jace had left.

"Even were I discovered in my deceit, I would already be married, the alliance with my father already agreed. Let us not pretend that Valentine's friendship and gold is not all my husband wants from our union. Particularly Duke Antoine, who already has sons. He could overlook a young bride's transgression. Besides, I may never be caught. Come Jace, you cannot deny you want this too!"

Jace was uncommitted to a stance of resistance now, if indeed he ever had been committed.

"One night," She whispered pleadingly as the sound of her approaching ladies grew closer, "That is all I ask of you."

One doubt thrashing about in Jace's brain remained most prominent, so he voiced it while he still, could much as he did not want to, for the stakes of such a gamble were too high; "Those are not the only risks. What if I agreed, and you conceived?"

Clary shook her head impatiently, "We would plan it close enough to my wedding- the last possible moment- so a child could be passed off as my husband's."

"You have truly given this a great deal of thought."

A crack in the clouds sent some wavering beams of sunlight spilling across the grass.

Clary's gaze had brightened with the day, "Does that mean that you mean you will?"

"We shall see. Much could change. It may never come to that."

Whatever Clary might tell herself, Jonathan did know what was between them, at least partially. So too did Valentine, unless he had been rendered blind and deaf unbeknown to anyone. He must have at least an inkling of why his protégé and his daughter seemed to find so many happy coincidences which allowed them to see one another. Still, it was permitted to continue. They had drawn themselves short of entering one another's bedchambers again, but they were hardly subtle.

Was this Valentine's way of giving his blessing? The Council by and large would object heatedly to Jace courting the Princess, of that he was certain, and while Valentine had to pander to them as King... his silence and determination to look the other way could be his method of indirect encouragement.

If Jace were right and Valentine did want him to keep pursuing Clary, then the plan he had started to form may not be suicide after all. But then why entertain Lorraine? Perhaps simply because it offered so much Jace could not. The best he had was a debt drowned estate and tenants with a rebel streak he had yet to properly lay eyes on. Duke Antoine would bring gold, a political alliance and a line of defence against the heresy Valentine feared worse than the plague and loathed more than disobedience. Besides, His Majesty was not a sentimental man, he certainly would not waste his only daughter's hand to make Jace feel more included in the closest thing he had to a blood family.

"There is another way," Jace began now, words that had been weighing on him for so long springing loose with lightening haste. Hounds out of a gate: "You could not be packed off to satisfy a foreign treaty if you were already married."

-0000000000000-

Canal Street, Alicante, Late September 1536

The house by the canal felt alien, strikingly empty in the cold light of day. The gardens were deserted as Alec trekked through them to locate the main thoroughfare. Not so much as a gardener or an errand boy crossed paths with Alec in all the time he wandered. It was as though the house was one of a fairy story, the magical grandeur of its nights disappearing come the dawn.

The gardens themselves seemed a little worse for wear, with huge clods of earth churned up and footprints scarring the once neat lawn. The hedges had also become a little oppressive, their former symmetrical cubes now bedraggled.

This was not one of the districts that had been among the worst pillaged by Tiller's men, Alec knew from having assisted Jace in his readings of the reports. The rioters had targeted all of the finer homes, making no distinction in what belonged to the ancient gentry and what the nouveau riche possessed.

Alec was beginning to wonder if the owner of the house had not disappeared with his party guests. His heart hammered in time with the pounding of his fists on the door.

Long seconds trailed by without a response, but just as Alec was preparing to give up hope, he heard at last the dull thunder of approaching feet descending steps. Then came the clatter and the scrape of an opening bolt until the door was swinging open.

Whatever scraps of a plan Alec devised on the impulsive barge ride downriver were scattered to the wind at the sight of Magnus Bane answering his own door.

"Ma-Magnus?"

"Why who were you expecting? The King of England?"

Alec, who had already worked himself up and down the rocky mountain path of a real fury found his blood heating quicker than anticipated. "That is what you have to say to me? After all this time, after all that has happened, you think you can address me like that?"

He flung out his hands and they fisted in the chain dangling around Magnus's neck. The cold metal bit into his fingers. Alec twisted the links around his knuckles, hauling Magnus forward until there was scarcely an inch between their eyes.

"Alec, are you going to hit me?" His voice may have spiked with disbelief, but the way in which Magnus presented the question implied that he had no interest in evading the blow should the answer be yes.

Alec closed the distance between them with a kiss instead.

It was one hell of a risk. If Alec got this wrong, if Magnus did not return his affections, if he had been misreading all of the signals- he could pay for it. If Magnus told people of the advance, Alec would be disgraced for his desires in the best instance. Actively prosecuted in a Church court for sodomy at worst.

And yet, Alec couldn't help himself. Jace had thrown himself into the hands of fate, galloping down that road to a potentially hostile army. His courage reaped reward. And Alec had been playing it safe for so long.

This was his battle charge.

His lips caught Magnus's.

Perhaps this was heresy. For fire certainly caught.

Their lips ground together, hot and demanding. Damned though they may be, Alec discovered burning brought no pain.

Lips parted, and everything became a blur of teeth and tongues.

After what may have been seconds or centuries, they had to break apart for air.

Alec and Magnus blinked at one another, panting and hotter than ever.

Alec wondered if he should say aught, clarify his position perhaps. Then, why so? He did not think, reading the hunger and satisfaction of Magnus's expression now, there were many words needed. Alec had been asking a wordless question of the world his whole life, and now here he was, in a smashed garden, on the threshold of an empty house, and Magnus was his answer.

Magnus reached out, taking firm hold of Alec's collar. Although there were a dozen places he should otherwise be, Alec crossed the threshold.

The door thudded behind them, a hailstorm in the hush. Feet stumbled over one another and ludicrous laughter bubbled between them as their bodies bumped together, as Alec stumbled on the stairs. Fingers tugged at buttons and ties, lips charted out the dips and hollows at throats and collarbones.

They left a train of fallen clothes in their wake, boots, and doublets and even undershirts.

Markers of a carelessness Alec never thought he'd have the chance to display. But there was no one else in this house, no serving eyes at keyholes, no master to offend. Only Magnus. They two might have been the only two people left in the world for all Alec cared.

There was only Magnus, bare foot and bare chested, facing Alec, likewise, who faced Magnus and the bed behind him.

Alec swallowed.

"I- I have never."

"Oh." Magnus did not sound pitying or condemning. "We need not. If you don't wish to, there are many other things, many other ways. I would be content to just kiss and hold you, Alexander." Magnus cradled Alec's cheek in his hand. Tracing over the curve of delicate bone with a calloused thumb. A betrayal that he was not the gentleman he purported to be under all the fine clothes and fripperies. That he was real, and sincere, that he had lived and loved before. "God," Magnus whispered, with the kind of reverence he'd never shown at prayer, never at any Mass. "How long I have wished to hold you. Since you first looked at me with those blue eyes, I think."

"I too" Alec confessed with a shudder.

If he was a sinner, then he was glad to sin. "Since I first saw you. You were so unlike anyone I've seen before, yet I knew that you were exactly what I needed." To breathe life into what had been a hollow statue of a man. To show Alec precisely how empty he'd been before. To prove beyond doubt he had been skating by on survival and thinking that was living. Never taking any risks, and never finding any peril, true. But finding no gain either.

"I want to," He assured Magnus. "Will you show me how?"

Magnus brushed over Alec's loosened waistband, steering him in for a kiss. Teasing their noses together. "Most happily."

Then he tilted his head and kissed more heatedly down Alec's neck. Magnus tongued over the tiny cut Alec had given himself shaving. Kissing it better. Like he would kiss away every wound, even every papercut Alec had ever received.

Alec groaned. His eyes fell shut.

Magnus led him to the bed, left unmade, and took the last of his clothing off.

Alec spread himself out on the bedsheets, breath catching when Magnus followed suit. He was shaking, from anticipation and lingering uncertainty.

But Magnus was patient, and gentle, and good. He murmured a litany of soft reassurances, as he laid his body over Alec's and laid more kisses too.

Coaxing and teasing and challenging with every plea, with each caress.

For Alec, who always had to be the one on control, the responsible one, the one ready to guide and protect, it was a relief to just lie back and take what was given. To do as he was gently bid.

To let his mind empty of the trouble Jace or Izzy may get themselves in, of having to pre-empt every possible thing that may go wrong and have a solution to hand. He listened to his body, he let himself just want, and want, and want.

He took eagerly and then he gave with more hesitancy, practising out all Magnus showed him and diligently doing everything he was asked in return. Finding that giving pleasure came as easily as taking it, with his hands and with his mouth. Not being afraid to laugh when he first got it wrong, striving to find his blushes as endearing as Magnus seemed to.

Afterward they both lay sated, breathless on their backs. It was still bright, the room was waxing in soft white light, there were birds singing in the rafters. This house was not as quiet as the palace, Alec thought, as his breaths slowed. But not enough to trouble him. He felt he could grow to like the croon of the canal on the walls, its song of rocking barges and paddling ducks. Though the daylight seemed odd. Alec had always thought of such exchanges of skin as clandestine, as dark desires best sought in the dark. Confined to cloak and dagger pursuit in the small hours for quick and covert gratification.

Yet here he and Magnus were, naked and unashamed, sprawled out together in the middle of the day. It felt like they'd been lying together for hours, but it cannot have been more than one.

And Magnus, desirable as he's been before and during, remained a vision afterward. In delightful disarray, all long, lean brown limbs and a riot of dark hair. Sleepy, sated eyes and knowing smiles.

He rolled over, after a moment, to lay his head against Alec's chest. After the smallest of hesitations, Alec put his arm around him. Tugged him closer.

"How was that?" Magnus asked, "For a first foray?"

"I don't know," Alec felt colour pool in his cheeks again, which was preposterous, given all he'd just seen and done, "Well, I think. Perhaps you'd better tell me."

Magnus laughed, and Alec's heart soared higher still. This could not have been further from the snatches in the shadows and promises of secrecy he'd thought such exchanges could amount to. Inherently seedy, and shameful. A secret you died with.

Here he was, still receiving soft kisses and laughter.

"A most valiant of pioneering expeditions," Magnus reassured following the line of Alec's blush down his throat with lightly tickling fingertips, "A very promising start, indeed."

Alec glowed at that. Not so much at the praise but more at the assurance there would be a repeat. Still, that niggle in the back of his head sought reassurance.

"You'll see me again?" The blush darkened, "Like this, that is."

Magnus drummed his fingers against Alec's sternum and pretended to think. "I suppose so." It was nice, to see Magnus without all his loud clothes. It felt as though Alec had been entrusted with something rare and precious. It was doubly nice to see nakedness didn't strip Magnus of his swagger. "I still have much to show you." He breathed the sultry promise with a kiss over Alec's skipping heart.

Alec was loath to let the real world invade this space, but he didn't think ignoring things to be any remedy. He traced over the dip of Magnus's shoulder before asking in a graver tone, "You are coming back to court? You were missed" he felt compelled to warn, "Not just by me."

Magnus shrugged. It dislodged Alec's hand. "Valentine will forgive me. I'll throw enough gold at him that he'll forget I was ever out of his sight. Or I'll procure some jewels. He is a very reliable magpie, the King."

Alec stiffened under the flippant discussion of such vast wealth.

People said money didn't solve your problems. That wasn't true. Alec was sure money would solve most of his. He'd settle his father's gambling debts, assure his sister a generous dowry so that she'd have the freedom to marry anyone she wished, whenever she wished. Get Max a proper gentleman's education. Refurbish their castle, give his mother an appropriate home to live in. Even make it comfortable enough that Robert might be tempted to call it home again.

All of which made him uneasy with the ease with which Magnus could untie his coin purse and solve all his. And he still, despite their new closeness, had no idea where a man with no family and rough hands got all that wealth.

"You're sure Valentine will be so easily bought?" He asked instead.

Magnus hummed, looking at Alec as though he'd realised it wasn't just in the bedchamber that he was naïve.

"Alec, darling, everyone always is."

-000000000000000-

Princewater Palace, Alicante, late September 1536

Valentine prayed intensely, even with Tiller cold in earth and his followers in flight.

Jonathan decided that the only time he was likely to get a moment alone with his father was if he requested permission to accompany Valentine to the final Mass of the day, which His Majesty always attended in private.

Jonathan had ever been able to find the peace in prayer that others savoured. On the many occasions he found himself on his knees in the royal pew beside his sire, he never found the solace Valentine did in the services.

As a child, Mass had been another of Jonathan's many stresses. For though Valentine was sure to be enraptured for much of the ordeal, he did not lose the keen sight or hearing that his son had once been convinced was supernatural. Should Jonathan stumble over a single syllable of the droning Latin responses, or should he make to stand when he ought to kneel or sit, there would be Hell to pay for his accidental slighting of heaven.

By now, Jonathan had mastered the art of appearing bodily engrossed in the Mass while allowing his brain the freedom to whittle away at whatever his greatest problems happened to be.

Tonight those took the form of Jace Herondale. The past week had been a tumult of wrestling with his qualms about doing as Clary bid and cutting this new suit off at the legs before it might stand. He feared that should he do so he were playing right into his oldest enemy's hands.

Yet it was difficult to ignore the truth in what his little sister had so irksomely chirped at him. It seemed that the planets of their ambitions had- perhaps for the only time- aligned. Jonathan did not want her married, he wanted Clary so irreparably dishonoured that she would be consigned to a spinsterdom of shame. He had even considered urging Sebastian to seduce her, since his friend hardly needed inspired to pursue debauchery, but even the young Earl had his limits. Sadly, he was not as stupid as Jonathan had hoped and was unwilling to risk his life for a night of carnality with the Princess. There was also the matter of Clary being heavily guarded and watched, how she was managing to continue her present affair was a mystery.

Much as he hated doing what Clary and her Herondale wanted him to, Jonathan could not see a better option.

He'd neutralise the threat of Lorraine as best he could. Once he had his father's ear again, Jonathan would make good of it and have Clary packed off far away to an eighty-year-old with a terrible army and even worse breath. That he could pray for.

As he exited the darkened chapel at the King's side, Jonathan expressed his concerns of the heresy seeping from the Germanic states to the east.

"The Duke of Lorraine's faith is unquestioned." Valentine protested half-heartedly, fixing a sceptical look on his son. "Antoine is firmly loyal to Rome" Valentine's voice mingled with the echo of their footfalls down the stone corridor, "He has been tireless in his efforts to root out the false Christians in his territories."

"Of course," Jonathan amended, sensing that the words of defence were shallow. The King kept looking at him again with silent invitation to continue. "The fact remains that there are so many of these so-called reformists in Lorraine, seeping over the border with ease and infecting the Western churches. While the Duke himself may be of sound conscience and faith, the same cannot be said of his entire court. There are bound to be rats in the rotting nest, and his heir is young and impressionable."

"Is that so?" Valentine enquired, pausing at the doors to survey his son with one of those penetrating stares Jonathan so loathed. "So be it. I suppose your sister will not be duch*ess of Lorraine either." He sounded teasingly tragic, but Valentine never jested. Especially on such important matters.

Jonathan's breath caught, "You are decided? You will not wed Clary to Lorraine?"

"And desert our only daughter in a den of heretics? We cannot have that."

"You are easily swayed Father."

Valentine chuckled, resuming his stride, "When I wish to be. Rejecting an alliance, however unlikely, immediately out of hand is poor kingship. As is entertaining only one possibility. I wanted to measure the merits of Duke Antione's suit before I made any rash decisions." Prior to Jace Herondale's instalment as Duke of Broceland, Jonathan thought his father hadn't the capacity to make a rash decision. Then again, he had married Jocelyn Fairchild before consulting anyone after only having known her a few weeks. Mayhap Valentine had something of an impulsive streak. Or perhaps the haste to the altar had cured him of it, considering how that had ended. Once bitten, twice shy.

"Truth be told, I never considered it a fortuitous match." Distanced from their conversation as he was it took Jonathan a moment to recollect himself and realise it was not of his own marriage Valentine spoke.

"No?" Jonathan was inching toward relief himself, albeit most cautiously. On one hand, some success at long last tasted sweet, on the other: that had been much too easy. Valentine shook his head, not managing to shake the half smile still crested upon his lips. "There is too much at stake to squander Clarissa's hand."

Jonathan tensed, as though anticipating a blow. Valentine's response left him more conflicted than ever. He needed to pick apart any possible way this turn in Clary's fortunes could prove detrimental to him.

Much as he hated it, going on the offensive had not helped Jonathan thus far. Time to mount a self-defence. If only he knew what to guard against!

For a moment, Jonathan even contemplated finding Clary and imparting all that had just occurred. Uneasy and unlikely allies as they now were. He could tell her all Valentine had just said and judge her reaction for himself. Or better still, hastening to her might be sufficient demonstration of trust to entice his sister to confide in turn. Jonathan might be able to deduce what Clary meant to do next.

Jonathan had never been unnerved by the dark, not even when he was very small. Tonight, he found himself moving as fast as he could while maintaining an appropriate gait toward the exit. The sedately twitching candles made him jumpy. The many icons now caped in darkness seemed ghostly, their smiles or downcast expressions suddenly grotesque.

His restless agitation spiralled at the sight of a hooded figure blocking the aisle near the exit.

Valentine stopped dead beside him.

Nobody could just barge in on the King, not during prayer, not ever.

And yet here she was, a lone woman, standing still outside the Chapel Royal. Waiting.

With a swooping breath, Jonathan recognised her. Even plain clothed in a dull grey dress and a simple white cap. Standing very still, tremoring as though primed to charge or flee.

The simple garb could not disguise the clear courtier's poise in her stance. Jonathan had not laid eyes on the woman in nigh on ten years, but he knew her instantly- and not merely because she was arrestingly similar to Clary. It was like looking into his sister's face, twenty or thirty years from now.

"Jocelyn," the King uttered her name with dull awe.

Valentine paused, just for a moment. Jonathan watched, in a state of utter shock. His father tightened his shoulders, bracing for impact. Tightening with them his composure. Valentine cleared his throat and advanced, as if this were a petitioner he'd been expecting and not a long-lost living ghost. Returned to haunt both father and son.

Jonathan didn't know what to think or feel. He didn't know what was happening. He didn't, in any real way, know who this woman was.

His mother drew closer, her gaze glittering wariness. Trained on Jonathan, not on the husband rapidly closing the gap of a decade between them.

Only at the last moment did she unstick her eyes from Jonathan, trapped on the spot.

Jocelyn flicked her eyes up and down Valentine. The candles guttered, the silence stretched.

The corners of Jocelyn's mouth tweaked. More a grimace than a smile. She swiped her palms down and then back up over her skirts in a swift, rallying action. Like she was flicking dirt off them. Or drying them.

Then she took the King's proffered hand.

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Chapter 17: PRELUDE

Chapter Text

PRELUDE

Havenfoile House, South of Alicante, March 1518

There was something altogether pathetic about being unnerved by a child. Especially one that had barely turned three. Yet here Jocelyn was, creeping like some kind of thief through her own nursery and stealing time with her children.

Covertly, she tried to slip her heels along the heavy carpets that blanketed every free inch of flooring, since a fear of childhood tumbles had been instilled in her. Her mother had insisted on the carpets, stuffing them into every corner and cranny she could locate the very moment Jonathan had successfully hauled himself upright (albeit using the nurse's fingers and not his mother's) and taken his first solo steps. Jocelyn was glad of them, as they in the least muffled her approach into the sunlight rooms at the front of the house that served as a playroom.

In spite of her best efforts at stealth, the blazing gold eyes snapped to her almost immediately.

Years later and the startling colour of those eyes still threw her peace of mind asunder. Not golden brown, not flecked with gold, they ratherwerepure gold. She knew not where on earth the child had got them. Stephen's eyes had been blue and Celine's an extremely ordinary hazel. It was one of the many puzzlings Jocelyn picked apart in her brains at late hours, when the rest of the palace was asleep.

She schooled her features blank and whipped her strides onwards, as if she did not feel the hot curiosity of that young gaze on her. She never could evade the sense that the child was judging her, that he assessed her with an intelligence far beyond his years. It did not help that when he moved, the boy could do so with almost utter silence if he wished. His words were few and, even at three they gave the impression of being carefully selected.

In her mind Jocelyn had taken to calling him "the other Jonathan." She would not, could not, bear that he bore the same name as her own blessed son. But apparently it had been imparted to the yowling babe in his mother's parting breath, and for whatever reason Valentine had allowed it to stick when he had taken the orphan into their household. Put him in Jocelyn's nursery, without discussion or warning.

Keeping her eyes turned forward as though she had been blinkered, the Queen of Idris paced to the little patch of sun below the slightly cracked open window. Until she reached the crib there.

Midwives were constantly wrangling back and forth as to whether or not fresh air was to be recommended with babes. Some argued that the risk of chills outweighed any potential benefits, but Jocelyn had been raised in the country and had spent every moment she could rambling out of doors. Still, while she hadn't given leaving Jonathan to nap in the gardens a second thought, this time around she worried. She constantly did with her daughter.

Amalia was nowhere near as robust as her brother had been at her age. While Jocelyn's ladies all fell over one another to reassure her such was often the way with girls, Jocelyn remained unconvinced. She needed no experience as a midwife or knowledge as a physician to see Amalia was not thriving.

Her baby daughter blinked up sleepily at her as she were scooped up, not protesting with as much as a squeak or a wriggle. Jonathan had been an eerily quiet baby too, but not to this extent. With Amalia, Jocelyn rather got the impression the child could not make noise rather than would not. As if she knew herself that every scrap of energy she had ought to be preserved.

The room was quiet as the queen began to rock her youngest. Jonathan had charged outside the instant that the rain had stopped, and the nurses knew to give Jocelyn a wide berth when she visited. Not because she was some kind of demon in her governing her children's miniature household- though she had heard tales of mistresses who were a holy terror. Jocelyn knew that each of the women had been carefully chosen because they knew what they were doing when it came to the raising of children, even royal ones. But she saw little enough of her son and daughter as it were, her many queenly duties kept her occupied. Even when they did not, Valentine was adamant that it was not proper for her to spend too much time and effort mollycoddling the children. Jocelyn often tried to reason with him, but short of using the argument that not all mothers were a sealed up, stone-hearted harpy like his had been, she was not likely to sway him.

She was struggling to sway Valentine on anything these days.

That was Stephen's fault. When his treachery had been exposed, something inside Valentine had broken, perhaps irreparably.

He was increasingly shutting himself off with his Councillors and paid his wife very little heed. He pulled away from Luke too, she'd learned. Now Valentine trusted nobody. Jocelyn was not even sure he trusted her anymore. If a cousin could aim a knife at your back, why not a wife?

Surely Valentine knew her better than that. She loved him. She owed him everything. If not for Valentine, Jocelyn would still be sitting out in the shires, collecting cobwebs.

Jocelyn tried to settle her concerns and focus on the child in her arms. It only granted the conditions for yet another set of worries to breed.

The two were not as distanced as she might hope. She was beginning to feel that Amalia's poor health was frustrating more than concerning to Valentine. Jocelyn had taken to avoiding the topic of her with him.

There was no use in bothering Valentine when there was nothing he could do about it. No sense in annoying him needlessly. She tried to reassure herself that it was simply a case of her husband taking out his helplessness on her. Of course, it was distressing their child was wasting away and there was naught either of them could do to stop it.

Still, it was hard to ignore that there were more and more issues that Jocelyn had taken to ignoring. Yet more lines of discussion she was stopping herself from pursuing with Valentine, for fear of provoking his ill moods.

She settled herself in a nearby chair and started to sing softly, trying to soothe herself as much as her child.

The true distraction proved to be Jocelyn's discreet inspection of the interloper.

The Herondale child never ceased to baffle her. This Jonathan was relatively quiet, but equally, if the mood took him, he proved insatiably inquisitive. He could walk and talk with the roots of that same sharp carelessness Stephen once had. Yet there already lurked behind the bravado something of his mother's vulnerability. He was a child who kept himself to himself, already tending to avoid her Jonathan, even at times the nursemaids. They tended to overlook him, and Jocelyn wondered that were the cause or the product of his detachment. The real source of her discomfiture were the times when he would look at her as if he were evaluating her every move. When he did so, he could have been Valentine's very likeness.

The realisation never failed to send a stab of something not quite anger and not quite dread through Valentine's queen. She longed to peel her eyes away from the child chittering to himself softly on the carpet, fiddling with some of the wooden toys the prince had discarded, but Jocelyn failed to do so. If anything, her perusal intensified, searching for what she shrank from possibly seeing.

As though thinking of him had acted a conjuring, Valentine appeared in the doorway. The queen's head snapped up at the sudden unannounced entrance, and she felt her eyes widen in surprise as her mouth popped open. Valentine's attention had yet to cross her.

His eyes went immediately to the child that wasn't theirs and he paused to crouch and pat his head before advancing to where his wife waited, resisting a glower.

Jocelyn would once have been relived to get an opportunity to be alone with him like this, but these days she never knew what to say. Once she had been glad of Valentine's company, now she seldom knew what to do with it. He asked her opinions less and less. These days he tended to dislike them, whenever they were offered, much more often than he approved.

Valentine spared Amalia a peek before glancing at Jocelyn finally. "How is she?"

The anger fizzled out instantly with her quiet admission, "Much the same."

Valentine nodded slowly, dropping into the nearest seat and leaning forward, omitting a long sigh. "There is nothing else to be done." His eyes were piercing Jocelyn now, as though there were something of great importance he wished to convey.

Jocelyn refused to be baited, "There is always hope, and prayer. She has made it this far against all odds."

"I know, dearest, I know that. But you cannot spend all your days clinging to her."

"I do not," She protested roughly.

"Perhaps not physically, but you are letting this cloud all you do. We have another child Jocelyn. I know Amalia is dear to you-"

"And she is not to you?" The accusation shot across twice as viciously as she had intended, but there was no time to try and dilute or amend it, as Valentine broke in with equal force, "On the contrary! I had a particular plan for her."

"Havea plan for her Valentine. She is here! Look at her!" The rising tenor of her voice shuddered with the beginning of a sob.

If anything, that sapped what remained of her husband's patience. He pressed on with the harsh truths no one else dared tell her, "Not every child makes it to adulthood, you know that. It is more than common to lose a child."

"But not my children!" She all but screeched in return, "I am the queen! My children are not anyone's!"

"I have done all I can, paying a small fortune in doctor's fees. None of their remedies work. She is a sickly child, Jocelyn. She may well live, but it will always be as such."

For the first time ever, Jocelyn wanted to hit her husband. How could he sit there and provide her such solemn facts as if it were not the life of their own daughter they discussed? A small move caught in the corner of her eye, and Jocelyn was diverted from her horror-struck rising fury. She shot a fuming, tear blurred glance across to where the forgotten child had stiffened into place, alarmed to have been remembered.

That, in fact, proved to be the final proverbial straw. "Get that child out. Out of here, right this instant!"

For a second Valentine froze, then with the sigh of the long suffering sprang up and began to usher the little boy out of the room, asking loudly as to the whereabouts of his nurses. Jocelyn meanwhile ducked her head down, kept biting back her sobs. She clutched Amalia to her with renewed vigour, starting then to rock back and forth in her misery.

By the time Valentine returned to his vacated seat again, alone, he seemed angered further, "I appreciate that you are emotional, but there is no need to vent it on a child."

"Is there not?" It was so universally unfair, that Stephen's child- who by many accounts should not have born- was the very epitome of health and happiness while Jocelyn's precious little girl faded away faster than the summer roses at the first breath of autumn.

Valentine released another sigh, hesitated once more and then allowed himself to be baited, "What in the name of God does that mean?"

Jocelyn felt the vague hiccup of breath that followed her inability to swallow past her dry mouth. At first there was only the tolling of a dozen unfinished thoughts and questions in her mind: every happy glance Valentine had ever shot Celine and vice versa, his willingness to entertain the newlyweds, the insistence the duch*ess come to court. The demand that Celine be brought into his protection to give birth after her husband's arrest, the wild pursuit when she tried to leave, then having the child seized from her still warm corpse. Above all the insistence the boy be raised here. Like one of his own.

Jocelyn did not want to appear hysterical. No, she need be perfectly serious when she asked this question. "Tell me once and tell me true."

Valentine's exasperation peaked, "Jocelyn."

"Is he your son?"

It was rare she caught Valentine entirely off guard. In fact, Jocelyn could not think of another incident where she'd managed to thrust him into such a confounded silence. The King's entire face was frozen, his eyes flared and his mouth fell open.

It took a long moment for him to compose himself long enough to splutter, "What?"

She might have dropped the line of interrogation there and then, but she knew her spouse to be a convincing actor. Years of kingship taught one that if nothing else. Jocelyn seized in another breath, so violently that her shoulders jerked and little Amalia, quite disregarded, gave a rare fidget.

Jocelyn held the question back for months, privately scouring the child's features for any similarity to her own son's, pretending not to hear the whispers as to why the King was so happy to suffer the traitor's son. Better than suffer. He could have taken wardship of the boy and bundled him off to any other noble household, yet Valentine had chosen to disinherit the boy and then place him in the royal nursery.

Jocelyn could take it no longer. She decided that even if she could not bear the truth she needed to hear it. "Is the boy your bastard?"

Jocelyn's voice was level, but Valentine was still trying to piece himself together after the last question. He was quite unprepared to be hounded on it.

"Christ Almighty, Jocelyn. No. No. He's Stephen's son."

"Are you sure?" She snapped drily. She knew all too well that Valentine's instinctive response to many an accusation was dishonesty. "He hardly resembles him." And she had it on good authority that the duch*ess's bed had not been one of the Duke's favourite haunts, though of course Valentine did not know she had knowledge of that.

"He is Stephen's son. I assure you."

"You do." It was too flat to be a question, yet there remained an imploring to elaborate.

Valentine shook his head disbelievingly, throwing his weight back in the seat and toying absentmindedly with the ring that never left his finger, that godforsaken sapphire that had always reminded his wife that the king was married to his country before he was her. He even had the audacity now to expel a rapid clatter of droll laughter, "You sound as if that is not the answer you wanted."

They were silent for a time then, Jocelyn not knowing what else to say and Valentine having nothing further to say for himself.

For a long silence he considered his wife closely. At last, Valentine spoke again, "I shall prove it to you. Though things would be more convenient if he were my blood," She gasped aloud at that, only to be ignored, "Alas, the boy is a Herondale through and through. Which is problematic for obvious reasons. Why do you suppose I deny him an inheritance entirely? You think me prone to such acts of needless cruelty?"

Jocelyn dared not respond, though he was addressing her she could tell these were entirely rhetorical questions. "Because I wanted to make this boy mine Jocelyn. I wanted him utterly dependent on me. There is so much to be gained by having the very last of that great bloodline beg me for his supper, knowing that without my blessing and goodwill not so much as a crumb would pass his lips. I do not do so out of callousness, though I will not deny the sense of power gives me satisfaction. It was God's will that Jonathan live and be delivered to my keeping. There is as much to be gained from his blood as it might cost us. Its value, ultimately, cannot be overestimated."

He smiled at her conspiratorially, though Jocelyn could not be certain she followed this at all. Until his eyes flicked downwards and settled on the babe dozing in her arms. "I would tie his bloodline to ours, my love." She stiffened, then lurched upwards into a straighter position. Her eyes cast about the room desperately, as though she'd woken suddenly to a strange surrounding. There was no one else there, of course, so eventually Jocelyn had to return to Valentine. "You cannot mean it."

He shrugged, unrepentant. "It is my duty as a father to make plans for my daughter's future, is it not?"

"Not before she walks or talks." The implication Amalia may never do so hung between them. Valentine's smile slipped off his face. He grew irritable again.

That was why Amalia's failing health bothered him so, not because it made him feel helpless, but because Valentine so hated it when his plans were thwarted. Again came the urge to put her hands on Valentine, to beat this hateful streak out of him. Overriding it was Jocelyn's longing to press Amalia closer to her chest, to spirit her child far away from here.

What good would it do? What good would any of it do? She could rail at him all she wanted, but nothing would put strength into the too-small body of her darling daughter. None of it would keep Amalia's heart beating and her breaths flowing.

Valentine however, had yet to move from the previous topic, "It is a gift we have been given. The last of the Herondales was always meant to be mine. I will rid Idris of the old dynasty once and for all, not through destroying it but by utilising it. No one could ever again challenge the right of me or my kin to rule." It brought him to life, the very notion; that vision of the bright future for every King of Idris to come, the one had single-handedly constructed.

Then the sole hurdle that brought him back to the present. Valentine looked again at the tiny heap of blankets which all but concealed the tiny girl from view. Though his eyes were on Amalia, his thoughts were beyond her. "Perhaps not this time. Perhaps not with little Amalia. But if it is God's will as it is mine, we shall have another."

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Chapter 18: Felix Culpa

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Felix Culpa

October 1536, Princewater Palace, Alicante

It seemed like a lifetime ago Clary had wished for her mother and her childhood at the convent back. It seemed like a life that belonged to another girl. Clary had just begun to think that perhaps she might truly belong here, at this court.

But just as she felt she had found her footing; the terrain had changed completely.

The rooms Clary had been occupying were no longer hers, a stipulation she had been informed of as she met servants carrying her belongings out of them. She had been relegated to a smaller and comelier environment. It was a far cry from any sort of austerity, but it was still shocking.

Almost as shocking as the proof that the rumours rang true.

On admittance into the rooms she still considered hers, Clary found Jocelyn Morgenstern sitting by the fire.

Her mother rose, shifting the dark stain of an ill-fitting day gown which must have been borrowed. There were no other ladies here, no other household attendants. Jocelyn had none. She'd had none of the trappings of queenship for years. They too, would have to be borrowed from her daughter.

Jocelyn's eyes flashed with recognition. She took a step toward Clary, then faltered. Her hands fluttered helplessly in thin air.

"Clary. Lord, look at you. You look the perfect gentlewoman. You have grown up." The wistful comment fell like a slap on the Princess.

"I have had to."

Jocelyn kept staring at her expectantly, awaiting an embrace or glad weeping. She was getting neither, Clary thought tartly as the astonishment wore off.

She was so very weary of living according to another's expectations. And she would not be grateful for her mother's sudden reappearance. This woman had flung a lamb into a lion's den.

Jocelyn's mouth twinged into a bitter smile. "I think you were better prepared than you give credence to."

Clary would love to know what it was Jocelyn thought her so nicely shaped for. Her book learning was scowled upon by most of the men here and theirs were the only thoughts that mattered. None of the lessons her mother had been so zealously instilled stood Clary in any kind of good stead. The workings of politics, history and languages were not womanly. Here, women who could not execute dozens of the dances at the drop of a hat were not in high demand.

Evidently, Jocelyn had swept in the same side door she must have slipped out with not a word of warning and now sat by the King's side once more. From what Clary could glean, no one knew which way was up at this court any longer. No one knew what had transpired behind the closed doors of Valentine's private chapel. Whatever that conversation had entailed, all would appear to be forgiven between the King and his wife.

Jocelyn was to be returned to the queen's quarters and served on bended knee again.

There was no part of this which was not disconcerting. Not the way Valentine had calmly put the woman back on his arm. Most certainly not how chests full of Jocelyn's old dresses had been returned to her chambers, as though they had merely been waiting for her.

Which brought Clary to her particular errand of today. The reason she'd used to come see Jocelyn with her own eyes.

"Your jewels are just outside, waiting with Lady Aline Penhallow in your presence chamber. She too, is at your disposal."

Miraculously, in a messianic turn of events, Clary had decided to let the blind see again. Aline had proven she could look tactfully the other way. Now Clary needed Aline to watch closely for her. To precisely what Jocelyn may say or do. And report fastidiously back.

"It has been made known to me that you will have need of some of my women until you can establish your own household."

If, indeed, that was what Jocelyn intended. Sending for noble companions and the hiring of maids all bespoke permanency. It would all indicate Jocelyn meant to stay.

Her mother said nothing which could confirm or deny as much.

Clary supposed she couldn't really begrudge returning the jewels which had all been Jocelyn's anyway. And yet, she found she did. She'd become rather attached to them, just as she had grown attached to being the first lady at this court. The acts of surrender had not come easy. Not helped in the slightest by the denial and confusion muddling Clary's head.

"You'll have to forgive the arrangement of the jewel chest. It was packed in something of a hurry." Clary sucked in a sharp breath and heard the accusation in her voice as she stated, "You gave no indication you'd be coming in any of your letters."

Jocelyn's letters had contained very little of anything. She'd answered Clary's enquiries about the convent in succinct sentences and said nothing at all to soothe Clary's homesickness. Jocelyn's responses had all been short, containing precious warmth. Clary had kept them all, nevertheless. Though nothing in them indicated these were fond missals between a mother and daughter parted for the first time.

Clary had found her own feet at this court for herself. No one had helped or watched over her, apart from maybe Isabelle and Luke.

So now she found herself facing Jocelyn again so unexpectedly, Clary found herself with alarmingly little to say to her mother. Rather, there were things she needed to hear.

An apology, for not protecting her better, for sending Clary here blind to her father's commandeering and her brother's cruelties. For hiding away in the convent and leaving Clary to fend for herself all these months. For the audacity of finally re-emerging, now Clary was coming into her own did not really need Jocelyn.

That, assuredly, was what stung the most.

Jocelyn's lips did not move. She continued staring at Clary as thoughshewere the ghost in these rooms.

Eventually she croaked out, "Clary I… I thought you would be pleased to see me."

Clary recoiled, then steeled her features. "I ampleasedwhen it stays dry in the afternoons, I ampleasedwhen it is duck for dinner, I ampleasedwhen a travelling minstrel asks to play for me. You are my mother. Ineededmy mother."

And perhaps it spoke volumes, that Clary had been bartered like a prize sow, disregarded and undermined in so many ways by the great men of this court, that she was so hesitant to trust now. Unable to look into the face of the person she had once loved most in the world, once trusted without pause, without doubt, and not wonder- what was in it for Jocelyn? Why choose now to return to court and start playing the queen's part? It was impossible not to suspect that this was some ploy of Valentine's, to lull Clary into security or distract her until another betrothal was arranged.

Her hands had crept to her throat with her thoughts, and Jocelyn's eyes tracked the movement.

"I see you've gained jewels of your own, Clary." Cold had seeped into her voice to match Clary's standoffishness. Her tone was part wondering, part accusatory as Jocelyn studied the sapphires shrewdly. Slicing to the heart of Clary's secrets like she was a small child again, lying about having washed her face before bed.

The necklace had been dropped into Clary's lap with an eye roll by Isabelle, accompanied by a short curl of paper which read:Since the fashions of previous decades have grown popular once more.

The sapphires, Clary soon deduced, had formerly belonged to Stephen Herondale's ill-fated second duch*ess. A wedding gift to Jace's mother. Proof that he had grown deadly serious. Proof that Clary had only to say the word, give the signal, and she would have much more than a necklace from the new Duke of Broceland.

Jocelyn plainly recognised them. And remembered precisely whom she had seen wearing them last.

"Costly ones, I do hope you know."

Her mother could still read Clary like an insultingly simple book. No matter. No secret could be kept forever anyway. And, much as Jace had, Clary was growing weary of hiding. And each graze of the fine pear drop jewels reminded Clary that she owed Jace an answer.

If only she could be certain of which to give.

Jace would marry her. Consequences be damned. He would spirit her away to Adamant if need be. Or he would throw himself on the King's mercy after the fact. Jace was a nobody no longer. Once the scandal died down, the court could be inclined to accept their union.

But Valentine was changeable as the seas. He had raised his wife up again in a heartbeat, what was to prevent him throwing his daughter down twice as quick?

Clary may have faced down rebel hoards in the last few weeks, but she had never once considered herself especially daring. What she had steeled herself to do ought to have been unthinkable. It was sometime hard to believe she had such defiance in her.

Which was why it was so difficult to stand here and have her mother talk down to her. Like she was still a little girl playing in the convent meadow.

Jocelyn didn't see Clary much differently than Valentine did. As someone who constantly needed coaxed and steered. A piece to toy with, to use in their old vendetta against one another. Incapable of independent thought or action.

They'd never believe Clary capable of executing what it was she was contemplating. That much was evident in Jocelyn's chiding.

Perhaps that could work to her advantage.

"Not a cost you need concern yourself with, Mother." There was nothing Jocelyn need to concern herself with here at all, though Clary refrained from saying so as bluntly. Grown though she had, Jocelyn was still her mother. She would always quake at direct impudence.

Nonetheless, Clary had learned to get by on her own.

So, she excused herself, with the pretence of her errand complete. She wouldn't pretend anything other than disappointment at her mother's lacking response. She supposed she would have to wait and see what Jocelyn's intentions were. But Clary could not afford to sit idle in the meantime.

Some things were irreversible. As the doors to the queen's apartments sealed behind Clary once again, she let the fear that she and her mother would never be as they once were sink into her chest.

Come nightfall, Clary crept out of the small antechamber she closeted herself in for prayer now. She winced at the snick of the door reverberated in the quiet of her outer chamber.

Reliably, Rebecca had seized the opportunity to make herself scarce and pray in her own, hidden fashion. Isabelle, equally but distinctly reliable, was snoring softly to herself by the fire, her head lolling against the back of the seat.

In a time when men were filled with a religious fervour so great they would tear one another apart for the denial of the smallest part of the sacred mysteries, it was strangely relieving to find Isabelle's apathy unchecked. Isabelle was the sort of Christian who lived a practical faith. She could see the good in works of charity and striving to be a more Christ-like individual, but the ins and outs of theology bored her. Likely for the best; the last thing a woman ought to do in this world was question anything.

Drawing her cloak around her with as little rustling as possible Clary had to nip at the inside of her lips to quell a nervous giggle as she contemplated what the conclave of cardinals might make of Izzy. Isabelle may be more successful than Martin Luther had in getting the Vatican to listen. Partly to distract herself from the tension and peril that lay in what she was on the cusp of doing, Clary amused herself thoroughly by imagining Isabelle Lightwood as the face of the reformation even as she made for the servants' steps.

Trudging tentatively downwards Clary was grateful for her velvet slippers. For all their hushed scuffling against stone at least there were no wooden heels to betray her. She tucked her fingers into the pockets of her cloak, letting their tips brush against the warm metal circle within.

A ring.

It had not been particularly difficult to procure. Most of the jewellers in the city were still recovering from their stores having been sacked by the traitorous rabble. At the merest hint the Princess had a collection to replenish, a torrent of silver and goldsmiths were soon requesting an audience to present their wares. This particular one -plain gold with a single opal embedded- had not been difficult to slip amongst her purchases. Clary liked it best because it was beautiful in its subtlety, easy to pass over at first glance. But once held to the light, the stone illuminated a myriad of rainbows and patterns. The lover of art that still slumbered within her had not been able to resist.

An unconventional ring to seal an unconventional deal.

Clary was also beginning to feel she had at last mastered the art of navigating the underbelly of this great palace, her nerves spiking as she emerged at the end of the hallway that led to deserted Chapel Royal. The bronze hinges glinted in the torchlight, winking a signal that they shared in her conspiracy.

She turned a corner, halting short of colliding with the figure lingering in the doorway.

Jace was early. Uncertainty flexed its claws in her stomach. She had requested the chapel as their meeting spot because it would be the only place she could contrive a plausible excuse for visiting should she be discovered. Now she reflected how a request to meet at the Church door might have sounded.

But surely he'd appreciate it couldn't happen tonight? They would have to find a priest, persuade one of the King's clerics to do it in secret? Then there was the minor matter of witnesses. Clary would have to convince Simon and probably Isabelle to stand for them.

Her feet skipped and skidded onward.

By the time the cap was removed to reveal a silvery white head, it was much too late to divert her course.

Clary's father turned and caught her arm in a vice like grip.

-000000000000-

"What I cannot for the life of me understand is whywehave to move." Isabelle grumbled, somehow managing to be both sullen and charming at once.

Simon finally secured the buckle on the bulging case before him and rose gratefully to his feet. While he bounced his weight from one leg to the other and felt the tingling of feeling flood back into his lower limbs, he could not help but smile at her pout. "That is the only part I believe I do understand."

Izzy's frown deepened as she continued to cram yet another load of Clary's books into a similar case with impatient vigour. "It is unjust. We were in residence here first."

Simon internally reflected that the "we were here first" argument had never served his people very well historically against the Christians. Outwardly, he moved to assist Isabelle as best he could, prising a book of Spanish translations out of her fingers. He meant to free the book from any further rough handling that would bring down the wrath of their Princess upon his sweetheart.

If that was what Isabelle were. Simon felt a frown burrow lines across his forehead as he recognised the tongue the manuscript advocated. It was not one of Clary's strongest languages, she evidently sought to enhance her ability.

Simon wished she would not. It was not the language itself that unnerved him, but the connotations of it.

Spain had a great deal to answer for as far as the treatment of his people were concerned. He was suddenly struck by the irony of the two pieces he now found in his hand, having instinctively relieved Isabelle of another: a prayer book. So here he was- a Jew caught between Spanish and Christian prayers. He need not fear the Inquisition; he was the Inquisition. Chortling ruefully, Simon dropped them back onto the boxed pile.

He lowered his elbow and squashed them downwards with all the strength he had. The sound of the pages being crumpled together was finer music than his lute could ever produce.

Isabelle raised one of her exquisitely shaped brows. Simon chose to respond to her first question. "I think you will find that, technically, the Queen was here first."

It was not likely to get any less strange in the immediate future, referring to Jocelyn as such. To Simon she was much a second mother. A much sharper, more demanding and judgemental mother, perhaps. More like a governess, if Simon had been well enough born to have had one. Nonetheless, Jocelyn had been content to be called "my lady" or simply "madam" in all the years Simon had known her.

Isabelle just tutted, resuming her ill-tempered flitting about the chamber, sounding and looking a little like a demented chicken in a coop. "Of course. Then why not have her own ladies prepare them for her?" She paused in her snatching up some bottles of rose water and gasped theatrically- "Oh yes- she has none."

"Well, we are members of Clary's household and these are Clary's things..." Simon trailed off his injection of reason, seeing that it would only inflame her further. Isabelle was not about to launch any attempts to resign herself to their afternoon duties.

Technically speaking these were only her allotted tasks. Much as Isabelle might dislike them, they had been issued by the queen herself. Clary herself had yet to appear for the day.

Simon was more confused than usual. He should think Jocelyn's return was a good thing for his friend, in fact he had assumed it were. Surely with her mother back, Clary had a real ally in the lion's den at last.

It suddenly struck Simon that the one person who may know Clary's mind on the matter was before him and not himself.

These days she saw far more of Izzy than she did him, he had to admit that there had grown a distance between he and Clary that had never existed before. How could there not? Not only was there a physical distance, but where once she had hours free for him and he alone, now Clary was lucky to be able to spare a dozen minutes to speak with him. Clary lived in a world of women now.

And what they did speak of... once they had just been a small boy and a girl whose common interests were easily found in the form of an expedition to the nearby creek to see if the frogspawn had hatched. Now Clary's mind was full of state dinners and the Duke of Broceland, thoughts Simon was happy for her to keep to herself.

Not that there were any hard feelings betwixt them. The leisure time Clary now spent on Jace, Simon spent with Isabelle.

He opted to quiz Izzy on her now. Although having to admit he needed help in reading and understanding Clary caused more than a little discomfort. At his stilted and envious line of enquiry, Isabelle ceased her folding of some furs, a chore to which she leant the most delicacy he'd seen yet.

"How would all in her mind be well? Even I am struggling to comprehend what her mother's presence here means and if it bodes well for Clary or not."

"How could it not? Jocelyn is her mother. She has always wanted the best for Clary, always pushed for Clary to be her very best."

Isabelle laughed dully, "I did get the impression Her Majesty ruled Clary's childhood with more than a little tyranny."

Simon tried to leap to Jocelyn's defence, but Isabelle sliced through his hastily driven charge with ease, "Clary has spoken to me of the strict routines, harsh even. From the ungodly hour at which Clary was instructed to rise, each minute of the day was filled with endless lessons. It seems Clary could never know enough, nor do enough to impress her Mother. Even mine has never been so domineering." She appraised Simon now keenly, and was speaking with quiet speculation. "You must have noticed by now that Clary is exceptionally learned for a girl."

Simon shrugged, "I was under the impression that all noble girls were educated thus."

Izzy shook her refusal vehemently, "Clary has the education of a prince. As it happens, she had an upbringing not altogether dissimilar fromourPrince. She and Jonathan were raised in different ways by different people, but to much the same ends."

Simon mirrored her shaking head with perplexity, "Izzy, I know not what you are trying to say."

Isabelle's fingers skated repetitively over the mound of sables she had gathered, "Nor do I. Not particularly. It has just struck me that Clary and Jonathan are a mirror's image of each other just as much as Jace and Jonathan. Players on opposite sides no doubt- but at the same game. No, not players. Not really. Pieces. Jonathan intended to be his father's and Clary her mother's."

Simon was shocked at how troubled she appeared, rubbing the soft fur between her fingertips with such agitation that he felt the need to hasten to where she stood and grasp at the fingers to stop the motion. "Peace, Izzy." She raised her eyes to his slowly, the glimmer of true agitation still there. Simon marvelled that they were close enough for him to feel the warm wisp of her breath across his cheeks, "What has you so distressed?"

"I am not distressed," Isabelle protested, the indignant denial allowing some of her old humour to leak through and seal the cracks. Bricks and mortar. "Merely irritated. Alec is perpetually in the city these days and he will not tell me why and as for Jace..." Her eyelashes flickered as she blinked and sighed, taking a decisive step backwards and releasing herself from Simon's hold. She massaged at her wrists and stared off into the distance, "And I cannot puzzle out what has brought Jocelyn back. Clary was on the cusp of a betrothal before, then we were all under siege by a rebel army, still she made no move. She spends four hours locked in the King's chapel alone with him and emerges queen again? To be treated with every courtesy and honour as though she never left? There has only been one great change at this court since then. Jace being given his birthright and father's title." Isabelle's eyes slid back to his with no great hurry, but held the kind of contemplative gravity Simon had never associated with her before. "The two must be connected."

Simon closed the gap once more and took hold of her shoulders. This was not the first time Isabelle had backed away from him of late. It was starting to unnerve him. Which was not a good sign at all, since he and Isabelle were strictly to be one another's distractions and nothing more. If the novelty of their dalliance had worn off for her…Truth be told, Simon was not prepared to let that happen just yet.

Instead, he opted to keep the passion alive. He needed to be more spontaneous, more dangerous, Eric had assured him. So be it. He did not think you could get any more dangerous than an embrace in the Princess's- now the Queen's- bedchamber when someone could walk in at any moment.

"Then we ought to find ourselves some better occupation." He spared the only slightly ajar door one last look then drew her close. After a brief sway of reluctance Isabelle allowed herself to be pulled in until her nose brushed his. She hummed in agreement after a moment's pause, "Fretting means frowning and frowning means premature wrinkles. I should very much like to dwell on something else."

With that, they settled it.

Or at least, attempted to. No sooner had their lips touched than the bang of the door handle colliding with wall plaster interrupted them.

The two lurched apart, casting about for who would have opened the door with such force. Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may prove to be, it was not the Queen who was darkening the doorway. It was Alec Lightwood.

Simon had come to appreciate that while Alec usually hid his emotions as well as the Jews had concealed the Ark of Covenant. On the rare occasion Alec did allow them to come to light it was only so that he might look as if he had just discovered doomsday upon them.

He looked as such now, in enough of a panic that not even the present position of his sister was sufficient to distract him from. "Isabelle, Jesus."

"My name is Simon, actually." The unaddressed party corrected, realising too late that was unforgivably blasphemous. At least he went to the stake with a sense of humour.

Not even in his moment of crisis was Simon worthy of any attention.

The Lightwoods ignored him.

"What is it?" Isabelle demanded.

Alec swept his cap off his head and allowed his chest to heave several times as he caught his breath, eyes skirting the entire room as if he had misplaced something that may be there. "Tell me you have seen Jace today."

"Seen Jace?" Isabelle's annoyance spiralled, then her expression cooled with realisation, "Not of late. Not at all today, now I think of it. Why? What has he done now?"

Alec laughed, sharply hysterical before he offered a shrug of surrender. "That is what I would know. I just returned from the city, but no one has seen him anywhere today."

"Did you try his chambers?"

Alec shot her a look of unspeakable exasperation. "Yes. Oddly enough. That was my first port of call."

The biting sarcasm rather impressed Simon, but he had not very long to appreciate it. "He is not with the Princess?"

"No," Isabelle shook her head, thinking furiously.

Alec swallowed, dropping his voice and stepping close enough to grasp Isabelle by the arms, "Izzy, have you seen Clary today?"

Isabelle's mouth hardened into a firm line. She could not answer him, Simon comprehended as the silence stretched on too long.

He did it for her. Clearing his throat awkwardly he admitted, "We were waylaid by the Queen as we tried to reach Clary's apartments today. She sent us here and gave us tasks that would take all day. Apparently, Clary has a cold and taken to bed."

For the first time Alec looked him in the eye and spoke directly to Simon, "Has anyone in her household laid eyes on the Princess this day?"

Simon shuffled uncomfortably and shrugged, appalled that none of this had occurred to him sooner. He was supposed to be Clary's closest friend, yet he had not taken his banishing from her rooms as suspicious.

He had gone too happily with Isabelle, rather than insisting if Clary were ill she would want his company. Too trusting of Jocelyn, without accepting that he was no longer seven years old, and the woman's word no longer ought to be taken as gospel.

If no one had seen Clary today what was to say she was even still in the palace? She was not a stupid or flighty girl by any stretch of the imagination, but that abominable Frenchman, he could well have persuaded her to do something immeasurably stupid.

"Not even Jace would be so foolish." Isabelle began, her thoughts evidently travelling the same road as Simon's.

"As to run away with Clary? Why not? The pair of them are old romantics are they not? And this is their love story, fitting of a troubadour. They would think it fitting." Alec grew more and more agitated with each passing word, while Isabelle reddened and looked increasingly guilty.

Simon sidled closer to hiss under his breath "You encouraged it?"

While Alec may not have truly heard him, he could at least guess as to the gist of the conversation, for his stare bored into his sister more intently.

"No" Izzy snapped back in a whisper, "At least not directly. I did fall asleep on duty last night."

"Isabelle!"

Alec set himself to launch into a tirade, but Izzy cut him off, "Before you heap the entirety of the blame on me perhaps you should contemplate wherever it wasyouwere last night." She shucked his hands off her and raced on, "I know not where it is you disappear to Alec. But that I can manage, trusting in you and loving you as I do. What I will not do is sit back and let you berate me for being distracted as though you are not. If Jace is gone, then it is because you have not been here for him. You have not listened, and you have not pressed him to speak. "

"I won't ask him questions I myself could not answer, were they posed in reverse" Alec shot back, face flooding with colour again. Alec shook his head, "We do not have time for this. We need to find out what is happening." He paused and rubbed a hand over his face with bewildered dread, "Or what has already occurred."

-0000000000000-

Jace had experienced the displeasure of many moments of apparent helplessness in the past, but all of them were dwarfed in comparison to the trifle he found himself in now. Quite literally he had naught to do but twiddle his own thumbs, swiping the pad of one thumb over the joint jutting out at the base of the other. While doing his utmost to avoid eye contact with the queen.

He kept his mind focused on his knee, bouncing up and down on the spot. It was supposed to work off some of his agitation. At the moment, it served only to accentuate how chained he was to the spot. Not physically, of which he supposed he ought to be thankful, but the grim expression of Queen Jocelyn opposite him left no doubts as to how far his misdemeanours of late had been revealed.

The Queen looked unnervingly like her daughter. Until now Jace had presupposed that those who swore to Clary being her very picture had merely been saying that politely, to fill an otherwise fraught silence or in the hope of currying some kind of familiarity with the young royal. Now he saw otherwise with his own eyes. He could also tell, in the vague, hasty sweep of the lady's hard expression he chanced, that she was not at all ignorant of what she detained him from tonight.

One did not refuse a Queen's summons. Not even for a Princess's.

Jace took his seat in the Queen's parlour, and they had fallen into their silence.

Though armed guards at the door confirmed Jace was not free to go. And Jocelyn made no move to dismiss him.

This was preferable to the Cardinal, Jace urged himself to consider. Despite that, this entire tableau was perhaps more unsettling than the prospect of another interrogation. Jace knew better than to think he would twist his way out of the noose a second time.

There would be no quick escape from this, even as the Queen's seemed disinclined to pay attention to anything other than the clasped hands in her lap and the occasional sideways glance to where the closest clock ticked by.

Jace had summoned and discarded several lines of excuse making as the silence stretched, telling himself that there was no use in it when he knew not what he was about to be charged with. Well, perhaps that was not strictly true, but he was ignorant as to how it was going to be phrased.

His fingers twitched toward his pocket, toward the crinkle of paper Helen Blackthorn had passed him at dinner. There was no way in hell they could possibly know the extent of it. Clary was not about to tell anyone; of that he could be certain. The woman had a will of iron and thicker skin than most presumed.

The rumble of approaching footsteps, a simple, brief order from beyond and then the door creaked open to see Valentine enter.

The King sauntered over to the where a jug of wine awaited, the trickle and splash of falling liquid filling the fraught room like the cascade of a waterfall.

Clearly his consort was out of practice when it came to Valentine's long games. Or maybe she had simply run out of patience with them, "Where is Clary?" she demanded. Valentine drew a long drink and made no haste to reply. "Where is my daughter?" Jocelyn demanded next, all pretences of calm disinterest shattered as she clenched the arm of her chair, "We agreed-"

"Hush, my love." Jace wondered if there was some hidden sarcasm in that concluding sweet nothing. He decided he did not care, for he wanted the Queen's question answered as dearly as she did. The King hardly blinked, however, before continuing, "Our daughter has been safely restored to her chambers." At last his focus fell upon Jace, "We shall return to her when we have finished here."

"Should I not-"

"You shall stay here, Jocelyn. I shall require a witness."

Jace doubted if the King could have said anything less comforting in that moment.

"Now, Jonathan," The King settled himself into the chair facing opposite Jace's, "I expect it is high time we discussed your relationship with my daughter."

Wildly, he contemplated playing this the way the Jace of a few months ago might have;What relationship sire?But he sensed they were far beyond that. Everyone in this room knew he was in love with Clary. Valentine had probably known it for even longer than Jace had himself.

Hence all the favours showered on his embassy. Not because Valentine had ever been particularly attracted to a French marriage, but because he liked Clary keeping the then-ambassador in her company. But to what end?

The contemplation of past titles in turn made Jace wonder if he was about to go down in history as the man who held the shortest ever dukedom.

With that thought, Jace realised that the only scenario he could not live with, the only crime he could not absolve himself of- which Clary would never forgive- was not staging one final battle. Either way, it would be worth it. Besides, he had not sinned in deed. There was no treasonous act he had committed. Jace was glad that they had stopped where he had that night in his bedchamber. So, he cleared his throat and started to speak. "By all means, Your Majesty."

With a soft swish of fine fabric, the King crossed his legs and reclined on the chair beside his wife. Jocelyn was on the edge of her sat more than figuratively, a handful of her skirts still clutched in her right hand. She had frozen just as she had made to rise, now her eyes flickered between the two men and the faraway door.

Her phrasing"my daughter"took centre stage in Jace's mind. Mayhap Jocelyn was the one he needed to sway here? No. The woman would likely be even tougher to melt than Valentine. Jace remembered her icy distaste from his childhood well enough. Moreover, he knew that Valentine was the sort of man who, if you sought one of his possessions, would make you prise it from his stiff, dead hands. And Clary was, in the eyes of the law, very much her father's property. Jocelyn could protest it all she wanted; she could not actively do anything to stop it. Still, Jace had to get 'it' in motion first.

The King sipped his drink again, waiting. His expression was as clear to read as a line of print, so Valentine did not need to sully the atmosphere by being verbally direct.What do you want?

"Sire, I would present another suit for the Princess's hand."

Valentine assented with a vague swipe of his hand.

"The advantage of a match outside these borders are plain to see. But I urge Your Majesty to consider the convenience of an Idrisian marriage. Foreign rulers can be fickle, and faithless. They are not your subjects and they are not required to do your bidding. There you are reliant on good faith. But-" He allowed the snide edge of a smirk to rise, eyes travelling to the fireplace, seeing in his mind books rather than logs being eaten by the flames- "We no longer live in an age of blind faith. Would it not better to have a lord whose obedience you could be sure of, whose door you could be at in several days? A local nobleman would not require the dowry of an Emperor either, so it would be the economical choice. Beyond that, he would not be dragging you into any conflicts abroad either. There would no risk of Idris getting involved in someone else's wars, the only reward of which would be whatever measly crumbs Spain or France saw fit to throw us. It would conserve lives as well as coin." He ceased to draw breath before proceeding, only to be curtailed by the raising of Valentine's hand.

"I know better than any man you can plead a case. That is not what I need you to prove."

Jace released a shuddering breath, clenching the armrests and feeling a bunching frustration seize his muscles, "Then what proof? Tell me and I will give or show it. Or perish in the attempt. I will do anything, Majesty."

"Anything?"

With a quiet scoff Jace accepted his fate. For Clary, he would sell his soul. It was already too blemished to be of use to anyone other than Valentine Morgenstern anyway.

"Anything."

Valentine should hate to be predictable; "Tell me Jonathan, do you love her?"

Surprisingly it was the Queen who answered, "Would it matter if he did not?"

Jace tensed, utterly thrown.

Valentine smiled, humourlessly. He cast his wife a mere sideways glance before swivelling his head back to Jace.

"I love her." Jace set his jaw and lifted his chin. There was no point in being half damned, now was there? "More than my own life."

Valentine snickered, indifferent to the other parties' inability to grasp the jest. He did turn to the unsmiling Jocelyn, a definite silent 'I told you so' delivered. Then all mirth evaporated, "A valiant effort, my boy. But you always were too soft and sentimental. Too often are you ruled by your heart, no matter how well you think you screen it with pretence at cunning or ambition. That will never do. My daughter needs a husband who will break her in. Teach her obedience, not one who will indulge her out of love."

From the corner of his eye Jace glimpsed Jocelyn's brows sloping to a frown, but paid it no heed. His world was beginning to collapse around him. He fought to keep from surrendering to that despondency. He swerved into the panic and grabbed for his final, lone straw:

"My lord, you promised me a debt." Breathlessly grave, Jace clenched his hands together and lowered himself to a solemn pleading. "One gift, were it in your power to grant."

The queen looked to her husband in puzzlement, Valentine did not remove his eyes from Jace. "I ask it now. Please God, grant me your daughter's hand. You know you will not find a more faithful son in marriage." Or one who wouldn't demand twice Clary's body weight in gold as a dowry.

Valentine smiled. Latent, pure satisfaction.

His wife laughed quietly to herself, shaking her head in amused disbelief.

Because Jace had done exactly as the King wanted, the understanding resounded somewhere in his spinning head, wasted that wish on something Valentine had been inclined to give him anyway.

Valentine took particular delight in experimenting with just how far he could push a man and still have him snap back to where was convenient for him. And yet, today Jace could not find it in him to care. Not when his transgressions with Clary may bear reward.

The King of Idris slowly and smugly extended his hand to the dumbfounded young man before him.

If this was the price of a fall from grace, perhaps Jace should do it more often.

-0000000000000-

Filling the atmosphere as much with disbelief as the dense silence, Clary contemplated the misting of her breath before her and wondered if she was to be left here to freeze to death. An hour ago, she might have imagined that her fury was such that her very breath smoked. Her reserves of anger had been swamped by dread long since.

If she were to be honest, Clary was not surprised enough to feel indignant. She should have seen all this coming. Perhaps not in this sequence of events, but for every sin there came a reckoning.

The dark, quiet chill of the rooms was oddly placating. It was nice in a way to have the time and peace to count her breaths and with them her thoughts. Clary could have risen from the floor and gone to the fireplace. A few embers still lurked there. Much as it may have made a poignant image for her to be crouched over the dying heat, she felt immensely weary and could not bear to stir herself. She made a perfectly good image of despondence as she was, slumped against the leg of the chair she had shunned, her head skimming the bottom of the table top.

The last thing she wanted was to move. If anything, unbearable though this waiting was, it was still preferable to anything the future may hold for her. Given what was likely to be on the horizon when the sun rose, she found herself half-wishing this night would go on forever and ever. She could keep this vigil for eternity if need be.

Clary was so weary. How long had she been here?

Her father had simply instructed her to wait. That could have been hours ago. It most definitely felt it. The interior of the room had been dark when she had arrived but beyond the nearest windowpane pure darkness remained. No hint of a dawn.

There was no way that Jace would get to walk away from this, no matter how clever he was. In fact, knowing Jace, he would not be inclined towards a witty evasion, not anymore. Had he not made himself perfectly clear? He was finished with the creeping around and lying. Well then, Clary did not want an escape from this either. She would take whatever came, whatever disgrace or punishment.

Her eyes must have slid shut, for the next Clary knew she were jerking awake again. Clary blinked her still tired eyes several times, recollecting piece by piece where she was and why. She clenched and unclenched her numb fingers, rubbing at her neck briefly before tucking them under the mountain of her skirts. Even that slight move sent spasms of icy pain through her cramped limbs. Wincing, Clary wondered how long she had dozed for. She heard the unmistakable croak of a co*ckerel nearby.

What was taking them so long? There was not so much to her indiscretions with Jace that it would take all night to divulge. She had been wrong, Clary feared, scrunching up her stinging eyes. Jace must have denied her after all.

Stubbornly she resisted sleep as best she could. She had to think. Keep alert. It was growing impossible.

Her hand crept back to the ring she had concealed.

How had she ever believed she might steer the course of her fate? Evade the inevitable?

"Clarissa," The stern disapproval bolted her awake. She hadn't been aware of dozing off again. Clary's head collided with the corner of the table top as she jerked upright.

For the second occasion in a too short space of time Clary found herself confusedly blinking up at her father.

He was annoyed, she noticed first, likely that she had missed his grand entrance. Or that she had not spent the entirety of the night writhing about in trepidation, shirking from the thought of what was to come.

She sincerely hoped her debauchery had kept him out of bed all night, though she could tell his hair had been recently combed and his beard just trimmed. No, he had decided what to do with her hours ago.

Clary forced an unsteady rise. Her legs barked irritably as she bade them hold her. Clary met her father's gaze. "Majesty?" She sounded hoarse.

"Clarissa," he repeated, gaze sliding up and down her with distaste.

"Forgive my appearance. Had I known when to expect you I would have readied myself."

Rather than sparking his temper, that remark caught the King's amusem*nt. Clary would not easily rile him today. Valentine was very, very pleased with himself at the moment.

"We shall see how long that spirit lasts in marriage. We have found the ideal husband for you at last."

Stunned, Clary had no reply, at which the smile grew.

"You see? You are learning. I have realised that a disobedient girl like yourself could be sent to no foreign court. You would only disgrace me," Valentine declared with snide pleasure. Reaching for her elbow and seizing it up, the King turned her none too gently around until she was at his side. Then he began to march her toward the door.

Still, Clary would not satisfy him to voice as much as a squeak of protest.

"We will keep you here, we think. Where an eye can be kept on you."

Clary stayed stonily mute, though she dragged her heels as much as she could. None of this made sense. Her father kept yanking on her arm, "Come now, Clarissa, your betrothed awaits." He pushed the door to her outer chamber, the ease with which it swung outwards mocking her earlier plight.

Clary took account of her rather wan mother and the reliably congested Pangborn, but then quite forgot their presence as she recognised the third person waiting.

Jace glanced up with alarm as she entered, dragged along limply by her arm like a doll. The three were crowded around a document, she noticed as Valentine continued hauling her over. When he finally released his hold, the return of blood flow down her arm was just as pinching as his fingers had been.

Jace kept staring, saying nothing of course, but there was an immense pleading in his face. To do what?

Her attention snapped back to Pangborn, who cleared his throat and stirred the quill in the inkpot before him noisily, eventually extending it to Clary. With his left hand, the King's Master Secretary rotated a sheet of precise, concise legal print.

A betrothal contract. With the first spiked signature still damp upon it.Jonathan Herondale.

Was this some kind of trap?

Valentine leaned forward until his breath brushed her ear. "Not your will but mine, daughter. For once, Clarissa, do as you are bid." His hands landed on the small of her back and gave a little shove.

On the stumbling step forward, Clary reached for the quill.

She looked to Jace one final time, long enough to spy the smallest of nods he dared.

Clary pressed the nib to paper.

-000000000000-

Chapter 19: Binding

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Binding

Late November 1536, Princewater Palace, Alicante

Isabelle loosed a long whistle through her teeth, the kind of whistle the nuns had once told Clary caused Our Lady to weep if uttered by a woman. If any saints were shedding a tear for Isabelle Lightwood, it was not because of her whistling habits. "It must have cost a fortune," she breathed, taking no pains to disguise her begrudging astonishment.

"Princes have been ransomed for less," Clary deadpanned, "Or so I have been told. My father would make a spectacle."

"That he will certainly do," Izzy mused under her breath, skirting toward the bedside as if the shimmering gown splayed across it may take flight. With cautious reverence, she reached out and stroked the golden bodice. It was so embedded with pearls and finery that Clary feared it would feel like a breastplate. Evidently her comfort was not very high on the agenda.

Noting her surliness at last, her friend peeked up at her curiously, "I do not credit myself with being a woman prone to swooning but were I gifted a wedding gown such as this, I might make an exception."

"You are resolved never to marry," Clary reminded her coyly, crossing her arms.

With tangible reluctance, Isabelle released her hold on the ostentatious garment, "I would have expected you to be beside yourself with joy by now. These past few weeks I have accredited your churlishness to a state of shock. You could not believe your own luck. Now this godsend has arrived," Izzy gestured to the dress as fondly as another woman might a newborn child, "You have proof at last the King means for this wedding to happen. And in this gown, you will be the envy of every girl in Europe."

Clary sighed and shuttered her wearied eyes briefly, "It is much too gaudy."

"How dare you say such a thing!" Seeing Clary was not going to laugh, Isabelle tried again, "Surely even if the wedding dress is not to your liking, the groom is? I cannot fathom what has you so unhappy, Clary."

"I am not unhappy," Clary attempted to amend, rubbing at her velvet clad forearms.

"You must have noticed by now that the other girls are gagging on their jealousy. Not only do you get the grand wedding, you also get the rising star who happens to be the most handsome man at this court for a husband."

Delicately folding the edge of the spreading skirts out of her way, Izzy flopped down and arranged her expression until she gave the impression of a woman about to deliver a stern telling off. "Who I happen to know you to be dizzily in love with." She pinched her face to a frown then, enquiring with exasperation, "Why do you behave like a woman heading to the gallows?"

Clary just sighed, unsure of where to begin or what wording to use. "It is not the prospect of my wedding that has me so on edge. More the manner of it."

Isabelle remained confused.

Clary glanced toward the ajar door to her outer chamber, beyond which the excited cacophony of squeals from the rest of her ladies told her that the arrival of the gown was set to occupy them for quite some time. Long enough for her to confide in Isabelle. "Everything is happening so quickly, yet not quite quickly enough." She moved to Isabelle's side and joined her on the bed, where their shoulders brushed.

Isabelle's eyes widened dramatically, "It is true?" she demanded, aghast.

"What is true?"

Izzy's eyes shot to Clary's stomach and then back to her face, looking rather nauseated. "That you are..." she gestured to Clary's tight stomacher.

The Princess caught her meaning quickly. "God in heaven! No!No." Her friend's relief was palpable, but now the initial shock had worn off, Clary found another thing to concern her, "Are people saying that I am? Who would say such a thing?"

Isabelle shrugged sheepishly, "Everyone gossips of their betters. Makes them seem less high and mighty. More human. Besides, the same would be said of any woman whose wedding was arranged so unexpectedly and with such urgency. "

She broke their line of discourse to pipe loudly, "Pearls would look well with the colour, Highness."

The signal saw Clary turn her head rapidly to where Helen Blackthorn hovered, poking her head around the doorway.

"Aught amiss?" Clary enquired, eager to get rid of the girl as soon as possible.

"No, Your Highness," her lady said awkwardly, fidgeting and drumming her fingers against the doorknob, "I have misplaced my thimble," she offered weakly, "I thought it may be in here."

"You may use mine," Clary offered, baffled by Helen's obvious discomfort.

"Use mine," Isabelle cut in, her command ringing briskly and icily, "It would not be fitting for you to rifle among the Princess's things," She added as an acidic afterthought. Helen paled, but accepted the dismissal without protest and retreated.

Once they were alone again, Izzy pressed on, "The real question Clary is not what is being said. It is: to whom are they saying it? You tell me. You know that you were betrayed that night by someone, now a rather guilty Judas is lingering around your bedchamber and hanging behind after Mass in the hope that she will catch you alone. She wants to confess."

Clary sighed, letting her eyes drift to the windowpane, splattered with raindrops. "It was Helen?"

"It must have been. Few people knew what was going on with Jace and I did not talk to the King."

Despite herself, Clary chuckled a little, "Oh I know you would not succumb."

"Never!" Isabelle asserted grandly, "They would have to wrench out every last one of my fingernails," She added with gruesome delight.

Clary winced and happily returned to one of the many matters at hand, "Well I suppose I shall have to forgive her. There are few enough friends of mine at this court. I can imagine how compelling my father must have been in extracting the truth."

"Make her squirm a few days more," Isabelle advised, movingly heartless.

"Your cruelty fits in well here."

"You think so? Is this the part where you finally tell me what has you feeling other than perfectly blessed?"

Where to begin? Clary continued to stare at the glass panes shuddering delicately in their frames at the pounding gales beyond. She knew she had to articulate herself somehow.

Truly, the one person who would understand her feelings was Jace, but now her every gesture to him really was carefully monitored. She may be on the verge of being bound to him for the rest of her life but the edge of something had never felt so treacherous before. Nor had Jace ever felt further from her.

There would be no more covert meetings, no more private conversations, no acknowledgment of inside jokes. Her father was inclined to make him into the stranger her royal husband ought to have been.

Now he was officially the Duke of Broceland, as the result of a ceremony Clary had not been present at. At every turn the legality and politics of this move was accentuated. It had nothing to do with the Princess's person, nothing at all.

She tried to tell her friend as much now, "While this is what I want, it is wholly the King's doing." She toyed with her hands uneasily and her thoughts simultaneously, trying to frame the right words, "He has had this in the works for months now, since I first got here. Longer, I should imagine. This is why I was brought here, why all of us were brought here. "

She chanced a side glance at her friends to find some compassion had softened Isabelle's perplexed expression.

"Clary, your father did not make you fall in love with Jace. Nor he you. That you both managed all on your own. What the two of you have is very real. That is what is fuelling the gossip more than anything, pure envy. You have what every girl longs for; a handsome, devoted lover of whom her father approves."

"Every girl?" She could not resist needling Izzy as the relief expanded in her chest.

"Most girls," Isabelle amended with a playfully warning shove, "As you know I am the exception to almost every rule."

Clary's appreciative laughter faded, "My father can do whatever he pleases with me. He can take away just as easily as he gives."

Sighing with emphatic exasperation, her lady reached over to grip her by the shoulders and play at shaking her, "Clary naught in this life is certain other than death. You cannot lurch from one day to the next anticipating only the worst."

Clary leaned into Isabelle and laid her head on the taller girl's shoulder, grateful for the contact.

"Come now," Isabelle murmured with the kind of affection she would deny vehemently were she questioned on it. The Lightwoods were rather like that, the Princess considered. In the time she had known them she had come to find that they gave their hearts to very few. Although selective where they laid that love, once they did so, they loved fiercely.

"You shall not be your father's property much longer," Izzy muttered mutinously in her ear.

It was true. Legally, Clary changed hands like any product once the sale was complete. In a few short weeks she would cease to be her father's. She'd belong to Jace, in the eyes of the law and the eyes of heaven.

A cleared throat made Clary open her eyes and straighten up. Maia was the one who hesitating on the threshold this time, "Pardon, Madam. But Magnus Bane is here."

Much as Clary had been enjoyed her moment of snatched peace, duty always beckoned sooner or later. In this case, it was simply the consequence of her willingness to put the planning of her wedding into Magnus's trusted hands. He was happy to take control of the mammoth and minute details alike. Seeing such public spectacles executed was one of Bane's foremost duties as her father's master of the horse. Clary had no idea where to start in plotting the wedding procession's routes or arranging the garments and entertainments. Magnus had emerged as a godsend.

Of course, while Clary had gratefully divested herself of the responsibilities and Magnus gladly accepted them, he still had to defer all final decisions to her. And on more than one occasion, some particularly wild and flamboyant spectacle had to be curtailed.

Drawing to her feet now, Clary tried to shake off all weariness and cobble together the enthusiasm required. "Very well. Let us go. We have a wedding to plan."

-000000000000000-

The Gard, Alicante, 1st December 1536

Jace had hoped that by now his nerves would have settled. The past month had seemed to last an eternity, an eternity where he spent most waking moments pinching himself. He was fully expecting a clerk to arrive at his chambers any day now, telling him that there had been a terrible mistake and he could not marry the Princess after all, or that there had been some error in the contract and this whole matter had been one of Valentine's elaborate jests.

Where his son would delight in such a malicious jape, Valentine did not play with his food. Not on so public a scale anyway.

Exactly what the Crown Prince's thoughts on the betrothal were- and they cannot have been pleasant ones- Jonathan remained eerily silent on the subject.

The only thing that could have made his situation less credible would have been the Prince tripping over himself to offer the happy couple his congratulations. His failure to do so had been a source of comfort to Jace. The world had not entirely turned on its head after all.

Jace had spent a noteworthy amount of time trying to safeguard himself against that anticipated assassination, particularly when he had left Alicante briefly to visit Broceland. Yet not one knife had twitched towards his back on the stay at Chatton House, and he barely encountered a soul on the road there and back again, much less a malevolent one.

Where Clary and her household had the joys of planning the wedding ceremony, Jace had the task of putting the affairs of his estate in order. He suffered visions of whisking his bride off to a draughty castle with a leaking roof. He wondered how well Clary might love him then.

Reluctant as the King had been to part with Chatton House, Valentine had imparted to Jace the crown jewel of his birthright. With thanks to the Earl of Chene's careful tending, Jace would at least have one home fit for habitation to bring his wife to.

Still, with only a few hours until the ceremony, he ought to be feeling some relief that he was within sight of the finishing line. Here he was, sweating under his furs despite the cold of the ancient, gloomy halls of the Gard as he tried to walk at a reasonable pace to where the King awaited him.

Jace struggled to shake the sense that there was some surprise lurking around the corner, some crisis he had not the foresight to counter. Put a sword in his hand and Jace Herondale would give you a good fight, would fight anything, but he could not fight what he could not see.

He did have a personal guard now for his safety, but for the moment they were limited in number and ultimately strangers. Jace would far rather have a man at his back who he knew respected him, or whose loyalty he deserved and could be sure of. He was not completely devoid of trust, everyone who wore his livery had been handpicked by either himself or Alec, but it had been done (like most things of late) hastily. It had not been a task very high on Jace's list of priorities.

He'd held a rather naïve conception of what being a duke entailed. Jace's impression was a life of leisure and privilege. The reality proved quite different. Suddenly he was expected to make judgements on which crops his tenants ought to plant in the coming spring and which livestock they might be permitted to graze, as well as ruling on any disputes they might have with one another. Then there was the matter of setting rent prices. Not to mention most of the houses he had been given, mainly Durre Castle, were in dire need of renovation and repair. Moreover, a whole new host of servants would have to be hired, as many of his houses lay empty between the King's visits. Chatton had been manned by the Earl's people who would leave when he did. And those were only the domestic matters. His Council seat now had Jace embroiled in the intricacies of court politics to the neck, and that was before he tackled the greatest of his father's outstanding debts. All of which he was supposed to deal with while outwardly maintaining the impression of a life of indolent comfort.

In time Jace could build a network of trusted stewards and castellans to shoulder some of the workload for him. At the moment, the only aid he could rely in was Alec, who had made himself more invaluable than ever before. While Jace's adolescence had been free of any duty and thus dedicated to scholarship, Alec had more experience in being groomed for lordship. An expertise Jace was openly in awe of these days, although at the present some vague errand had Alec elsewhere in the city.

Alec spent rather a lot of time in the city, now Jace thought of it. Perhaps he'd met someone. Alec was full of blushes and often seemed stupidly happily these days. But that was just speculation. If there was something significant afoot Jace needed to know of, Alec would tell him. He'd invite the conversation, Jace promised himself, after the wedding. When things settled down a bit.

The court had come to the Gard purely for convenience, so that it would be easier than it would have been from Princewater to get to the Cathedral on the morn.

Jace had become all too familiar with the King's chambers in the past few weeks, but his private parlour still remained the holy of holies. He never felt quite worthy to cross the threshold. It seemed perfectly homely now however, the table laid for dinner with three set places.

The King was already reclining at the head and Clary had taken up her position on the left, leaving Jace the position on His Majesty's right flank. Jace and Clary dared only a darting stare as he drew his chair in. She was gripping the stem of her wine glass too tightly. As Jace sat, her eyes fired back to the mantelpiece as though it were particularly riveting.

Jace did not blame her, this was the way they played it these days. Afraid that the slightest misstep and they would lose it all. Valentine had made himself perfectly clear without being explicit. From him alone good things came.

He did not want to tell her, but Jace knew it was he who needed to prove himself here. Henceforth when Valentine asked him to jump, Jace asked how high.

For Clary it would be worth it, Jace reminded himself, sneaking another glimpse at her. All he need do was hold out for the next few hours, then she finally would be his.

Once he had a glass of wine in hand Valentine raised his dark eyes. Jace could not escape the image of a magpie surveying the treasure trove he'd painstakingly been building for years. "To tomorrow," He proposed, voice thick with satisfaction, "And all your tomorrows to come."

"Tomorrow," Jace and Clary echoed with solemn brightness and in perfect unison. They took the obligatory sip.

Valentine continued, "And of course, to our family" as he laid his drink to rest on the table. Once that statement might have elated Jace, now it only made him wonder why neither the Queen nor Jonathan were present. Not that he was impatient to call Jonathan "brother." Though Jace would not deny doing so was sure to provide hours of entertainment.

Detecting his perplexity, Valentine donned his favourite knowing smile. "You must be wondering why I asked for you alone."

Clary did not disguise the keen question in the eyes that whipped from her plate to her father at pronouncement, though she did not voice it. Jace was not prepared to either, but studied his monarch mutely as he began to elaborate.

"It is time you knew your calling." Valentine helped himself to another spoonful of gravy, signalling in that gesture that all their attendants had melted away. The room was utterly silent too, Jace realised with a jolt. There was not a single reader or musician to entertain them while they ate. "What we are about to speak of must not leave this room until circ*mstance dictates otherwise."

Clary visibly tensed at the that, bracing herself for whatever grand revelation was to come. Jace also filled with trepidation. Being sworn to secrecy before a conversation was never a good sign.

"Fear not, all of our work is God's will. You have been chosen," Valentine nodded to Jace, then Clary, "Both of you, for greatness."

If anything, that inflamed the young couple's discomfort. Too often did God's will and Valentine's seem to coincide.

"Both of you are, by now, aware that Jonathan is unfit to inherit."

It took Jace a moment to grasp His Majesty was referring to his son, during which the delicate cuts of meat began to perform somersaults in his stomach.

"It has troubled me for many, many years, since I first glimpsed that demonic streak in him as a boy and it did not fade over the years. I have prayed for guidance and at last the Lord showed me the way. My heir is corrupted. I need a fresh one. Another boy to be shaped properly, groomed to sit upon a throne of gold and rule the descendants of Jonathan the Brave for years and years. A new dynasty for Idris. Stronger than any that has come before. For it will be born of the two that have come before."

Valentine was entirely enraptured in his vision for a time, pouring forth his own articulation of providence with such fervour Jace wondered if he had gone mad. He dared not peel his attention away from his sovereign for a moment, not even to gauge how Clary was taking all of this in. Had anyone else spouted that vision Jace would undoubtedly have laughed, but the way Valentine painted the picture made it almost tangible.

"God has lit the way for me. My heir shall be great from the very moment of his birth. How could he not, when he is born of the most illustrious lines this country has ever known?"

Valentine gazed expectantly at the young couple before him.

Neither could form a word of response. They continued to stare back at him.

That dulled his glorious moment somewhat, for the King elaborated irksomely, "My legacy lies not with my son but with my grandson. Your son."

Now Jace did glance at his bride to be, who looked dumbstruck. Valentine concluded his performance as a smugly serene angel Gabriel with another pleased smile and raised his wine vessel back to his lips..

This was not a scheme Valentine had devised overnight. All of this truly had been laid out for them. An esteemed destiny not in the stars, but in Valentine's desires.

He would disinherit his own son for a newborn in a heartbeat, Jace believed that. This king may well be a madman, but he was not one Jace was prepared to argue with. And Valentine was right on one count at least, his Jonathan would send Idris to hell and then laugh in the ashes. Surely anything was better than that. Clary was not going to speak, Jace appreciated now, and it would not matter even if she did. None of this was up for question or debate. None of it ever had been.

Valentine's vision was bigger than them, their lives and happiness. What had begun as a desire to meld his line to the Herondale one had become, in time, the golden solution to all problems.

No one could gainsay him and Jace was not stupid enough to try.

Not when Jace too, for whatever it was worth, was getting what he wanted.

-000000000000000-

For obvious reasons, Alec could have done without a wedding.

Really, the last thing he needed was a place of honour in the procession with a place at the high table to boot. Above all, he would give anything not to have to contend with his parents. He was touched that Jace considered them family, of course, but that did not mean he wanted to have to face them. He would rather take his chances on the French side at Agincourt than have to look his father in the eye in the next few days.

So miserably strong was his cowardice that he had even contemplated taking to his bed with a mysterious yet profound ailment and avoid the whole event. Alec could not do such a thing to Jace. Besides, he was reluctant to deny Magnus an audience to his proud handiwork.

Delivering the planning almost singlehandedly was a colossal feat of achievement, and one that went largely unappreciated. No one desired to know or care that Magnus had lost many an hour's rest in preparation. He had executed a minor miracle of plenty in covering the expenses of an elaborate public procession, a feast, after dinner entertainers and musicians; all without emptying the royal treasury. Of course, the cost of one day had sapped more funds than Alec would ever earn in a lifetime, but that was immaterial. As predicted, Magnus's willingness to fund a sizeable portion of the nuptials celebrations from his own pocket had suitably endeared Valentine to his Master of Ceremonies once again.

Nonetheless, court life was more hectic than it had ever been before, with Jace the centrepiece. Where their opinions might differ on Jace's bride, he and Alec were in pure accord when it came to the event itself. Neither of them could wait for it to be over.

In that sense, Alec was glad of the still empty house on Canal Street. Magnus had yet to see fit to replace any of his runaway servants, and Alec could fathom why. His comings and goings would prove quite the scandal if unearthed, not that it proved much a deterrent. If anything, between the thrill of creeping off to Magnus and knowing that they would be alone together when he arrived added to the excitement.

Even if he mainly found Magnus absentminded while he drowned in ledgers, cloth samples and pattern books. He even had a little replica of the parade: which looked to Alec's amused eyes a rather odd battle plan with the tiny banners of each lord dotting the roads from the Gard to a Cathedral.

Alec was still glad of the company. He'd discovered that he and Magnus could survive in a comfortable silence for hours.

He thought longingly of his seat by Magnus's fireside now, how peaceful the house was sure to be and how bright the brittle sun would look upon the frosty gardens, even as he was confronted with a palace very much alive and kicking.

The Gard must have woken long before dawn, if indeed it had ever slept. Most of the servants and nobles he had encountered thus far had worn that same hectic, glazed expression of a sleepless night and a stressful morning which was hours from abating.

Fidgeting at the end of the great gallery now Alec could hear a maid weeping. He watched a young, swearing steward bolt past him with two or three different gowns heaped over his shoulders, looking an odd replica of a foul-mouthed, demented camel. A groom who was already drunk tottered past the nearest window.

Alec could have stood there for hours, thinking to himself that Magnus need not have hired the mummers for their amusem*nt after all.

For all his mirth, Alec's mind did not stray far from the impending arrival of the Earl and Countess of Adamant. He was gazing morosely off into the middle distance and playing with the pin of his brooch when Jace finally came upon him.

"No sign?"

"Not as of yet."

The Duke set to worrying his lower lip, mind obviously miles away. Or perhaps more accurately hours away, when he would finally be sworn to Clary and could breathe easy again.

Alec had to attempt to allay some of his unease, "They will come, I am sure of it. Any moment now."

"You look as though you wish for anything else" Jace commented, with a small, sliding smile.

Alec rolled his eyes in return, "Look to your own imminent travail."

"Believe me, I do."

Alec could not resist a snicker, "Jace Herondale, about to be wed. The end of the world must surely be upon us."

His friend did look a touch ill. His skin was pale, and though his hair had been combed (that in itself an unprecedented event) he did not look as though he had slept or eaten much these past few days. Which Alec would hazard he had not. Thankfully they had quite the banquet to look forward to, by which time relief would provide just the right sauce to return his appetite. Seeing Jace look so nervous did stoke a kind of bawdy glee within Alec, but he curbed it long enough to say only half-jokingly, "Are you reconsidering?"

That snapped Jace out of it, and he snapped in turn, "Of course not. Never."

"For if you were, you need not continue. I would spirit you away somehow."

At that, the glimmer of a real smile started to cross Jace's face. "Bundle me amongst the remains of the vegetables in one of the food carts."

"Gladly."

Jace's smile paled away. He gave a soft, whistling sigh, "Love her for my sake."

A response eluded Alec. How was he supposed to even attempt to voice his despair that after so many years Jace were about to undo every piece of progress he had made since leaving the King's household? Alec knew better than anyone the scars both literal and otherwise that man had left on his friend. To abandon him now at Valentine's mercy all over again seemed more than merely a disservice to his brother. It could qualify as a betrayal.

"You know it has nothing to do with the lady personally."

Jace's expression hardened to one of rare graveness, "Alec, I need you to trust me. This is my homeland. Even as I love you and yours, I had no future in Adamant or in France, not one I wanted. And what I feel for Clary may not negate what I must become to have her, nor absolve me of whatever" he paused and contemplated several words before finding one that was adequate, "discomfort I may encounter now that I am one of Valentine's creatures. But I expect she will make it bearable."

Alec bit back a jibed comment about just how worthwhile Clary was sure to make Jace's lifetime servitude to her father, or to remind him that no sane person thought there was nothing more to this match than met the eye.

His eyes wheeled away from Jace's entirely as two more very recognisable figures advanced from the far end of the gallery.

His mother, remarkably to the foreign eye, marched a half-step ahead of his father. Alec had spent years being fascinated by the dynamics of his parents' relationship. It had taken him years to notice that it was not the traditional marital set up in the first place, or at least to suspect that other domineering wives were less frank about their control.

Trailing behind his countess, Robert looked less a scalded cat than Alec might have reckoned. That was not to say his father looked at all comfortable in his court clothing. No, Robert looked every bit as out of place as Alec felt. His son spared a moment to wonder who hid it better as he tilted forward to a bow.

He need not have bothered, for the man of the moment was the only one his mother cared for. Alec could not begrudge it to Jace on his wedding day. It was not as though he would get parental congratulations from any other quarter. By the time both of Jace's cheeks had received a breezy kiss from Mayrse and Robert landed a hesitant clap on the back, Alec was as well composed to speak to the Count and his wife as he would ever be.

"Alec."

"Lady Mother." He placed the necessary kiss on the back of the hand already stretched out in anticipation. Mayrse, in her maroon damask, looked every bit as regal as the Queen was sure to. However, from Alec's proximity it was possible to spy how the gold thread at her sleeve had begun to unravel. It had rather painstakingly been mended as best the Countess could, but good with a needle as his mother may be, she was not a seamstress.

The revelation that not only were she lacking the funds to replace the gown, Mayrse was not in a position to hire a professional to repair it either made Alec's stomach lurch. This was what Mayrse must wear to a royal wedding. What she would have to stand before all the nobles from her girlhood and be judged in.

His pang of dismayed embarrassment showed no signs of abating as he watched Mayrse's carefully pasted smile return as she turned to Jace, "You have certainly risen high."

Robert huffed out a chuckle behind her and added, "A better match you could not have found, my boy." Jace smiled as graciously as he could, his ears reddening. Mayrse clasped his hand and continued in her quieter voice, the one she used for intrigue, "You must divulge how you accomplished that."

Alec could picture all too easily how eagerly his mother would hear the tale, quite probably perched on a stool at his knee with paper to take notes. To her credit, there were many people who wished to know the details of Jace's historic rise in the hope of emulating, but few would be so open about it. Again, Alec found himself both cringing at and admiring of his mother's lack of smokescreen.

Jace seized the opportunity to escape when it was presented, "All in due course. For now, however, I have somewhere else to be." He drew in a deep breath and nodded once more to Alec, "We shall talk later." He completed the sentiment with a meaningful glance and then retreated hastily back the way he had come.

Alec knew he had spent far more time than he had to spare with them. Jace likely had not the time to wait for the Lightwoods arrival at all, yet he'd made it. If they were touched by that, neither Mayrse nor Robert said so. As soon as Jace was out of sight they rounded on their heir.

"Your letters have been getting briefer."

"I am glad to see you too, Mother."

Her glacial eyes narrowed, "Alexander."

Alec backpaddled. "I had little to say. Nothing that you would not have heard without me," He gestured in the direction Jace had left.

"Yes," His mother mused, "No Sybil could have seen that coming. To think, the fortuneless boy I once took pity on is now the greatest of us all. I did write to Isabelle, you know, when I first heard of it. I rather hoped she would finally agree to settle with him. I was convinced, I must admit, that now she could not complain of stranger she might at last allay those foolish fancies she takes against the notion of marriage. It would have been perfect."

Alec could not say he agreed. The idea of Jace being wed to his sister left him queasy. Logically, it would solve their problems, but every fibre of him squirmed at what he deemed an unnatural union. The irony of his judging what was or was not natural romantically was not lost on the young lord, fidgeting sheepishly before his disgruntled mother and silent father.

"Alas, not even Jace is fool enough to settle for our Isabelle when he is offered a princess. And since Isabelle is not worth the trouble of trying to wrestle into a betrothal…" She paused and continued gazing ahead wistfully, as if the longed for solution was about to present itself. Which, Alec realised, she expected it was.

This was his opening to offer himself as the next groom.

There were many things Alec was prepared to do for his family. Fall on his own sword, in this matter, was not one of them. Even so, he was surprised at the strength of his own silence.

Even more startling, his saviour proved to be Robert. "It may not be as beyond the realms as that. I have been keeping an eye on that girl," He broke off and shot Mayrse a surly glance as her brows rose, "What? I told you I would. It has come to my attention that Prince Jonathan has taken a liking to her."

If he had not been as horrified by that statement as he was, Alec would have been perturbed by the astonishment on his mother's face too. This was a new discovery to her, which indicated that his parents were no longer speaking to one another. If they could not even strike up a conversation about their children, their marriage was in dire straits indeed.

"You heard wrong." Alec spluttered out eventually.

It was Robert's turn to play interrogator, "In what way am I misunderstanding?" When no elaboration was volunteered Robert closed in on his son, "Do you mean to say she is his whor*?"

"Robert!" Mayrse fumed.

His father's fingers closed on his forearm as he tried to turn away, "Answer me, Alec."

"No" he snapped, "Of course not."

Robert visibly relaxed, "Well thank God for that, at least. She has a chance then."

"Father, no. She cannot abide the man. He is a brute, an utter brute."

His voice echoed away, unheard. No one was listening.

His parents were in perfect accord for the first time in over a year. Their eyes had lit like oil lamps. Even if Alec revealed Jonathan Morgenstern's horns and forked tail it would have no bearing on his parents' new plan.

They already had poor Isabelle wed and crowned.

-0000000000000000-

2nd December 1536, St Mark's Cathedral, Alicante

It had been many years since Idris had a royal wedding. Their King's wedding had been a closeted affair, the recompense for which had come in the mighty revels that accompanied Valentine's coronation several months later. That was barely in living memory for many of the kingdom's common folk.

A royal wedding was monumental cause for celebration. Not only was it a public holiday but it was also a chance to gawp shamelessly at the court parading about in all their finery. King Valentine had caused something of a stir amongst the court and the commons when he had scorned all foreign beauties in favour of a native Idrisian rose, of who no one at all had ever heard. This match had eclipsed Valentine's rebellious union long ago.

The merry banners flapping in the breeze held the angel of Idris. The heraldry of all the kingdom's great families was out in force. The coats of the horses that trotted past gleamed, as did their tack. The streets surrounding the cathedral teemed with boldly dressed nobles in procession. Punctuated with petal tossing girls and daringly attired dancers. This was a show of strength, a cry of defiance. This court may have been shaken to its core months ago, but today they were a parade of the invincible.

It was choreographed to perfection, for that alone Magnus Bane had every reason to smile. And smile he did, showcasing remarkably pearly teeth with a dauntlessly flashing grin. In his wake fell a cascade of coins, clattered to the cobbled streets over the tempo of the cheerily gallant music. Children scrabbled after the money, hopeful they'd get enough for a hot pie that might provide welcome respite from the nipping winds.

Today was a celebration for the commons too. It was an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the many esteemed men and women who had otherwise been more myth than mortal. For the city wives and the silk and jewel merchants, it was a day of high fashion. A chance to speculate as to what colours were in vogue, to measure for themselves whether the French styles were truly becoming the preferred way of dress for the women, favoured above some more modest eastern European garments. For the menfolk it was a day of free-flowing wine and respite from their wearying work. It was a treat for the pickpockets of Alicante, for whom the preoccupied crowds were a goldmine.

Of course, as was ever the way with any such climactic moment in the lives of their betters, tongues were wagging. It was difficult for them not to. Until half a year ago the general populace had all but forgotten the Princess Clarissa existed. When she had been reintroduced as their glorious King's only living daughter, there had been much speculation as to who would finally win her hand.

The haste with which the wedding had been contrived was the foremost controversy that had goodwives clucking in scandalised delight. This was not the first time Clarissa Morgenstern had been talked about. She had incited mobs and dispelled them with equal ease. Word had it she was already a most extraordinary princess. And now this.

Already rumours of an illicit affair were rife. Talk of the Princess having taken a lover scattered the masses who both huddled together for warmth. According to some, her ladies had been threatened on pain of death to disguise a swelling belly under the wedding gown. Some even claimed knowledge that she was already married, and this was all for show.

Accounts varied on the veracity of these claims.

Accounts varied even more fiercely on the bridegroom's involvement in either.

The music and chatter reached a crescendo as the lady of the moment passed by at last on a snowy palfrey. Her face was pale as her mount's coat and her hands trembled on the reins she surrendered to a waiting attendant; her brother, resplendent in deep green and trimmed gold. She smiled a little at the crowd.

Her lips cracked open and a short phrase was uttered to her elder sibling, who pointedly did not reply. The Princess was divested with ease of the many furs she had been bundled in against the December cold, revealing the splendour of the gown specially crafted for her on this day.

As had become popular amongst the ruling families of Christendom, Clarissa Morgenstern wore cloth of gold to be wed. The vibrancy of this gold that captured minds and caught breaths. To the disappointment of gossipmongers, it clinched in effortlessly to a tiny waist. The Princess wore no headdress today, flame bright waves of hair falling free down her back, some strands wound through with more shimmering mother of pearl and gilded thread.

Her hand was soon swallowed by her brother's.

The front of the cathedral sported a magnificent porch, a cry back to the centuries when the simplest of wedding pledges were made at the doorway of the church. In some far-flung parts of the kingdom it was still a living custom, to be married on the chapel threshold. The Church had striven hard to stamp it out, and it had not been practiced by the nobility for decades. The lone Princess of Idris would be bound in matrimony at the altar of a cathedral packed with the court and gentry, many of whom had travelled far to witness the making of history.

The Princess braced herself as she passed under the shadow of the great church doorway, as though she strode to war instead of love.

One final fanfare of horns heralded her, and then a great storm of rumbling feet as the congregation rose for her entrance. Outside, the swarm of onlookers hummed and buzzed on the winter streets. Princess Clarissa spared one glance behind her, one scan of those gathered, as though in the final moment she had just become aware of how many had turned out for her and her wedding. One tug upon her hanging sleeve from the Crown Prince and Clarissa Morgenstern was herded onwards.

She moved through the doors flung wide open, passing under the wreath of stone lions carved into the arching entryway, symbols of the evangelist that was the church's namesake. St Mark may have urged firm faith in the face of persecution when he penned his gospel, but there would be no further insurgence from the King's daughter today.

Her new position on the grand board of kingly politics and succession had been selected.

For better or worse.

-000000000000000-

The brush streaked through Clary's hair once more as Jocelyn guided it through her daughter's copper locks, adeptly smoothing out curls and snags with each motion of her arm.

Her mother hadn't brushed her hair out like this for years. Not since she'd been a little girl. Tonight, upon arrival in the bridal chamber, her mother had wordlessly picked up a brush and set about the task. Clary hadn't stopped her.

Behind her, Clary could hear the excited clucking of the ladies darting around her new bedchamber, putting away her jewels and the bridal gown she had been liberated from.

The bride herself kept her eyes fixed on the looking glass.

Her mother draped Clary's hair over one shoulder. Jocelyn paused briefly and muttered something about perhaps plaiting it, before giving her head a single, brisk shake and stepping aside.

Absentmindedly twirling a finger in one of her tresses, Clary slowly rotated herself to survey the rest of the room. The bedchamber she had been led to tonight was not much bigger than the one she had occupied previously. There was one glaring change. The moment she crossed the threshold the huge bed demanded her attention. It dominated the room, covers hauled back to reveal the crisp white sheets underneath.

Only a light tap on her shoulder could steal her attention away as her mother appeared again at her side. Clary waited for something profound to cross her mother's lips. Some assurance of love. Mayhap an apology, for all the years Jocelyn had been hidden her daughter away, to no avail.

When she was blessed with a child, Clary found herself thinking angrily, they would never be given cause to doubt their mother's love. A child was not something to be held at arm's length, nor hammered into a weapon.

Of course, a simple apology would not remove the years Clary had been left in a dangerous oblivion, nor would it make her any less afraid of the future ahead of her. But it would be a start. All she really wanted was for her mother to make that first step. In all the weeks Jocelyn had been here with her the two women had lived more as strangers than family. Little beyond cold or cordial exchanges had been spoken.

Things were different now, Clary convinced herself. At long last it was just the two of them, face to face with no Valentine. It was a momentous occasion, and for it, Clary just wanted her mother. Not the snowy faced and soft-spoken queen.

What she got when Jocelyn did finally speak was someone somewhere between the two, "You know Jace may bring an entourage."

It was not a request, just a reminder. Clary nodded, more than a little disappointed and feeling her cheeks go hot at the prospect.

She should not be surprised. The consummation of a royal marriage was a public matter and so, often, a public affair. The last thing Clary wanted was to lose what was left of her virtue in front of half the court, but as ever, hers was not the decisive opinion. Knowing her father as she did and beginning to see all that hung on this marriage as she was, she suspected she had good reason to fear. Valentine would want to ensure that the deal he had so meticulously made and pinned the hope of his legacy on was sealed.

"Was yours?" She asked warily, still reaching out for common ground.

Jocelyn scrutinised her for a second, then loosed a dry laugh. "No, Clary. My wedding was a most secret and hasty event." She ended her response in a clipped, blunt tone, making it clear that she was not willing to discuss the topic any further. Not that her daughter wanted to hear any more of it, exactly, but she was still achingly aware of her own ignorance. Beyond the basics of the deed, Clary knew not how she was supposed to behave or what she was supposed to do.

On the one occasion Clary managed to voice her mortified confusion the Marchioness, her chief lady had been as embarrassed as her young mistress. "You need not expect to do anything, Highness," Lady Penhallow insisted past her flustering, "His Grace will know what to do."

That was part of the problem: Jace would know exactly what to do. Surely, given his experience, being with a clueless, bumbling Clary would prove a disappointment.

Be that as it may, from the moments that had stolen together over the past few months she knew more about what precisely might occur between herself and her husband than most girls in her position tended to. This could be much worse. At least Clary loved her husband, she could be sure he'd be patient with her.

Isabelle took up position on her other shoulder, reaching over to slide off the excess rings on her hands until Clary was left with only the newest; her wedding ring. Clary expected her friend to seize the opportunity to whisper something terribly bawdy.

Izzy winked, "Nervous?"

"Somewhat," Clary admitted breathlessly.

"So is he," Isabelle whispered in return, darting away once again.

That comforted Clary a little as she clutched her rosary beads and knelt at her prie-dieu, struggling through the usually familiar Latin. Eventually deciding that her limited patience had decisively run out, she hastily blessed herself and rose, returning the beads to their box and snapping the lid shut.

As she did so she could hear the creak of the door to the outer chamber opening. A moment later Jace entered, looking much the same as he always did, except that now he was clad in a tawny night robe. Blessedly alone.

Well, bar the Cardinal Enoch, who strode in behind the Duke, scarlet robes flapping and incense burner clanking. He might have been marching to battle rather than a marriage blessing as he paced gravely around the bed. Cardinal Enoch launched into the customary chants and prayers, occasionally breaking from spreading the pungent scent to sprinkle the sheets with holy water.

Clary moved over to the bedside. Jace took up his position beside her, the warmth of his arm brushing against hers grounding her. She clasped her hands together in front of her and dutifully chimed the necessary 'Amens' along with the Cardinal's monotone as it dragged on and on.

And on.

After what felt like hours, Jace murmured to her under his breath, "Are we not safe from evil spirits yet?"

"Long ago. We have been praying against impotence for the past few aeons."

She let herself peek up at him just in time to see him pull a face, "There's no need to pray quite so hard."

She gave Jace a reprimanding shove before she could stop herself. He shot her a cheeky grin in return and the duo managed to compose themselves just in time. The Cardinal lifted his head from his holy duties just long enough to fix a suspicious stare on the young couple before him. They lowered their eyes and tried to look humbly prayerful until his attention moved away.

Though they had undoubtedly made a poor impression, Clary found that Jace's usual humour and unchanged demeanour finally put her at ease. She knew not why she had fretted so much. This was Jace. Her Jace.

She was lucky. So lucky, and she prayed her father never discovered how much good his greed had done.

Belatedly, Clary realised that Cardinal Enoch had finally concluded his prayers for her fertility. With a final bow, he made for the exit as fast as his legs could take him. He seemed petrified that any dawdling might compromise his vow of chastity.

Clary did not have long to dwell on the absence. Jace reached out and turned her slowly to face him and his burning gaze. He gave her the amused half smile she had come to adore before bending forward and pressing his lips to hers. Clary happily let him kiss her, revelling in the first proper embrace they'd had all day.

Until Jace pulled away, much too soon. He flickered his gaze over to the loitering maids she had quite forgotten about. They were still giggling and nudging each lot of them were clearly drunk on the fine wine and enjoying the sight of their handsome new master in his nightclothes altogether too much for Clary's liking.

Jace slid his hands down to her waist as he spoke pointedly, "Goodnight, ladies." They took the dismissal well, departing with a few titters and backward glances.

Leaving Clary and Jace decisively alone together.

She tilted her face back up to his, anticipation thrumming. All day she had been longing to be alone with him- nay- for the past six weeks, and now she finally was Clary couldn't think of anything to say. Not that much speaking would be required.

To her surprise, Jace released her and moved away, sauntering over to the fireside and grasping the jug of ale that had been left for them. He poured a glass and then flashed Clary a grin over his shoulder, "Thirsty?" he asked, extending the second cup to her. "They say it is good for the nerves."

With a small smile Clary padded over to join him, her bare feet sinking into the carpets with each light step. Admittedly her mouth was a little dry. "Jace Herondale, nervous?"

He shrugged at her, looking sweetly bashful as he sipped at his drink. Isabelle's words came floating back to her as she swallowed a mouthful of her own. The thought of him being just as wracked with nerves as she was oddly comforting. It made the prospect of it all less daunting. "Surely you have no cause to be." She took care not to sound judgmental or damning, merely that she was stating a basic fact.

Jace returned his cup to the table, looking her in the eye, "There has never been another like you, Clary. I told you that, did I not?"

She nodded, putting her own beverage down alongside his. The silence stretched on, in no way strained or uncomfortable, interrupted only by the faint crackle of the fire.

Jace removed his robe, laying it carefully over the nearest high-backed chair. Then he turned again toward Clary, in only his nightshirt. Through the thin, pale linen she could see the outline of a muscled torso. The open neckline revealed the golden skin of his throat and the top of his chest.

Clary let her eyes wander, feeling her heart rate increase when he stepped closer. His hand rose to her face and his thumb started slowly circling against her jaw as he raised it to his, the two of them now close enough for Clary to share his breaths and study his expression properly. She noted lust, of course, but something else, some uncertainty. He was holding himself back.

"Jace?" She prompted in a whisper.

"It need not be tonight, you know. If you are too tired, or if you just wanted to wait."

Clary let herself ponder it. Her father would be none too pleased if she left this room still a virgin, and she knew from the gossip of her handmaidens there would be certain inspections of the bedding tomorrow morning that would catch her out in any lies. Still, for the first time, her father did not have the final say. This was for her husband to claim. Her husband, who was looking at her with enough tender concern to win her heart all over again.

Clary closed the gap between them, pressing a swift, chaste kiss to his lips. "I love you," she told him firmly, unable to hold it back any longer.

His smiled at her again, resting his forehead against hers, "As I love you."

"I think we have waited long enough."

With that, he was kissing her again. This time any softness and hesitation was fleeting. Clary's lips were eagerly parting for him. She let herself to be drawn in deeper, his hands falling over her body and easily sliding over the smooth linen of her nightgown. She let her fingers rise to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer still.

When they broke apart again it was only for a few snatched breaths and another shared look before his lips were back on her nose, her cheeks and her brow as his hands fell to the tied ribbons of her nightgown. Jace loosened them with capable ease. The garment fell open.

Whereupon he straightened up and retreated slightly, eyes drinking her in.

Giving her space, a moment to consider where and how she wanted this to go. Ceding to her, even now, always.

This was to be a legal and dynastic joining, a political binding to serve a purpose. This act of union could have been perfunctory or a determined claiming. Instead, this was them, just the two of them. Jace wasn't a statesman or a conquering victor in a long, fraught game.

Clary wasn't to be his any more or less, nor any differently, than he was to be hers.

Carefully, with steady hands, she eased the nightgown open further and slid it off her shoulders. Then urged it down further with a shake of her hips until she was stepping out of it with unsteady breaths and flushed cheeks.

Clary's body was not one to typically inspire lust, and she was sensible of that. Her skin was pale and freckled. She lacked the voluptuous figure which men usually found alluring.

Jace was looking at her with utter reverence. Like he was watching Aphrodite step out of the ocean the spray.

"You are so beautiful," he stated simply, the roughness of his voice dousing her in a fresh wave of heat. He proved it by stepping closer, returning his hands and lips to her body. He traced the proof of the words with his mouth, against her jaw, down her neck, over her breasts.

Clary wound her arms tightly around his neck. She tugged his mouth back to hers. "Bed" she gasped in his ear, rubbing her cheek along his roughened jawline to nip his earlobe.

He growled something very ungentlemanly against her collarbone, but obeyed, gripping her hips and steering her backwards.

Clary's knees clipped the edge of the mattress, and she dropped downward in a manner that was probably not altogether seductive. She lifted her chin anyway, fighting a blush and scrutinising Jace.

He was still staring at her, pupils huge and dark, hair deliciously rumpled.

She swept an appraisal up and down.

"Now, this is most unfair." Clary swallowed trekking her eyes over the form still clad in too much material. She gave an imperious, impertinent wave of her hand, "Even the scales."

Jace grinned at her as he obliged, reaching up and pulling the final item of clothing off himself.

Clary's whole body heated at the sight of him, toned torso, lean limbs and then…

She struggled to form a coherent thought as she took in the sight of what was unfamiliar. The dip of his hipbones, the trail of fair hair…. She'd never seen so much of the male body before. Not apart from some paintings of a nude Adam which had caused the nuns to tut and cover her eyes.

Two things occurred to Clary. The first, there was no tactful fig leaf in question here. Second, that round of prayers truly had been unnecessary.

She forced her eyes back to his.

Whatever co*ckiness his expression held quickly dissolved at the sight of her staring up at him expectantly, her face surely betraying her lust.

Determined but gentle, Jace eased her backward until she was lying on the mattress and he hovered over her.

His lips rejoined hers, and then continued their ardent expedition over the rest of her. For once, Clary was determined not to think. Let her body want as it would, and do what it wanted.

Jace's mouth on her breasts warranted an array of helpless wanton sounds. Clary let her hands roam in turn over his own hot, exposed flesh. He was hers to touch now, after all. Hers to hold. She delighted in the acute pleasure of all the little discoveries she made; like how his breathing got heavier when she tugged on the curls at the nape of his neck. How scrabbling her nails along the bottom of his rib cage never failed to illicit some groaned profanities.

She quite happily lost herself in the heady pleasure of the his little nips and sucks as he moved down across her stomach and slid his hand along the inside of her thigh. She parted her legs for him, anticipating his lips would soon return to hers, but no. Jace made no move to rise. Rather, he turned his head to kiss the inside in her bent knee, that searching golden gaze set on hers.

Peppering unhurried little kisses, then following them with teeth. Sucking marks into the soft skin of her thigh, a place no one else would ever see. A reminder, that whatever else may hinge upon it, the particulars of this act were just for them.

She moaned her assent desperately as he finally touched her where she was burning for him most. She would have expected herself to be embarrassed at the intimacy, or even to recoil from the press of his finger. She tensed, but only from the strangeness of the sensation. At her first squirm, Jace withdrew immediately.

He returned to soothing kisses and murmured sweet nothings against her sensitive flesh until she relaxed again. Then he was kissing her, kissing herthere, with his mouth open and his tongue-

Clary gasped, choked, then made a noise she didn't know she could. Jace moved to pull back, her fingers sank back into his hair and held him in place.

She begged him to do it again.

He complied with enthusiasm.

Clary had known, in some distant and abstract way, that there were many things which could take place in a bed that did not make babies. Chiefly from moralising allusions she'd read from St Paul's teachings about forbidden sex acts.

This did not feel sinful, far from it.

She was making more of those helpless noises, and it might have been embarrassing, had Jace not appeared to enjoy her responsiveness.

She wanted nothing more than to make him feel as good as she did. he tugged him back up, to kiss him properly. She dipped her hands below his waistline, knowing she'd been successful when she heard his breathing falter. When she closed her fingers and he shuddered, saying her name.

She slid her palms back along his spine as he shifted their position, slipping his hips between her legs again. This time, now with more satisfaction.

Jace tarried, just long enough for her to voice any discontent or insist he halt, before sinking into her. He paused again, trembling in her arms with the effort of his stillness.

Clary inhaled sharply, in defiance of the strange inner pain. This much she had been prepared for, but like most things, it was easier to accept in theory. A necessary pain and not a lasting one, her women assured her, though one that varied in strength depending on the account. What one woman stoically declared had hardly been a sensation worth fussing over another swore was as bad as being stabbed with a knife.

Thankfully, this discomfiture fell short of a stabbing, and gradually the pain faded enough for her to encourage Jace to move. He did so, very slowly at first and then, as the tension left Clary's limbs, faster.

Tentatively, she let her hips rise to meet the movements of his, haphazardly, until they found their rhythm.

Their lips met, often clumsily, again and again. Each time more intimately, each one drawing them closer together in ways that were more than physical. She would give him absolutely everything, Clary thought as she surrendered her body to him entirely and he too came apart. She offered her heart and her body, more happily than she thought she would ever relinquish anything.

When they were still at last and the ecstasy faded, Clary's joy did not. She kept holding onto Jace just as tightly, not allowing him to move even an inch.

He laughed indulgently when she pulled him back from an attempt to roll off her and buried his face into the crevice between her head and shoulder. Jace laid several sweet, adoring kisses upon her damp neck while she prised her fingers off his shoulders, glimpsing with more satisfaction than shame that she had clung to him in her finishing moments hard enough to leave marks of her own.

When he did venture to shatter the silence Jace did so in a gentle, quiet voice. "Sweetheart, unless you want to start all of this again you had best let me go." He dropped another kiss to the side of her forehead to soften the ultimatum.

With great reluctance, Clary released him.

The parting was not for long, Jace immediately tucked an arm under her and drew her to his side. Suddenly aware of the chill of the room, Clary was glad to slide back to his warmth, wriggling her way under the covers beside him as she did so. Unfortunately, with her head resting upon his shoulder and her heart slowing to normal she also started to remember how tired she had been.

She fought it as best she could and they talked for a time, mostly about nothing in particular, just for the enjoyment of hearing one another's voice. The first of countless conversations they'd have in their married life, Clary thought giddily. With nowhere to be, and no-one to interrupt. Face to face, inches apart, discussing whatever they wished to from their pillows. They laughed and exchanged sleepy kisses while the wicks burnt out and the candlelight shuddered away.

-00000000000000-

Chapter 20: Consequences

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Consequences

Mind trailing slowly back to consciousness, Clary was first aware of the lingering weariness weighing down her body. Secondly, she was pleasantly warm. That made opening her heavy eyes even more difficult.

The brushing touch that had woken her skimmed down her bare back again. A breathy chuckle sounded by her ear. Clary made a muffled, half-groaned complaint and burrowed her cheek further into the crook of Jace's neck. Almost painful waves of feeling raced down her numbed right arm as she readjusted, curling tighter against his side. She let the hand splayed against his chest slip half an inch or so. To her satisfaction, she could feel the measured thudding of his heart quicken at her touch.

He pressed a small kiss to the tip of ear, "Good morning, Lady Herondale."

In spite of how tired she still was, Clary smiled at the morning rasp to his voice and slowly cracked her eyes open. She peered up at her husband- God, it was sublime to call him that- and slowly, blearily propped herself on one elbow.

Jace smiled gently up at her, reaching out to tuck a lock back behind her ear, before sliding his fingers along her cheekbone. "How are you?"

It was a deep question, lightly though it was posed. Clary perceived precisely what he was asking and conducted a momentary self-review. Other than feeling less than fully rested, she was not too profoundly discomforted.

"I am well," She reassured, leaning in to touch her lips briefly to his.

Drawing back, Clary rolled over until she lay on her stomach beside Jace, one arm still draped over him. She pressed her chin into the back of her wrist and sighed. She could quite happily lay like this forever; wound up in Jace and their bedsheets, without any pressing responsibilities or worries.

Unfortunately, she was beginning to sense that the price she'd pay for these pleasures was a great deal more responsibility and worry in her future. Clary's thoughts must have been upon her face, for Jace's smile turned a little wry.

"Are you ready to return to the circus?" He gestured with a tilt of his head to the closed bedroom door. Despite the early hour, there were already noises of movement and subdued voices beyond. "They've been waiting impatiently for the best part of an hour."

Clary groaned, pressing her head into her arms and wriggling further under the blankets, defiant.

Jace chortled and resumed stroking down her back, "It is a small miracle no one has yet run out of patience and burst in. Namely, your father."

Clary gave a small, snide laugh and turned her head to the side to answer. "Yes. He will want to know the ah- deed, is done."

"I expect so. He and the rest of Idris."

Clary tried to duck away with a nervous, tittering laugh, but Jace caught her. His hands slipped back under her jaw and he tilted her head upright again. Given that no servant had dared venture in to resurrect the fire from last night, Clary was grateful for the warmth of his fingertips, still hot from where they had been tucked around her skin. Jace pulled her back for another lingering kiss, letting one hand tangle in her hair and the other resume tracing its way along the ridges of her spine. When he at last pulled away Clary refrained from opening her eyes, leaning in until her forehead touched his. As if clinging to him could chase the rest of the world away, along with whatever consequences for this were skulking on the horizon.

Jace's wandering hand travelled over the small of her back, sliding until it cupped her waist. He pulled her body perfectly flush against his once again. "Well, since we are no rush to rise," Eyes still tight shut, she smiled again, willingly leaning into him and landing a few fleeting kisses against his lips. "And the matter at hand happens to be one of state importance…" Jace proceeded, with masterfully smooth persuasion.

To her credit as a girl of good birth, Clary offered no more than a short burst of laughter by way of assent and encouragement as he rolled over her and locked her legs around his waist once again.

-000000000000000-

Princewater Palace, Alicante, Mid-December 1536

Despite her firm ideas about how a lady ought to behave, it seemed Mayrse Lightwood was not prepared to pay much heed to decency when it inconvenienced her.

She burst into her daughter's chambers late one afternoon, dark blue skirts swirling around her like a stormy night, with a matching thunderous expression.

Isabelle, startled by the sudden entrance, jerked upright and moved to shield her modesty.

The doors rattled on their hinges. Izzy's hasty movements sent some scalding water surging over the lip of her tin bathtub, slapping to the floorboards. She was still curled in on herself, wide-eyed, when Maryse finally snapped her body to a halt.

Her mother lifted her skirts out of the way of the spreading puddle.

"Really, Isabelle, there is no need for that. I did bring you into this world. I am perfectly well acquainted with your body."

"What are you doing here?" Izzy demanded, horrified.

"The King was gracious enough to extend my wedding invite to the court Christmas celebrations."

"Yes," Isabelle began, internally pleased with herself for keeping her voice so even, "I didn't mean at court. I mean here. Now. What possible discussion could not have waited another half hour?"

Her mother raised a haughty brow, "Mayhap you can answer that, daughter. It is the oddest thing- in the weeks I have been here our paths have barely crossed." She leaned forward until her fingertips were skimming the edge of the tub, blanketed by soaked linen to protect the bather from burns. Highly necessary in Isabelle's case, as she insisted upon her bathwater being all but boiling.

"One could almost think I was being avoided."

Izzy scowled, hugging her knees to her chest. "Lady Mother, I have been busy. The Princess finds me invaluable- her words and not mine- and can hardly bear for us to be parted. That is what you wanted when you sent me Idris, is it not?"

Her mother smiled sardonically, "Partially, yes. Yet I expect the Princess cares little for the company of anyone beyond her husband these days."

Isabelle responded with a shrug, delighted when the manoeuvre slopped another wave overboard and forced Mayrse to leap backward.

Mayrse began to pace around the bathtub, scrutinising every inch of Isabelle's skin, the entirety of which was on display. She became hyperaware of her heat-reddened skin, as well as of how the steam had opened every pore she had. A strand of clean hair had escaped from where she had messily pinned it up, out the way of the dirty water. It clung limply to the back of her neck.

"Do you still bathe in rose water? Is that what I smell?"

Isabelle was too taken aback to muster a smart response, "I suppose so."

"Hmmm. You are keeping out of the sun, I hope? We cannot have your skin browning like a peasant's."

"Mother!"

"I suppose those hot baths must be purifying. Still, I have my doubts. Have you tried egg whites? They pale the skin and halt wrinkles."

"I have no wrinkles!"

"You look like a prune just now."

"Only because of the water!" Isabelle shot back, growing pricklier the longer she was needled.

Mayrse kept circling the tub, running her palm along its lip as she moved. Eventually, Isabelle's already sorely tried patience was sapped, " I am hardly hideous, Mother. What is the meaning of this scrutiny anyway?"

Having completed her lap, the Countess halted and leaned forward, hands braced on the lip of the tub. "I hear the Crown Prince is captivated by you."

Isabelle's stomach undertook an acrobatics routine. She stiffened in the tub. These physical signs her mother happily misinterpreted.

Mayrse chuckled to herself and straightened. "Modesty never suited you, Isabelle. Nor could you ever lie to me."

Isabelle tried to compose herself and fix her mother with a serious stare, "I am not bedding Prince Jonathan. Nor will I start to."

"Good heavens, no!" Mayrse made a show of flicking droplets of water off her billowing sleeves, "Although considering your whoring got us into this mess, there would be a certain justice to your seducing our way out of it."

The offhand comment knocked the breath out of Isabelle. The colour slithered off her face. "What do you mean?"

Mayrse shot her daughter a withering look, "You thought your father would not tell me? Isabelle, he was incensed enough I feared you had murdered someone. I rather wished you had, when your betrothed informed us of exactly why he could no longer wed you."

Her wet hair kept splattering onto the floorboards miserably as Isabelle clambered out of the bath in the most ungainly fashion, with every intention of fleeing. "You left me no choice," she began to argue her case hotly, "You refused to believe that I would not marry him. I told you, I swore in fact, that I would do anything to stop the wedding."

"I am afraid your father and I thought too well of you to imagine the lengths to which you would actually go. Christ have mercy, Izzy, what demon possessed you to take it into your head the escape route was to seduce his father?!"

Pretend to seduce she contemplated amending, though judging by her mother's face the denial would not be believed. Isabelle tried for some of the dry wit that would have served Jace so well in this scenario, "Perhaps I thought that would make him want to hasten the wedding?"

Her mother's eyes were blank with disgust.

Any further words failed Mayrse. Perhaps that was for the best, for already the stinging weight of tears were beginning to press behind Isabelle's eyes. She had borne her father's ranting and roaring on the same subject in a white-faced silence, gratified to know that for once his not knowing the half of it worked to her advantage. A few sharp words on her mother's shame made her want to weep. The two of them were historically allies on most things, with Isabelle the only girl in the family. Mayrse had always spoiled her, seeing her own likeness in her daughter. Now she was looking at Isabelle as though she no longer recognised her.

"It is a miracle Robert did not pack you off to the nunnery. Truly."

More than her pride had been wounded, otherwise the next words to burst from Isabelle's mouth would never have done so, "If we are to speak of affairs, surely you must know mine is not the reason father banished me here! I knew about his whor* in Paris for years, just as I watched him flirt with the prettiest serving girls for years- but I kept my mouth shut! But he had her wearing the finest of clothes, eating well and making merry while you were trapped in Adamant, re-hemming your best gown from five years ago and scrimping on meals. When will you all get it into your heads that I am not stupid! If we are counting our pennies, Lady Mother, it is because Father's harlot is spending them! You deserved to know! I was tired of holding my tongue. That is why Father sent me here, that is why he hates me now. For he is hardly in a position to condemn debauchery."

"Isabelle that is ENOUGH." To her spiralling horror Isabelle noticed her mother was shaking, her hands clapped to her bodice as if she did not trust them to be free. Mayrse's chest was heaving as though she had run a race. "I will hear no more of this. No more, I say. Not ever." She sucked in a series of shallow breaths and then steadied herself.

Though her next words shook, Isabelle had no doubt of their sincerity. "Not a single word more is to be said on the subject again. Do you understand?"

Obediently mute, Isabelle nodded.

"If we cannot pass you off as pure, you must appeal to the Crown Prince in other ways." Mayrse shot Isabelle a meaningful look, "Regardless, you must never succumb. Not ever. Lead him on without relenting. Tease him and promise him everything but deny him your bed. Make it clear that if he wants you, he will have to marry you. It has worked for other women and so it will work for you. Believe me, if you get his blood hot enough, a Morgenstern man will flatten anyone who tries to stand between you." Her final afterthought fell disdainfully, "God knows, it was like that for his father."

"Jonathan will never marry me. He does not care for me that way."

Her mother's bitter eyes sliced back to Isabelle's, shooting up and down her body. "Then make him."

-000000000000000-

A sterner mistress would have lost her temper by now, Clary thought to herself, wincing yet again as another pin pricked her scalp.

"Apologies, Madam," Rebecca mumbled, frowning in concentration as she prepared to wield yet another. Clary was beginning to feel her head resembled a pincushion but refrained from commenting on her discomfort. Wives were supposed to be uncomfortable, she reminded herself ruefully.

Eventually she'd get used to added weight atop her head. She had grown used to the courtly hood in time. Clary's days of free-flowing hair were behind her. Now it was to be plaited and pinned in a coil out of the way. Henceforth, like any respectable married woman, Clary would be veiled under her hood. Long hair belonged to maidens. From now onwards, like the rest of her body, her hair was for her husband's eyes only.

The past few weeks had been about adjustment, after all, and she was starting to come to terms with a lot more than changes to her dress. For instance, she had new rooms in the palace, which she and Jace shared.

Although formally they had separate bedchambers, she also shared her bed with him. This had proved something of a small scandal. Of course newlyweds were expected to lie together- but a husband who came to his wife every night of the week?! They had appalled at least half the court with such goings on.

The pinnacle of the debacle came when Clary started to bleed away the King's first hopes of a grandson, a week after her wedding. That same night Jace had arrived in her bedchamber, in his night clothes, undeterred.

The Marchioness had been rendered a daunting purple at his appearance. She flapped like a fish out of water, trying to convey as politely as possible that he could not possibly share his wife's bed for the next week, adding she'd sent a message to that effect some hours hence. Jace, cheerfully cavalier as ever, had merely patted Lady Penhallow on the arm and told her she need not fret. "The duch*ess's pillows are more comfortable than mine, that is all I mean by it," He'd informed her jovially and then dismissed her for the evening.

Contrary to what their retinue may say, the two of them were not entirely depraved. On that occasion, the first of its kind, Jace had pleaded to stay as all he wanted was to fall asleep next to her. Mortified as she had been after the Marchioness's ousting, Clary had still not been inclined to look him in the eye and deny him. God knew, Jace had been lonely long enough.

The next day Clary discovered that the complaint had reached the ears of the Queen. Following what was undoubtedly the most unpleasant conversation Clary had ever had with her mother in her life, the young couple had agreed to cease the impropriety.

A promise they had not kept, as it transpired. The following week they had returned to Princewater Palace, where the Duke and duch*ess's bedchambers had an adjoining passage, hidden to the public eye. Thanks to that, Jace could come and go unbeknownst to anyone, and as often as he pleased.

He made just one of those entrances now, albeit through the main doors and fully dressed. The Duke nodded a brief greeting to Rebecca and then passed his new wife a piece of parchment. Clary spared a downward glance at the list of names before raising her head again so Rebecca could adjust her headwear. "What is this?"

Jace sauntered over to the fruit bowl and began crunching at an apple before answering, "Your petitioners for the day."

Forgetting her handmaiden entirely, Clary whirled to face him, the sudden movement causing the unpinned hood to slide over one ear.

It must have looked comical but Jace chose to be a gentleman and held back his laughter as she impatiently restored it. "I have petitioners?"

Jace nodded and swallowed his mouthful of fruit, "Of course. You are the King's daughter and the duch*ess of Broceland," He fired her a wink, "Therefore a very powerful lady."

Clary scoffed, rubbing her hands together as she started to contemplate it. "Are you certain it is wise for me to hear petitioners?"

Jace leaned back against the table and crossed one ankle behind the other, the very picture of nonchalance. Clary tried not to get distracted by how the cobalt of his doublet brought out the brightness of his hair.

"Of course you are ready. I daresay you have been for some time, only your father saw no need for you to engage with such things when you were expected to be sent away to marry. Now you are an Idrisian noblewoman through and through. You need to start concerning yourself with the issues of Idris's people."

"Naturally," Clary hazarded, chewing at the inside of her mouth, "Would it not be best if I waited until we got to Chatton? There I would be dealing with our tenants."

"On the contrary. I should think it good practice. Besides, it will be well into the new year before your father will release us form court. Surely you want something to do with yourself until then."

Clary shrugged, the knotted anxiety in her stomach showing no signs of abating. Yes, she was desperate for something useful to devote her time to, but her last interaction with Alicante's commons had not exactly been amicable. Noting her silence, Jace moved forward and reached for her hands, "Sweetheart." Damn him, he knew that would be her undoing, "I am not asking you to judge a murder case. Only a few petty squabbles. Anything you are uncertain of, or feel incapable of judging, can be deferred to me. Or in an extreme case your father. Think of it like a novena; you are offering your intercession."

"Isn't that blasphemous?"

Jace shrugged and continued soothingly, "The audience will take place right here in your presence chamber, my guards will be just outside the door." He lifted their entwined fingers to his lips and dropped a slow, sweet kiss on her knuckles.

"What of you?" Clary asked at last, "What will you be doing in the midst of all this?"

A smile with a glimmer of sheepishness surfaced on the Jace's face, "The King has arranged a hunting trip downriver and begs my company."

"Hmmm. Strapped to that new chestnut hunter of yours against your own will?" She enquired drily.

Jace tutted, "Married a fortnight and already a source of such disapproval to my bride. You know, the invite was extended to both of us."

Clary gasped and shook off his hands melodramatically, "No need for such threats."

Jace spread his arms in play surrender and began to retreat. Clary granted him a smile and pretended to shoo him out, "Away with you then! Leave me be to get ready and put the day to good use."

"I shall bring you back a nice boar!" He called over his shoulder as he left. Clary laughed quietly to herself as she turned back to the looking glass and Rebecca, whom she had almost forgotten was there.

For all her complaints, Clary did not begrudge Jace his manly pursuits. She knew from hearing him speak of it how he loved the thrill of the hunt, the freedom of speed on a good horse. And after the weeks he had been cooped up she was glad to see his joy in the outdoors rekindled. Besides, he was always in the finest fettle when he came back with muddy boots and a face reddened by the winter gales, even if they caught nothing.

If this list was to be believed she had a busy day ahead of her even without him. Her first taste of real courtly life at last. A smug little smile rose at the thought. Finally, her voice and her brain would matter. She could rule with a Duke's authority, even if only in a debacle over what a suitable price for a chicken was.

People were wrong. Marriage was not simply another form of bondage.

-000000000000000-

Princewater Palace, Christmas Day 1536

The general consensus held that this year's festivities to commemorate the Saviour's birth had been a mighty success. The commons were glad of their second holiday in a month. If among the merchants and traders of the capital there was a dampening memory of how the recent rebellion had proved a commercial setback, they hid it well. Among the nobles there was certainly no such annoyance. The celebrations had commenced after dawn Mass and now stretched on late into the evening.

Where the money for another great feast was coming from was of no one's concern but Magnus Bane's. Anyone who did spare a thought for the co-ordinator would have found no hint of worry in his overt gaiety. Nor did the King seem discountenanced, smiling supremely from his place of honour and nodding only once to his Master of the Horse, his Crassus, who could always conjure the funds from somewhere.

It was clearly a season of miracles. Idris's lost Queen was perched on her husband's arm once more, wearing a warm plum coloured gown to consolidate her restored royal status. While that may have been the source of His Majesty's glee, no one was looking at the Queen.

All eyes were on her daughter.

The duch*ess pf Broceland, as she now penned herself on all her correspondence rather than 'Princess,' was in a dress almost as bright as her face. The berry red of her skirts swirled around her merrily as she clapped and spun her way through the court dances she'd finally found her confidence for. She chatted and laughed with her Father's court as if it she had been years among them rather than months.

Though the matrons smirked to one another and slyly muttered that the delight of marriage's first days would be lost to her soon enough, none of their daughters were listening, enraptured instead by the lithe, jolly form of the Duke of Broceland beside her. All in vain, for his eyes were not like to stray from his bride.

Even Prince Jonathan could not wrench his attention from his sister. The awkward, timid girl he had first encountered in that swaying barge had been stripped away. Now there a was a lively, savvy young woman in her place. Jonathan swirled the spiced wine in his goblet around absentmindedly and reflected that he did not know how to bridle this Clary.

It would appear he was alone on his unshakable melancholy. Jonathan had hoped the Yule revelries would bring him some of the peace of mind that eluded him for so long. Some good wine and fine food should at least prove a distraction from how spectacularly everything had gone to hell this year.

Fortune's tide would have to change soon.

Sooner than anticipated, it would transpire. As a soft hand landed upon his shoulder, the Prince pivoted in his seat to face his father.

Valentine offered a thin-lipped smile no warmer than a Baltic winter. One Jonathan was well accustomed with. "Yes, Sire?"

The King gestured in the direction of the side door, which was close to the high table. It had been designed that way in case the royal family should ever require a swift exit, given that the great hall's gallery was designed to admit Alicante's public to view the spectacle of mealtimes here.

Tonight it was his own nobles Valentine wanted to flee. "Come. Quickly, when we shall not be missed." A brief scan of the hall confirmed that their departure would cause no ruckus. The unquestioned centrepiece of the party remained the glowing Broceland newlyweds, still out dancing on the floor.

Silently, Jonathan slipped out after his father and followed him into the nearest antechamber. Someone had lit the fire and the Prince made straight for it, chafing his bone white hands together over the low, wavering amber flames.

The cold of the empty room came as a shock after the stuffiness of the busy hall. Sadly, this fire not been long lit. There was no great heat emanating from it, flames rimming only the edges of the haphazardly piled logs. Jonathan stretched out his fingers anyway.

Valentine came to stand opposite his son. Languidly, he propped his elbow upon the mantelpiece and pressed his free hand to his hip. Jonathan was not fooled by the seemingly louche stance. He had noticed the tension in his father all day. Valentine seemed more tightly wound than usual, however cheerfully he might present himself. For a moment the King peered into the fire, watching it gain momentum and the flames darken to burning oranges and reds.

Simmering with impatience, Jonathan waited.

"You are aware, I am sure, of the many unsettling rumours flooding into the city with every passing day."

Which ones?Jonathan longed to enquire. Instead, he flicked his tongue along the roof of his mouth and drew it back and forth across his front teeth until he could bear the pregnant silence no more. "Appertaining to?"

"Our newest family member."

Again, Jonathan waited. For all he knew, his father was attempting to entice him into saying something untoward about the new brother he would rather gouge his own eyes out than acknowledge.

Thankfully, Valentine soon spoke again, "He has made quite the glowing reputation for himself. All of which circ*mstance and ourselves have allowed."

Jonathan shrugged. "The hero of the peasantry. I cannot fathom why. Their leader died suspiciously during that little parley."

"And now they have found another. One which I have welcomed into the bosom of my own family, You know well what is being said of that. That he seduced my daughter under my nose, and I had to construct a wedding in hasty reparation. Herondale seems impetuous. Worse, he seems to have the upper hand."

So why do it? Jonathan had to literally bite back the words. He tasted blood. If giving Jace a dukedom and Clary's hand made them look like helpless fools, then why had Valentine been so insistent? He was a man obsessed with image and perception; how could it not have occurred to him how all of this would look?

Valentine leaned in closer, dipping his voice to a pitch just loud enough for Jonathan to detect the following growl, "They are singing his praises in every county. From Broceland, to Edom, to Lyn. The final Herondale, the champion of the common man; the People's King." That final, deadly word clanged into the quiet, setting Jonathan's teeth grinding and fingers curling to fists.

Finally releasing his tongue when he deemed it safe, the Prince did venture a question, "Surely the time has come to remind them who is their king?"

Valentine nodded, apparently deep in thought. "What would you suggest we do, Jonathan?"

Jonathan pressed his palms to the stone fireplace, feeling it at last begin to thrum with heat under his fingers. "What we should have done weeks ago." Instead of wedding planning."We know the names of the main men among Tiller's allies and followers, as well exactly which farms we let them scurry back to. They should be hunted down and reminded that disobeying their King comes at a price. That the punishment for treason is death." He started to tap at the stonework now, the coming tempo of his thoughts providing a far merrier tune than any of those he had danced to earlier.

"Yet that alone would not be enough. If we truly want to show all of Idris who holds the power, we need to carefully select our instrument for exercising that power." For the first time in weeks, months even, Jonathan found himself growing excited. He lifted his head and let a smile inch its way slowly across his lips. "By the same token, we cannot tolerate a peasantry who have proven they will rise against us worshipping a Herondale. We must make it clear that the King's hand is behind all our Herondale does. Send him to dispatch the rebel leaders, Father. Have him show them consequences, not clemency. They will feel betrayed, in the least. At best they will never forgive him. Either way, it shall be clear that the last Herondale shall only ever be a Morgenstern puppet."

Jonathan lowered his head again, to hide his rising exhilaration as the myriad benefits of his plan took root, "Alas, you know I am more than happy to do your bidding, Majesty. I would gladly be your servant in this, as in all else, but when one considers the climate; do you suppose we could spare our Duke?"

Valentine skimmed the back of his knuckles along his chin in silence. Balancing his options.

Eventually, Valentine nodded slowly. "Ideally he would stay here, with Clarissa. But as you say, given the situation. Yes." He laid his hand upon his son, clapping Jonathan several times on the back.

"You always told me the art of kingship is knowing when to exercise mercy and when to be ruthless. I do not feel that this is an occasion for the former."

Valentine had already moved on, both in mind and body as he moved toward the door and the continuing revels beyond. "All the same, Jonathan, I worry that lesson eludes you still."

Jonathan felt his mouth pop open, to deny Valentine's implication but before the first syllable formed, Valentine interrupted him, brisk and business-like again. "Say nothing to anyone of this. I will be the one to tell your brother."

Somehow, even denying Jonathan that pleasure could not dull the moment.

-000000000000000-

The messenger arrived around noon on St Stephen's day, startling Alec out of his reverie by the window. He had been hiding from his parents and trying to kill the hours until Magnus came back from the city bank, so he had opted to spend some quality time with his old foe Plato. Or rather, he had been peering out over the courtyard and wrapped up in a rather pleasant daydream when the knock on the door came.

He found himself leaping up and raising the book to his chest in a flimsy, papery shield, mayhap in anticipation of a similar intrusion to the one Isabelle had suffered.

Such was the case, and tender were the eggshells tread upon, for as long as Mayrse remained in Alicante.

Mercifully, when Alec did open the door, it was not his rampaging mother. Just a lone man in blue and gold livery which sported a familiar beech tree badge. Alec sighed and ran his fingers through his ruffled hair, "Yes?"

"The Duke of Broceland begs your presence, my lord" the lad sniffled.

Nodding vaguely, Alec set about righting his appearance and dragging his boots out from under the bed.

A few minutes later he was at the doorway to the Broceland apartments. Before the herald could make it to the second syllable of Alec's name Jace had emerged to wave him away, looking particularly distracted.

"You know," Alec tried for a stab of amusem*nt, "If you are to really to live up to the address, 'Your Grace' needs to start putting on some airs and graces."

Jace failed to crack a smile, draining what was left of Alec's good humour. Jace made instead for the door to his bedchamber, bypassing a still mumbling clerk on the way, leaving Alec to trail after him nervously. "Oh no. What ails you?"

"Close the door." Once he had done as instructed Alec took proper stock of the room, attention latching on the freshly polished breastplate and gauntlets hanging in the corner. Though there were the usual feminine accoutrements he was growing slowly used to finding in Jace's room-a scrap of lace here, a scent bottle or earring there- the lady herself was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is the Princess?" Alec couldn't shake the habit of using her old title.

Rather than brightening as he tended to at the mention of his new wife, Jace's expression grew grimmer. "Clary has taken a walk to clear her head." He raised his hands to screen and wipe at his tired eyes despondently. Now they were face to face Alec appreciated that Jace looked ill. His skin was pale, and his mouth trembled.

"Clear it of what?" Alec questioned warily as he edged over to a vacant seat.

Jace fidgeted on the spot, mouth twitching soundlessly before he finally took a seat too. He dropped his head into his hands, the manoeuvre setting the gold chain around his neck rubbing the tops of his calves. When he raised his head, he continued to rub at his temples before speaking, "I have just told Clary and decided it would be easiest to do all the necessary declarations in one go, so then I sent for you." He swooped in a breath, "The King has a task for me."

Alec listened carefully as Jace imparted the details of what was expected of him, dread and anger stirring and rising higher the more Jace said. When Jace finished, looking more despondent than he had in months, that ire had subsided, leaving only tremors of pity.

Resisting an unhelpful frown, Alec tried to urge the wheels of a plan into motion, "Can you not work your verbal magic? Convince His Majesty to take another course?"

"Not this time," Jace shook his head glumly, reaching over to shakily pour himself a glass of wine before adding, "I tried, but Valentine is most resolute in this masterplan. I can only do as I am ordered."

"God, Jace, you promised to fight for these people, not punish them."

Agony ripped across Jace's face, "I am not ignorant of that! That is precisely why I have been chosen!" He broke off and swallowed gruffly before continuing in a sterner, lower voice, "People are talking and the King has started to look weak. I dismissed any rumours I heard about my ascent or marriage, knowing them all to be untrue, but even stories which lack substance can be dangerous." He shook his head, "I do not want to do this. Yes, I said I would try to help the commoners' cause. But I hold my promise to serve Clary in higher esteem. It is the oath more binding. Anything that threatens her father, threatens her. I am Duke of Broceland in name alone and only with the King's blessing. Moreover, my wife is my chief responsibility now. I must provide for her and protect her from any harm. All of which can only be achieved if I am in His Majesty's good graces."

A pettier man may have commented that having Clary Morgenstern as his bedwarmer was not such a consolation for dirtying one's hands at Valentine's bidding after all. Alec chafed his hands together, thinking furiously. Not long ago Jace would have resisted this order with everything he had. But he was not the man he had once been. Alec found himself thinking of an old marriage custom he had once read of, when the bride and groom were handfast as part of the ceremony. Now his friend's hands were indeed tied, by both his marriage and by his title. By welcoming Jace into the folds of his family Valentine was neutralising the last Herondale threat to his rule. Using Jace to dispatch Valentine's enemies was the final masterstroke.

Leaving Alec Lightwood to decide once and for all where he stood in all of this. He was not a reckless man by any stretch of the imagination. Alec calculated his moves before he made them. Mostly.

"You know I would follow you anywhere."

Jace's eyes sparked with disbelief, "No. Not to this hell."

"Especially to this hell."

His friend tutted, "Just because I am to lose what is left of my honour does not mean you have to do so with me."

"If I break my promise to stand with you, brother, I could no longer call myself a man of my word either."

"God damn you Alec, why do you always have to make sense?"

Laughing humourlessly, Alec shrugged, "Would that I could take my own advice every once in a while." He glanced back to Jace's terse face, "You are sure you have no choice in this?"

"None whatsoever. I am beginning to believe none of us ever had a choice in this."

"There is always a choice, if only to refuse," Alec maintained stubbornly. "You always,alwayshave your own mind. The only question is whether or not you act upon it."

Jace returned to rubbing his eyes instead of answering, leaving Alec struck by the slump to his shoulders. These past few weeks he had grown so used to seeing Jace lively and joyful. Telling Clary they were to be parted from her so soon, and for such a task must have taken that vigour from him.

"In this I dare not refuse. I might be the King's son by marriage, but I do not have any leverage with Valentine. Not yet." He pushed his agitated fingers through his hair, the way Jace always did when he was thinking ahead or perplexed. "God willing, when we return, I shall start remedying that position." Jace's eyes skid to the sealed door before continuing in a mutter, "I have no intention of being powerlessly pushed to the next square in another man's game again."

-00000000000000-

Chapter 21: Mea Culpa

Chapter Text

PART II: PLAYERS (1537-1540)

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband's foot;
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready, may it do him ease.

(The Taming of the Shrew)*

Chapter 21: Mea Culpa

Hevrest, Southern Broceland, January 1537

The sky was the loveliest shade of violet tonight. The days here went from white to pink. Then, finally, from purple to black. Each slipped effortlessly and almost unnoticeably into the other. Julian's eyes were a rarity. He had a gifted eye, that of an artist, and he felt each shift in the day's lighting as easily as he felt the shift from a warm room to a cold one. He could track the merest slither of colour in any situation and hold that picture with perfect clarity in his mind's eye until he could translate them onto canvas.

Julian knew his father worried about him. The Duke of Lyn thought his son a fanciful boy and an odd one. Andrew couldn't understand why Julian preferred sketching and music to blades and fast horses. Even now, though he might be balanced on the back of the kindling cart, Julian's mind was elsewhere.

Bemused as he was with the boy's interests, the Duke of Lyn tolerated them. Mainly because Julian had been his mother's pet. The duch*ess had always indulged his playing with charcoal and paints.

Often the duch*ess would reprimand her husband, "Let him be a child. He will grow up soon enough."

She'd gone into her grave last Spring. Their house was not the same without her. And Julian knew his father hoped to arrange a wardship soon. Andrew lamented he could not very well pack off a boy with his head in the clouds and not a scrap of life sense to another noble family. Hence the impetus for bringing Julian along on today's expedition.

The counties of his dukedom, curving around Lake Lyn, were famed for their stunning lakes and lush farmland. For the annual timber haul one had to traipse up over the border with Broceland. There, they'd buy the bulk of their wood from one of the huge forest's lumberjacks. It was an inconvenient and time-consuming stomp northward, but since his wife's passing the Duke was finding any excuses at all to escape their house. The longer he could spend away from the wailing babe she'd died bringing into the world,the better.

However, as he had never personally made the journey before nothing had prepared the Duke for the cold of the winter further north. Things were by no means warm in his southern counties but compared to the raw, bitter air here, its climate looked practically Mediterranean. The nights fell quicker too. Though it only the fifth hour after noon, already it was fast growing dark.

That captivated the boy hunched over the lantern light in the empty cart. Julian committed to memory how the silhouettes of the trees stood out, their bare branches like fingers clawing against the lavender-grey sky. At least, he had only ever heard them described as such, according to his elder half-brother who fancied himself a poet. But they did not look like fingers, not really. They were too thin. More like cracks of shadow, or even the mad tangle of a maid's hair.

Julian's pondering was interrupted too soon by the return of his father. Having pulled them to a halt to relieve himself the Duke now trudged back loudly, twigs snapping under him while he clapped at his hands to warm them.

"Julian," he barked, causing his son to leap to attention, "Sit up properly, would you? If you don't pitch off the cart, your eyes will give out, straining in this dark."

His son made no reply but straightened up obediently.

"Are we nearly there?" The Duke asked next of their driver, who looked to have dozed off.

Slapping unashamedly at his own cheeks to rejuvenate himself, he gave a huffing answer, "The tavern is only a half hour off."

"Are you sure?" Andrew Blackthorn asked drily as he swung himself back into his seat. "You said as much an hour ago." They lurched onwards, the two men wrangling their way through a pointless argument. They were gripped in their squabble fiercely enough that they failed to notice the thinning of the trees and the pinpricks of torchlight that they were fast approaching. Soon voices were detectable too.

"Father," Julian started, scrabbling his way on his hands and knees along the rocking deck of the cart, "Father!"

Eventually, when his son was almost on top of him and he had to pay heed, the Duke turned his head. "What is it?"

"Look!"

Andrew narrowed his eyes and tilted forward, still unable to make out what exactly they were riding into. "We must be at Hevrest at last."

"Not enough light," Julian protested keenly, "It's a line of torches." Sure enough, not a half mile down the road they were forced to stop again, this time by a portly, red-faced man in the uniform of a town magistrate. "Who goes there?"

"Make way at once for His Grace the Duke," Their driver called out immediately from habit.

"Impossible!" The magistrate disputed, sticking out his round chest. Julian frowned, his nose twitching as he tried to detect what the tang on the crisp air was. He had already identified the reek of beer off their stout, self-important barrier, but not the accompanying, more powerful odour.

"I am the Duke of Lyn, you dunderhead!" Andrew thundered.

"I beg pardon Your Grace," The magistrate grumbled, appearing not altogether convinced, "I have strict orders from the Duke of Brocelandthat no one is to pass this way. None can interfere with the King's justice."

"All that is being interfered with here is my fireplace," Andrew muttered irritably. Then he added, louder, "How else am I supposed to reach the village? I need a room tonight for myself and my son. It is dark and we are miles from home."

Before he could receive a reply, a shrill, piercing cry pierced the shadows. For the second time, Julian felt every muscle in his body jerk and then tense.

"What the devil is going on here?" The Duke began, only to be interrupted again by a clamour of spiked, angry voices and another wail, petering off into noisy sobs. Another decidedly female voice rose, this one swelling with a flood of curses.

"Get out of the way, man!" Andrew boomed, jumping down from the cart and marching in the direction of the fray, an arm shooting out to latch onto his son. Julian was hauled off the cart and trailed along, confused and disconcerted. "We are gentlemen! Where there are ladies in distress, we needs must lend whatever aid we can," The Duke insisted, easily shoving the magistrate out of his way. The other man crumpled upon the contact, crashing down onto his backside. It might have been funny, but nothing about the situation seemed to warrant laughter.

Upon making their way into ring of damning torchlight, the Blackthorns froze, watching horrified and helplessly as the grotesque tableau before them unfolded. There were armed men forcing back a small gaggle of yammering, distraught women. One, not very old-hardly twenty- was clinging to another, taller girl and weeping hideously.

The woman they had heard from the road was still throatily swearing and calling vengeance, while being thrust bodily backward by two more soldiers while she kicked and screamed.

"Away! Away to your homes!" One of the armoured men bellowed, as if he were shooing a yard full of scavenging cats and not a group of anguished women. Slowly, dizzily now the terrible smell from earlier was at its most overpowering, Julian turned to see the cause of their upset.

Before now, their cook at Bellgate had taken him up to the tower loft, to the pigeon coop. Once, Julian loved it there, in spite of the heady animal stink. He found the low rumbling coos and hoots soothing and liked feeling the sturdy warmth of the birds' plump, feathered little bodies in his cupped palms. Now Julian remembered why he no longer went up there, why he also avoided the chicken pens and duck ponds. It was impossible, one you had seen it, to erase the picture of the limp rows of birds no longer warm and noisy but hanging lifelessly from their necks in the cool store house.

It was the same now, facing a row of unmoving, dangling bodies. Only worse. The women were not protesting the hanging, no, that had taken place some time ago. The real grievance was that the remains of some ten men were still hanging untended from the boughs of the nearby trees.

Leaving the women who loved them left unable to do anything but stand here every day, every night too possibly, protesting with their presence. Offering in solidarity whatever they could: their tears, their curses, or far more chillingly- their damning silence.

At last, the hands of the closest guard closed on the shoulders of the stunned boy.

With his cold face warming slowly with tears, Julian Blackthorn struggled with all the strength he had, in vain. For what could he do?

He was dragged with his father out of the torchlight and back into the dark.

-0000000000000-

Princewater Palace, Alicante, January 1537

Isabelle had lost count of how many times she had paced around this little fountain. She was starting to loathe that strumpet of a water nymph, prancing shamelessly in the stream of falling water. Or would have, had the water not been frozen solid.

She stomped around in circles to ward off the worst of the chill, her breath steaming in front of lips and billowing over her shoulder as a ghostly banner. Isabelle's fingers clenched tight inside the sable muff her mother had gifted her for Christmas. It was a hand me down, of course, but Isabelle had accepted without complaint. Though she knew it to be a sobering reminder of how desperate their situation was becoming, it did keep her hands warm.

It was unusual for her to be out of bed at such an early hour, let alone out of doors, but she needed a time and a place no one would stumble upon for this meeting. The dead, icy gardens would not be in use so soon after dawn. There were no gardeners this time of year. With the frozen paths more like the surface of a bottle than gravel, they were much too treacherous for any lord or lady's early morning stroll.

This slip of ground had been sheltered from the worst of the frost by the rim of the fountain bowl, so it would suffice for Isabelle's pacing. She feared that if she did not move, she would perish in the cold.But think, she tried to cheer herself,what a pretty addition to the fountain you would make.

Reliably, while he might be late, Simon made a grand entrance.

He tried to stride meaningfully toward her. Almost immediately he lost his footing on a patch of ice and plummeted downwards.

Isabelle might have laughed, had she not been close enough to hear the sickening crunch as he struck the ground face first.

"Saints, have mercy!" she exclaimed, scurrying as cautiously as she could over the sparkling lawns to where he lay.

She reached out to help him, but Simon recoiled. "Unhand me! I am fine!"

Isabelle retracted her hands, but stayed scowling, "Are you quite certain?"

Simon's insistence was decidedly undermined by the fact his nose did not look like it should be that shape and was bleeding profusely. "Yes!" Simon sniffed, pressing his hands, then his sleeve to his face. Feebly, Isabelle added her kerchief into the mix. For a moment, Simon resisted, until the blood began to seep through his fingers. He accepted her offering.

"Christ," Isabelle tutted, "You need that examined. It looks broken."

"It shall have to stay broken a while longer," Simon declared with muffled irritation. "I need to speak with you."

"Simon, it can wait until you are mended."

"No."

Isabelle started. It was the most forcefully he had ever spoken to her.

"Is it an explanation as to why you have not spoken to me since Christmas? An apology mayhap?" She did not have to pretend her umbrage, that came perfectly naturally. God help her, she had missed him. The absence she had felt every bit as keenly as Alec or Jace's. With no diversion beyond a moping Clary and her mother's hectic plotting (Jonathan, thank God, had gone back to Edom after the Yuletide season ended but Mayrse inexplicably lingered) Izzy had found herself longing for his easy companionship.

He paused his frantic mopping to try and make himself look serious. "I have my reasons for giving you a wide berth." He swallowed, allowing his eyes to drift everywhere other than her face.

"Isabelle." Now she truly was on edge. No Izzy, no Iz. Plain, grave Isabelle. He never called her that. Certainly not with so much distance in his voice.

"I stopped by your chambers just before Christmas. I cannot remember why exactly, I think I had found or heard something I wanted to share with you. When I got there, I halted in the doorway. The doors were closed and there were voices within. I should have left, I promise you I meant to. Except, as I turned to go, I heard what you were saying."

Impatient, anxious, Isabelle snapped her fingers. "And?"

"Your mother was speaking to you. Well I feel 'speaking' is not the proper word."

Isabelle's breath stoppered in her chest and her back seized up.

"Simon." She began, then realised she couldn't think what else to say.

"I knew you had your secrets. I let you keep them, respected what you did not say as much as what you did. I even conceived that there was something you were running from. I had no idea it was that."

Isabelle tried and failed to summon words several times. It was now a blessing that half Simon's face was screened. She did not think she could bear the full force of his judgement. She would rather face the full intensity of a Church court in that moment than face the astounded disappointment of the man before her.

"You really would do anything to avoid marriage." He stated with quiet disgust. "I suppose after all that occurred in Paris, encouraging the lute player to court you is hardly a scandal. It is certainly a dalliance that requires decidedly less effort and risk."

To think, such abhorrence from dear, sweet Simon who knew not the half of it. How could she tell him? Isabelle was shaking all over under the layers she had heaped on herself, fighting back the outpouring of an explanation and mayhap even tears. No, Isabelle would choke to death before she released a sob over a man.

Simon didn't want to hear her explanations, and she would not degrade herself with any pleas.

Not when Simon was looking at her as though he saw, at last, the type of girl she was, and he did not like her a bit. The type of girl hethought she was, which, at the end of it all, was much the same thing. What the men around her thought of a woman would always hold more weight than what she thought of herself.

"You do not understand," Isabelle clipped out hoarsely at last, "You never will."

"No," Simon agreed, moving his palms to reveal a grimace, not one entirely born of his present physical pain. He shook his head slowly, already beginning to retreat from her, " I do not think I want to."

Therein lay the real blow. She could not be walked away from. So Isabelle whipped away first, gratefully turning her back on him and charging away. She wouldn't stand there and watch him leave her.

Alongside her shame coursed a fierce fury.

Who was he to stand there and judge her? He was only the boy she had suffered as a jest, a distraction. The damned lute player. A nobody, a nothing.

Yet as Izzy scurried back toward the palace, frost bitten grass cracking underfoot, it did not feel like a nobody had hurt her.

-0000000000000-

Chapeltoute Hall, Southern Alicante, April 1537

They were sorry times indeed when Luke found he would rather be called to the King's chambers on a matter of business rather than for pleasure. Yet here he was, concealing dismay as Valentine finally swept away the plans for a new palace which had been crowding his table and waved the master builder on his merry way, leaving them alone together. His Majesty was in fine fettle, insisting Luke stay in his seat and take a drink with him.

As it happened, Valentine's dark moods were more and more infrequent these days, something Luke was reluctantly grateful for. Partially because he too heard the reports of slaughter in the shires and so knew all too well what was finally easing the worries that had troubled his monarch since Summer. Secondly, and- though it shamed him to admit it- more so, Luke was aggravated because he also knew that Jocelyn played no small part in keeping her husband in high spirits. That said a great deal about the petty, selfish man Luke truly was, yet he wearied of denying it. The knowledge returned woeful memories of the days when Jocelyn was the only one who could smooth Valentine's frown. After so long, after all that had happened since, it left the King's oldest advisor feeling truly sickened to his core, knowing they were back precisely where they had started.

Well, almost.

Now Jocelyn knew the man she was married to and loathed him for it. Though that may make all the difference to Luke, that was the only impact it had. It would not appear to trouble Valentine at all, that Jocelyn shirked from his touch and grew sullen when she had to speak to him.

The King appeared beyond caring whether his wife loved him. That Jocelyn was here, back in her place, denoted a surrender great enough to placate Valentine. He had won. Even after a decade she had come crawling back. Making every time Valentine had to sit beside an empty throne worth it. His Jocelyn had relented in the end and come home, just as he had always known she would.

Meaning Luke Graymark had lost the woman he loved to Valentine Morgenstern twice. Not even a cup from the King's finest vintage was chasing the bitterness of that off his tongue.

Luke sat still and keep sipping, as though the silence between himself and Valentine was comfortable.

Oddly in tune with the line of sour wistfulness carrying his mind, Valentine curled his finger around the stem of his goblet and surveyed his friend keenly, "Why did you never marry?"

"What?" Luke eventually spluttered out past his wine, clumsily dabbing at his mouth with his sleeve in the aftermath.

Valentine rolled his shoulders back in a shrug, "All these years and you've never married. It is surprising. You have a title and wealth. You are respected at our court. Yet you've never seemed interested in finding a bride to share it with. In making a family to bequeath it to." Valentine smiled, usually indulgent. "It's not too late, you know. You could still find a good woman, my friend. A companion. A wife."

Do you recommend one?Luke wondered mutinously. Aloud, he ventured a nonchalant chuckle and shook his head, "You enjoyed playing matchmaker with Clary that much?"

Valentine's eyes fluttered upwards casually and then back to Luke, tapping out a tune against the arm of his chair. He continued in a blasé way, "It merely strikes me as odd you have not looked for a marriage yet."

Luke's mind flew back to a dim parlour, to the late Lord Fairchild's rattling cough and sympathetic eyes as the young man before him gruffly and awkwardly withdrew his suit for Jocelyn's hand. Grateful, even as his heart broke, that Jocelyn need never know Luke had ever asked. Knowing Luke could not keep pursuing the woman his King wanted. Better, he'd believed, to accept defeat graciously and covertly.

Valentine noted Luke's reluctance to speak and chose to misinterpret it, "Have you yet to meet a worthy woman?"

"Yet to meet a woman deserving to be bound to me," Luke agreed, honestly enough.

Valentine kept smirking, "What of that maid of yours? The one you brought to court, for Clarissa."

Luke almost choked, "Maia? Good God, no."

"No? Was that not why you brought her here? I understood her father was a business associate of yours."

"An old friend of mine." Luke corrected, "He charged me with looking to Maia's welfare after he died."

"A blessing if ever I heard one."

Luke rankled at the prospect. Maia was young enough to be his daughter, as was proven by her serving Valentine's.

"Many a man would interpret that dying wish as such anyway," Valentine commented.

"Maia is a clever girl" Luke shrugged, "In time she will manage her affairs well enough, with or without me. I will guide her, of course, but I would rather she make her own way in the world."

The gentlemen were spared further discussion of the issue by the arrival of the Cardinal.

Luke's fingers curled back in on themselves, into a fist in his lap. The Cardinal's presence never boded well. Enoch was beginning to establish himself in Luke's mind as the crucifix wielding harbinger of doom.

"Majesty," he accepted the seat Valentine gestured to.

"Welcome, Your Eminence. We were just discussing the benefits of a holy sacrament."

"Which one?" Enoch enquired, taking gladly with the question the proffered wine glass. That indulgence, it would seem, he allowed himself.

"Marriage."

The Cardinal fought a losing battle against a cringe, then tossed back another mouthful of fine Spanish vintage. Enoch's terror of all things feminine or sexual was an ongoing joke between the King's nobles. Enoch saw Eve in every woman he encountered.

Valentine left his third guest wriggling in his seat a little longer before graciously turning the subject, "Enough of that. There is another sacrament I anticipate you will be requested to perform tonight."

The Cardinal would gratefully bestow the Last Rites on himself, just to get off the subject of wedlock. "Certainly, Sire. What would you have me do?"

His question was answered not by Valentine, but when the door to their chamber swung open again.

A wan-faced Duke of Broceland loitered in the entryway. He'd removed his cap and now wrung it between his hands like a dish rag, the corners of his mouth sternly lowered.

Luke had not known the Herondale boy very long, and he had certainly not expected to like him as much he did. Having never known his father had proved no loss; Jace Herondale's bravery more than compensated for Stephen's cowardice. Though he was far from ignorant as to what the land's newest noble had been doing these past weeks, Luke was the last man who would condemn another's terrible deeds for love of Valentine. Or love of Valentine's daughter.

There was nothing Luke wanted to do more than put a hand on his shoulder or drop a word of comfort. To tell Jace that he had once stood before Valentine just like that, fighting self-disgust, desperate for his King to see all that had done for him and be glad.

"Jonathan," Valentine's warm greeting stood at odds with the strain on Jace's face. The King smiled at his son in law as though Jace had just returned from a minor errand, "Welcome home."

Enoch had almost had a seizure at the Duke's unexpected entrance. His hand flew to the ornate rosary beads hanging from his belt as they might protect him. Besides the Crown Prince, the Cardinal was the most perturbed of all the nobles by the resurrection of the old duchy. Not in the least because he had spent a portion of the summer terrorizing the young man who had, in the following months, married into the most powerful family in this country.

Luckily for him, Jace failed to note the room's other occupants at all. He stood frozen, hand clenching the back of the chair Valentine had offered to him and chest rising and falling as though he had run all the way to the capital on foot.

"Is this dreadful matter settled at last?"

Tonelessly, Jace confirmed as much. The sweeping details of all that occurred fell with a precision that spoke of an entirely rehearsed speech.

Valentine's only response was a measured nodding, again, as though Jace was speaking of his abilities to locate all the items on the royal shopping list. When at last all the rebellious counties had a body count, the King offered some words of commendation to his faithful duke and made to rise from his seat.

"Come. Now all has ended favourably we may join this evening's feast." He bound to his feet but paused while Luke and Enoch scrambled after him, finally reading the reluctance on the Duke's face.

"Clary will be there," Valentine offered persuasively, "And be most pleased to have you home."

Jace grew paler still, which Luke had not thought possible, "Majesty," he broke out through chapped lips, "With your permission, I would retire for the evening."

Their sovereign hesitated momentarily, before relenting with a quiet sigh, "Very well." He passed onwards through the doorway while Jace stiffly bowed again, leaving Luke and the Cardinal to tail after him and complete their ragtag Trinity.

Then, with perfect dramatic timing, as ever, Valentine paused on the threshold and raised a finger as though he had just recalled a particularly interesting fact. "Your Eminence. It almost slipped my mind. I summoned you here on the understanding my lord Broceland may want you to hear his confession."

Bewildered, Enoch swivelled to glance back at Jace, as did Luke, whereupon both to find an expression of tentative desperation on Jace's face.

He blamed himself, poor boy. But thus Valentine always played it. Having others sully their hands in the hope his own soul stayed clean.

He ought to say or do something for the boy, but Luke soon hatefully surrendered the prospect of that too. If he could not save himself, Jocelyn or her daughter from Valentine, how could he possibly help Jace?

It would not be much of an absolution for the boy. Enoch looked as though he was prepared to swipe a hasty cross in the air and proclaim all absolved. God love him, it hardly mattered. Luke doubted an absolution from the Pope would ease either Jace's mind or conscience.

-0000000000000000-

After so long being left alone at the high table, Clary had taken to latching her eyes onto whatever untoward movement might occur elsewhere in the hall. Without Jace to make her laugh or Jonathan to taunt her, there was no chance of her missing a tipsy maiden spilling red wine on her new gown, or an opportunistic hound snapping a chicken leg from a lax lordly hand. These were her sole sources of entertainment.

She still hated eating her meals in the great hall. Clary despised the crowd, the smell and the calamity. Not to mention the knowledge that she was one of the main attractions in the grand performance, planted right at her father's right hand. The majority of her dinners could be taken in her private apartments, but Valentine still liked to host regular public feasts, emphasising each time that appearance was everything. Idris needed to showcase its royal family's prosperity and good health. Each carefully selected course was designed to exhibit their wealth and eager appetites.

This was one of those nights, and though feeling a multitude of eyes on her rather whittled away her hunger, the duch*ess of Broceland reminded herself she had endured much worse and set about chewing on her Friday carp industriously.

Clary welcomed her first diversion from needless small talk with the lucky nobles invited to dine at the King's table. With keen eyes she espied the steward making his way toward the doors with the platter immediately, confirming the suspicions she had begun to harbour an hour or so ago.

She caught the nearby Marquess's eye. Aline's father could usually be trusted for a kind word or to humour Clary's inquisitiveness. He obliged her with an oblique smile, adding a glance laden with meaning, "Serving the Duke I expect."

"He has returned?"

"Some hour hence, Madam," Penhallow confirmed.

Clary nodded and took another small sip from her goblet. Then she let her gaze dart to her father's seat. Valentine had to know Jace was home. And yet. No matter how big or small, Valentine hated to relinquish any information he had that she did not.

Feeling the weight of her judgment, the King turned his head to her, "Clarissa?" he softly invited from question in her eyes.

"I thought I glimpsed Wayfarer in the courtyard earlier," she stated, keeping her tone deliberately as light as possible. Her father raised a single white eyebrow in enquiry. "Jace's horse," She clarified briskly, with another affectedly nonchalant bite.

"Ah," Valentine dropped his eyes and began to wipe his hands on the cloth provided, pulling it off his shoulder and unto the table. The King only returned his attention to Clary when he was sure his fingers were thoroughly clean, "You did. I heard from him at the start of the week, when he told me he was only a few days from the capital." Clary experienced a momentary pang of discomfort. Jace had written to her around the same time, making no mention of being so close to home. She rapidly swallowed back any misgivings. If her husband had neglected to tell her he was coming it would have been deliberate, he only sought to surprise her. Well that he had.

"Then surely he has been back at least an hour." Then the epiphany dawned, "Which is why you were delayed in arriving here."

Her father's cheek twitched, either from a restrained smile or annoyance, Clary was not sure. "He has," Valentine informed her in a low voice, pointedly looking over her shoulder and smiling at whoever she saw there.

Clary would not let him brush her off tonight so easily. "It did not occur to you to inform me?"

Valentine sighed, reluctantly focusing on her again. "I do not see the need to dispatch a page each time someone passes through the palace gates, Clarissa."

"My husband is not just anyone," Clary shot back, temper crackling.

Valentine raised his eyes to heaven, as though her questions sorely tested his patience, "Lower your voice. There is no need for a great exhibition."

Clary struggled to quell a retort. His Majesty marginally declined his head in approval and rewarded her peace with an elaboration, "Your Jonathan declined an invitation to eat with us."

The young duch*ess shot Isabelle a reassuring smile. Her lady had noted the high colour in her cheeks with concern and slid her eyes meaningfully from Clary to the King and back again, subtly tilting her head. Conveying a willingness to intervene. Clary gave her head the smallest of shakes. No one else seemed to have noticed the disharmony between the two royals.

Valentine waved away the servant pouring more wine and spoke again, "If you must know, I withheld news of his return because I needed to speak with him first. I needed his report first hand, before you distracted him and the two of you hurried off together." He laughed as if she had just told him some mighty jest and gestured so only she could see at the stout ambassador from Lorraine peering up at them from one of the lower tables, "And I need you to be seen sitting with me without the merest hint of discord between us. Which I knew you would not, had you discovered who was in your chamber."

Clary could not very well argue with that, though it did not remove the sting.

"Fear not. Once this meal is over you may have Jonathan all to yourself once more." The not-so-hidden meaning behind the words had the colour rising in Clary's cheeks again and set her squirming on the bench at her father's blunt suggestiveness. Now that her husband was back, Valentine would return to eagerly anticipating the baby he already had such great expectations of.

After waiting over a month to see Jace, she could wait she supposed she could make herself wait a little longer.

She smiled and chatted as best she could, and soon after the plates were cleared away Valentine consented to Clary's retirement for the evening. He even rose from his seat to kiss her goodnight.

To all onlookers, including those who would report to the Archduke of Lorraine, Valentine was in no way doubting his newly raised Duke and duch*ess of Broceland. Clary did not care about any of that. Let Valentine worry about her scorned former suitor, she had waited long enough for this reunion.

Clary hurried up the stairs with her ladies behind. She pulled Izzy to her shoulder long enough to inform her of recent developments, then summarily dismissed them all in her presence chamber.

The news of the Duke's return had spread like wildfire. The early dismissal was all the confirmation required.

"Surely Your Grace needs some assistance-" an uncomprehending younger maid began before Isabelle snickered, "Her Grace will have enough assistance getting undressed this evening." On any other occasion Clary would have scolded her, but tonight she just wanted rid of all of these women. Besides, she was harbouring hopes to that effect herself.

In the few short weeks they had been together following their wedding, she had only beenwithJace a handful of times.

Pressing her palms to the sleek wood she shoved the doors open and hastened into her bedchamber expectantly.

Her empty bedchamber. Frowning, Clary slowly pivoted, scanning her surroundings for any evidence of Jace or an explanation for his absence. She found no sign of him at all. Everything was precisely as she had left it earlier, right down to the undisturbed book laying by her pillow.

Despite the prickling uneasiness in her bones, Clary dragged her feet back across the room and out into the narrow corridor that connected her chamber to Jace's. The one that had been assigned to him but always left vacant.

Until tonight.

Letting herself in, Clary found every candle in the room lit and the fire blazing. She took stock of the abandoned pair of riding boots tucked under a chair and an untouched plate of food; the same she had seen leaving the hall what already felt like years ago. The accompanying jug of ale had not been dealt the same neglect, there was only a dribble of liquid left in it.

Through the half-open door to his outer chamber, Clary could hear voices. One familiar and commanding, the other a meekly assenting. There came the sound of a shuffled retreat and a closed door.

Clary counted ten heartbeats in the subsequent silence before deciding to announce her presence, "Jace?" she called out uncertainly.

A moment later he came into view, looking little different to how she remembered him; blond hair damp from a recent wash and a few days of fair stubble along his jaw. It wasn't until he crossed the threshold to abruptly stop and stare at her that Clary allowed herself to concede aught was amiss.

On the many occasions she had allowed herself to imagine their reunion she had always expected that he would rush to embrace her. She'd at least expected him to smile. The Jace she found herself facing now did not move a muscle. He kept staring her down with that blank gold gaze. The only kind of emotion she could discern from his face was a tension that betokened, if anything, dread.

"You are home," Clary floundered to the obvious, desperate to end the fraught silence between them.

"Yes." Jace agreed faintly. He wrapped his arms around each other instead of her and held them tight to his chest.

Clary swallowed past her dry mouth. "I did not know. I would have come sooner but my father failed to tell me you were back." She trailed off at his unresponsiveness, frantically gripping her fingers together until they went numb, "How was your journey?" She tried again.

"Long." Jace responded in a clipped voice that closed off any conversation.

Clary took an instinctive step back. After all the tenderness they had shared before he left, after all they had endured in the past few months, to see him so remote was almost physically painful.

Despite the roaring red flames in the grate mere feet away from her, Clary felt the chill in the room. She was the wife Jace adored, rescued and fought for, but he was lingering in the doorway, looking as though he longed for nothing more than to bolt from her.

"What are you doing here?" She blurted out, discomforted enough to voice the question she really wanted to ask.

"Is it not my home now?" he asked distantly, "You just said so. The royal family tends to reside in Alicante."

"No. I meant in these rooms."

"They are my rooms."

"Yes, I know, but you don't usually avail of them." She took a step forward.

"Clary," The way he spoke her name, flatly and completely devoid of the usual affection, halted her. "I am tired. I just want to sleep."

To another woman, to another couple, it all might have sounded reasonable enough. Jace pushing her away thus was unbearable.

Clary felt her throat begin to thicken at his brusqueness. When she spoke her voice wavered detestably, "And you cannot do that in my bed?"

Jace did not volunteer a response, which was answer enough. Another night, she might have quipped about him fearing her inability to keep her hands to herself. Here it felt inappropriate. Things between them felt so strained. Suddenly fragile.

Much as she hated this taciturnity, Clary was afraid of breaking it. She feared pushing him to speak to her now would shatter more than the silence.

"I am tired," Jace repeated dully. The words struck her like a blow to the chest. Clary was no fool, she knew she was being sent away.

They had quarrelled before of course, but even in their worst clashes there had been feeling. She'd have thought that after experiencing all he had Jace should be glad to throw himself into her arms and forget the whole thing.

That was why Valentine had sent her up here, after all. So she could kiss it better. Remind Jace she could make doing her father's bidding worthwhile.

In the very least, he should want to talk about it. "Jace, please speak to me. You cannot carry all of it around alone."

Jace finally cracked, "How much clearer need I be? Leave, Clary!"

Moments ago, Clary thought she would be glad of any force of emotion from him, even anger. When he did snap it wounded her.

She took another reeling step, not backwards but forwards. She found herself reaching for him, clutching at him in the vain hope she could pull him back to her. "Why should I?"

Jace caught at her wrists before she could reach him, then released her and leaped back like her touch had burnt him. "Because I am telling you to!" He shouted in earnest this time, "Why can you not, just once in your life, do as you are bid?"

Clary recoiled quicker than she would have done had he slapped her, fingers curling around her left wrist just as his had. The reddened skin there hurt. Jace had hurt her.

For she had hurt him. He blamed her for all of it. Had he not reason to? Were it not for Clary, he would never have had to return to Idris. Were it not for her, for loving her, Valentine would not be able to wield the influence over Jace he did.

Once that epiphany struck, she could not bear it any longer. Clary turned and fled.

-000000000000000-

Every night it was the same. The unremarkable grey sky and frosty grass. The pool of churned, blackened earth by the roots. The echoing, brazen cawing of the crows, flapping impatiently in the branches of nearby trees.

The only varying factor was the face at the foot of the tree. Sometimes it was the Crown Prince leering, or else the King, shaking his head with unsurprised disappointment. Behind him, Isabelle screams helplessly. There's never any Alec. Proof that this time no one is coming to save him.

It makes Jace almost glad when the rope tightens and his body swings forward.

Instead of his blood cutting off to numbness, it flares under his skin like fire, until he can feel every muscle in his body, bunched in pain and contracting breathlessly. It was agony, it was never going to end.

The worst is yet to come. As his body convulses, his watering eyes inevitably roll back in his head. Until Jace can see the prone body hanging beside him. The cracked, broken and bloody hands dangling at her sides, smearing the skirt of a tattered gold wedding gown.

With a strangled, incoherent cry, Jace shot upwards, left-hand shooting instantly to his neck. After several gulping, painful breaths he forced himself to run his fingers along his untouched throat.

His right arm flew across the rumpled sheets to the cool, blessedly empty other side of the bed.

Reassurance: Clary was not here. She was safe.

More gasping, then Jace made himself move. Scrabbling his way out from under the sheets and to the foot of the bed, fumbling with shaking fingers until he could free the empty chamber pot from under it. Just in time for then retching to start.

When that finally abated, Jace felt more ill than ever.

Shivering, he pried the sweat damp nightshirt off his skin and then shucked it off. Not bothering to seek out another in the dark, he clambered back into bed naked.

He was no stranger to nightmares. He should not have expected to emerge from his time being the King's butcher unscathed. Nor had he. The first batch of these night horrors had been born right out of those he had to create during the day.

Rows after rows of mercilessly hung men and boys, since anyone older than sixteen was liable for punishment according to the royal edict still folded up in Jace's saddlebag.

The women, their anger, betrayal, grief, disgust; they haunted him most.

This new nightly hell was worse still, Jace thought hollowly, drawing his hands over his cold, clammy face. God, this was so much worse.

"What am I? What have I done?" His broken, dry lips mouthed soundlessly.What I had to the timid whisper piped up as answer.

I had to I had to I had to I had to I had to.

On and on it went. Just like that, like every night, unrelenting and unconvincing.

Until dawn.

-000000000000000-

Chapter 22: Ego te Absolvo

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Ego te Absolvo

Chapeltoute Hall, Alicante, March 1537

At long last, Spring had taken hold. The wind oft came now more as a breeze than a gale and did so with far less bitterness. Taking that and the finally lengthened days as good a sign as any, the first flowers were out. They'd begun to venture upwards weeks ago, some daffodil buds poking restlessly above the earth. The snowdrops, faithfully first each year, had long since been standing up to attention in the flowerbeds. Resolutely, they allowed their white capped heads to be rattled in the continuing wind and rain. By the middle of March, the banks of grass were crowned by swathed coronets of white and the first gold daffodils in earnest.

It was still cold, Jace admitted, though he had borne winters that had dragged on longer than this one had. One year, in Adamant, the snows had lain on the ground until well into almost the end of March. Milder though the present newborn season was in comparison, he was not prepared to dispense of his furs just yet. For now, he stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets.

The King had been chomping at the bit to return to his outdoor pursuits. After the latest cold snap had relented, Valentine was the first one through the palace doors. However, for the past fortnight the ground had been too wet for long bouts of riding out. Today His Majesty had reluctantly opted to leave his mount in its stall and turned instead to the carefully kept tennis lawns.

The indoor courts were the usual haunt for such sport, but the King found himself unable to allow the first truly sunny days of the year to pass by with his being stuck indoors, so had ordered the games to relocate.

The players had stripped down to their shirts and breeches in spite of the cold, each sweating profusely in an especially intense game of tennis.

The older men had yielded the court to the youth; now it was young Jon Cartwright and Sebastian Verlac who were battering the ball back and forth.

Although the other watching lords were offering hoots of encouragement and laying bets, Jace had lost interest in the game some time ago. His eyes kept straying upwards, to a certain line of glass panes in the grey stone walls of the King's most recently refurbished city residence. His duch*ess's windows.

Clary could have been here if she wished it, several of her ladies were present. Aline and Helen were not far from where Jace stood, arms interlinked and paying the game before them no heed, wholly wrapped up in whatever the other was saying. Several of the other new maids, whose names escaped him but faces brought a twang of recognition, were lining the edges of the tennis court too, some trying with an awkward lack of subtly to catch his attention. Jace's wife herself, however, though she had obviously granted permission for her ladies to attend, had refrained from making an appearance.

Jace knew Clary was avoiding him. They had gotten past that first dreadful night, just about. He'd returned apologetically to her dinner table the following day, and they continued as if it had never happened. Almost.

He feared he had broken something more when he'd shouted at her. It was for her own good, he told himself miserably every time he caught her watching him warily from the corner of her eye. They remained perfectly amiable to the outside eye. Though Clary did not laugh as she used to, nor did she light up whenever he walked into the room. Now she stiffened and checked herself, afraid to spark another outburst.

Once being feared would not have been an unwelcome thought. He might have imagined that it amounted to being respected, God knew that was how Valentine made it seem. But never in the eyes of his own wife.

Jace hated it and hated himself. Then, each time he longed to reach for her, he remembered who he had become and what he had done. That man did not deserve to touch her.

He had been spilled blood and been to war before, of course, but this was different. There was no righteous cause here. There had been many nights when thinking of Clary, far away, safe, innocent and happy in Alicante had been all that kept Jace sane.

So, beyond the perfunctory hand in hand entrance to a state dinner or offer of his arm while they paced the garden or gallery in uncomfortable silence, he had not touched her. Every night the two of them went to bed apart, something the King could not be ignorant of.

Valentine would have no patience with Jace's guilt. Sooner or later the King would pull him aside and ask Jace why the bed that had been so meticulously made for him, with no small amount of trouble, was suddenly too good for him to lie in.

He had yet to decide how he intended to reply.

Jace hooked his gloved fingers hooked in his belt, mind drifting. Luke Graymark sidled up. "One of the more entertaining matches, would Your Grace not agree?"

Jace started at the sudden voice, then blinked and laughed uneasily, "Forgive me. My thoughts were elsewhere."

Luke donned that understanding smile of his, the one that pressed for nothing further while somehow still retaining the impression it grasped the situation entirely. "I can imagine. Is your duch*ess well? It is not like her to stay indoors when there is an alternative."

Jace nodded his agreement, "She is perfectly well, my lord. Merely taken with a slight chill and a good read this afternoon."

It was not entirely a lie, though Jace knew the red rims to Clary's eyes were not the product of sneezing. He tried to soothe her unhappiness somewhat by officially extending his book collection to her, though he had noted in his absence some of his copies had already gone astray. Clary was, as far as he knew, truly enraptured with his Latin copy of Caesar's Civil Wars. He had glanced in earlier to find her planted happily at her writing desk and embarking upon a translation, one set to amuse her for the next few hours, if not weeks.

He told Luke as much now, to which he nodded approvingly, "I understand that Her Grace is much gratified to have found a husband who will not only allow a continuation of her studies but encourages them. She feared that she may have to curb or surrender her work after she were wed."

Jace found himself surprised. It had never crossed his mind. He loved having a partner so well read. Once he would have spent hours comparing what he had read with what she had, then sparring with her on the meaning of certain pieces. Once, he recalled now, he had listened to her complain that her Greek lagged far behind her Latin and fully planned to tutor her himself, or better still, find another scholar of renown who would.

Again, as it always did when he thought of Clary, self-loathing speared his thoughts. Jace shrugged and then stuttered from his dry mouth, "I would not have a stupid wife." He shrugged and nudged toward humour, "If the only other men Clary cares for the company of are Aristotle and Virgil, I shall think myself a most contented husband indeed."

Luke laughed, mercifully, then sobered. "I will understand entirely if you berate me for venturing beyond my place, but I speak only as a friend …"

Jace glanced at the older man sideways, "Lord Graymark, I have always prized you as one of the few who did not mince their words to me."

Luke accepted the jibe with a nod and a wry smile, "Of course. I mean only that you do not always strike me as a man most contented. I would not presume to hassle you for the cause, only to ask if there was aught I could do to lessen the trouble?"

Jace could chase him away, he supposed, with a sharp chastisem*nt and a stern denial anything was wrong. Except, he no longer had the energy to stand on his pride and there was in fact some help Luke could offer.

He began with a sigh, turning his head more decidedly to Graymark's, "I would be glad of your advice, as it happens."

Luke smiled by way of encouragement.

"I know my wife has availed of your guidance in the past, perhaps I too might? If she holds you in her trust, then so do I."

It was not a wholly heartfelt declaration, but nonetheless, one he deemed necessary. Yes, Clary had come to trust the man, and Luke had expressed a very real concern for her wellbeing in the past. Jace was not about to put his life in the man's hands, but he believed he could rely on the lord of Aconite's interest in Clary's happiness. Besides, he needed some lordly advice, and though Alec was useful to an extent, he had not the experience of solely running a sizeable estate. Luke did.

"My relationship with the people of my lands," Jace began tentatively, "has become- how do I put this delicately?"Destroyed? Obliterated? "Strained by recent events."

"I see." Luke nodded slowly, fixing on Jace that deep gaze that really did see his problems. "You remain their lord. You still have duties in Broceland." Whether you like that or not, he did not need to add aloud. "If you wish to make any kind of reparation, you need to do so now."

"Can reparation be made?" Jace dared speak it, albeit not very loudly. He meant what he had said, Luke was one of the very, very few he could trust to give him the undiluted truth.

"Reparation can always be made," Luke spoke with quiet conviction, "Is that not the essence of Christian belief?"

Jace tilted his head back, feeling the first droplets of rain splash upon his cheeks.

"No one and nothing is beyond salvation," Luke concluded with an astonishing amount of feeling.

Jace chanced a look at his companion, following Luke's gaze to where the King stood by, clapping and laughing at one of his lord's quips. Admittedly, Luke could not be short on faith if he continued to cling to Valentine and counsel him. Believing that perhaps one day he would wake up and see in his monarch again at long last the shining Prince he would have followed blindly to hell in his youth.

Those intelligent, unwavering blue eyes returned to his, "If you do not go to Broceland soon, you never will. When a child takes their first tumble off a horse, you brush them off and tell them to get back in the saddle immediately. If not, you know they will never have the nerve to. It is just so now. No, I daresay that there will be no fanfare of welcome, you may even have to slip into your own home like a fugitive. But once you are in position you can start to make amends somehow. Meagre as you may find them to be, they are far more than you will achieve in Alicante." His tone softened once more, "I also expect it will do the duch*ess a world of good to breathe some country air again. You would be surprised at what wonders being alone with her will do."

Jace felt himself redden. He had not only been referring to his relationship with his tenants, but had not expected Luke to address that so explicitly. "We shall have to see," he muttered, looking back to the King. First he'd need to persuade His Majesty he was of most use to the Crown in Broceland.

-000000000000000-

"Clary?"

Engrossed as she had been in the rolls of parchment before her, the duch*ess had yet to spare a glance at whoever had just entered her rooms. She knew it could only be a select few, to enter unheralded and without being apprehended. Probably Isabelle or Maia. It was not until the voice was right beside her that she looked up.

Clary fixed what she hoped was a bland, indifferent face in place. Swallowing and laying aside her pen, she turned in her chair to face her husband. Fixing the flap of her robe over her nightgown, she was glad to duck her head away temporarily while she attempted to come to terms with the fact that they were alone together.

"Are you busy?" Jace sounded every bit as cautious and uncertain as she felt. Clary looked at him properly; he was slowly wringing his hands and there was broken skin on his lower lip.

"I was just about to halt for the night," Clary admitted honestly, clasping her hands together in her lap.

He nodded, then let his eyes flicker back to hers, still glowing with apprehension. "May I speak with you?"

She could send him away, Clary considered. Give him a taste of his own medicine. "I am tired," she could hear herself saying, waving him away imperiously. She wagered he would take his leave without an argument. Yet to do so would be too like kicking a puppy for her to stomach. Instead, she gestured for him to take the next seat. Her father would be delighted to hear the two of them had been alone together in her rooms of an evening, if no other good came of it.

Jace seemed at a loss for words, for all her invitation to speak. For a time, Clary waited in silence.

It was not a tolerable silence, and her patience soon ran out, "Jace?" She started, a little exasperated, only for following words to die on the tip of her tongue. His hands were shaking. They were also close enough, the closest they had been in weeks, for her to appreciate the blueish bags under his eyes. Contrary to whatever thoughts she had tormented herself with into late hours, he had not been sleeping soundly without her.

It had taken no small amount of effort to wrangle reports of what precisely had occurred during Jace's mission in the counties. They had been disturbing but, she had trusted, greatly exaggerated by the King's enemies. Clary halted that assumption as her husband finally looked her in the eye. His gloomily leaden expression set her on edge. She did not attempt to urge him to speak again.

"I need to apologise."

Heart thundering, Clary bade herself sit still. Regurgitating what she had heard would do neither of them any good. Difficult as it may be, she needed to avoid putting words into Jace's mouth. They had come too far for her to allow him to slam down the defences again, much less urge him to do so. She would hold her tongue and take what he saw fit to give.

"I have behaved terribly towards you." He addressed the carpet rather than her face, which Clary tried not to grow too upset about. "And many others besides."

There came another audible click as he swallowed in the silence, then nothing more. Sensing that her still tongue was starting to do more damage than it was preventing, Clary sought to stoke a deeper confession.

"I know that there are parts of yourself you have not shared with me. Things you have shared with no one. For whatever your reasons, a part of you has always been hiding Jace. There may always be things you keep from me. I do not demand for your soul to be laid bare before me, nor shall I ever. You need not admit me where I am not wanted. Just know that I will always be here and willing to listen. Whenever you may need me, whatever you might need of me: it is yours, as am I. Always." She reached for the quivering hands before her, stifling her relief when he did not flinch away.

Jace regarded her with mingled distress and astonishment. "Clary, you know not what you are saying. You know not what I have done."

Though his protest rose with perfect earnestness, he failed to remove himself from her touch. He did not want to pull back, Clary realised. He never truly had.

"Then tell me."

He did.

Each and every sordid detail, voice often breaking.

"Tell me why."

"What?"

"Your actions do not matter as much as the intent behind them. Why did you do all of it?"

Jace swiped his tongue over his cracked lips before starting again. "For you." His eyes shot to hers with urgency, "I am not blaming you. There was nothing you could do, and you had no part in any of this."

That was not strictly true, Clary considered ruefully, recalling it was to dispense of her Jonathan had diverted that fateful path to Oldcastle in the first place.

"I knew that if I refused, your father would use you to punish me. I was frightened that he would take all of this away." He swallowed again, face holding such distress that Clary wanted to weep on his behalf, even as her anger began to stir. Her husband's attention fell again to their joined palms, where her white, soft, lady's palms cupped his tanned, scarred soldier's fingers. "The hands you hold have innocent blood on them."

She could dispute the claim of innocence, Clary supposed, considering many of the would-be zealots were little more than ruffians who had taken to the roads thanks to the appeal of a day's looting in Alicante. Months later she could still feel intrusive hands in her hair, her skirts, the bite of that dagger at her throat. All this paled to a technicality, however, as Clary's wounds were not the ones open and bleeding.

She raised Jace's hands to her lips, kissing each of his fingers in turn. Jace watched her, speechless. His eyes glistened with restrained tears as she leaned in, closing the gap between them.

"Ego te absolvo. I forgive you."

Jace pulled her into his arms, pressing his dampened cheek into her braid.

Clary wrapped her arms around him in turn, holding him just as fiercely. She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar leather and ink scent of him, the one she had missed so desperately. Much as she might know that wrenching a promise to never leave her again from him would be futile- Jace would have to go wherever the King sent him-she longed to hear such an assurance.

When they finally drew back, Jace kissed the tip of her nose and carefully swiped away the tears from under her eyes. She offered a trembling smile, caught a breath and closed the gap between them for a kiss. The one she had waited for. The kiss that warmed her entire body and cleared her mind of anything but him. An embrace that made all in her world well for as long as it lasted.

She knew not how long they kissed, it might have been minutes or hours, but when they broke apart she settled herself in his lap, relaxing into him. After the briefest pause, Jace's arms came around her and his head rested upon her shoulder.

"I spoke with your father."

"Oh?" Clary fought the spike of dread and endeavoured to reply neutrally, "To what end?"

His low voice rumbled into the quiet and Clary revelled in its thrumming through her body, "I asked him for permission for us to retire from the court for a while. To go to Broceland, as we planned to, before." He trailed off and she felt him swallow before adding, "If I am ever to establish myself as their lord, I need to meet these people properly. Be more to them than a hangman." He stopped again, before concluding, with a nervousness that almost broke her heart, "I thought you may want to join me." Her answer did not come immediately, and he panicked, "You do not have to. If you would rather stay here, if you wish for us to spend some time apart."

"Jace," Clary turned unsteadily to face him, catching his face between her hands, "The last thing I want is for us to be separated again. As for escaping this court, I could not get far enough away. At this moment, Broceland sounds like Byzantium."

When Jace smiled at her again it was a purer, happier one. Though not quite the smile she had fallen in love with, it was still the closest Clary had seen to it for quite some time.

"I am glad you think so. This could be good for us." He dropped his head forward again, laying it in the space between her neck and shoulder as his fingers tightened their grip at her waist, holding the two of them together, in spite of everything, in defiance of it all.

Clary leaned backwards into him properly, reminding herself of how far they had already come. Thus far they had overcome the ignominy traitor's deaths and the designs of some of the most powerful rulers in Europe.

Clary could not but smile, drawing further comfort from the quiet seed of optimism lacing Jace's voice as he repeated, "This could be good."

-000000000000000-

He came back to her bed.

Clary was less elated and more relieved, Jace presumed. He had missed lying beside her, falling asleep to the sound of her calm breathing and then waking up to her warmth on the sheets.

He stripped to his undershirt and slipped under her covers. He sat there uneasily, hands fisted in the sheets, waiting impatiently and uneasily for Clary to reappear. She had excused herself to pray, leaving Jace to wonder what for.

Thanksgiving that they had finally begun to make amends? For the strength and patience to attempt to piece her husband back together again? He wished he had faith constant enough, and conscience clean enough, to offer prayer alongside her.

When his wife finally did slip through their bedchamber door, she neatly closed it after her. She paused, clasping her hands together at the base of the candlestick she carried. The sole flame on the wick shone steadily, there was no tremor to her hands at all, remarkably. Against the white of her nightgown her hair seemed especially bright, but her face was every bit as pale as the flimsy fabric as she drifted toward the bed, hesitating only for the smallest moment.

Clary slipped into place beside him silently and flipped over on her side to face him. Stubbornly keeping his own eyes stuck on the tester far above them, Jace lay on the flat of his back, hands folded above his stomach.

He resisted the temptation to drum them together as he waited anxiously, endeavouring to concentrate on keeping a steady, rhythmic flow of air to his lungs.

He knew not whether to focus on Clary's presence or pretend she was not there at all. On one hand, he hoped her being here would at last banish his ill dreams. On the other, he feared she might make them worse.

"Jace." She whispered it, though they were entirely alone.

He could not help recalling the dozens of times she had hissed his name to distract him during lessons. He could still see her, all plump cheeks and wild red curls unravelling their way out from under her cap. Disgruntled that she couldn't join the boys' lessons and less than impressed with being confined to her horn book again. She had adamantly wanted to learn arithmetic like the boys, leaving her sullen and trying to catch his eye while her governess was gone and his tutor distracted, eager to persuade him to invent some game to entertain her.

Now he had no choice but to look at her. Not even he could convincingly play at having fallen asleep that quickly. Clary lay perfectly still, with hands aligned and the tips of them disappearing beneath her pillow. A curl had escaped from the top of her braid and rested against her cheek. He longed to tuck it behind her ear, but he dared not touch her.She doesn't deserve this. The man I have become should not touch her. What I am to blame for cannot touch her.

He tried frantically to quiet his inner protests. Clary knew the sordid details in full now and she loved him still.

What choice does she have?That poisonous little voice sniped again. She was irrevocably bound to him, for better or for worse.

She needed to make the marriage that had come at such a cost work.

Jace slid his eyes to hers. The loving little smile Clary offered him sent his traitorous heart skipping like a milk maid. There came the soft rustling of the costly cotton covers and she took his hands in one of hers and pulled them over until they lay between them.

She freed her other hand from the fringe of the pillow. She curled it around the open collar of his shirt, feeding the material through her forefinger and thumb as she followed it slowly down to the vee. She paused there, just a moment, before slipping her hand inside, brushing his skin. Clary's fingers were cold, but that was not the only reason he shuddered.

It was astonishing, the things that even a fairly innocent touch did to him. The things it brought into his mind.

"Jace" she whispered again, with more obvious intent. She had shimmied closer too, closing in across the ridiculous mammoth sized bed until they were face to face. Closing his eyes once more and swallowing Jace made himself count backwards from ten in Latin. Trying to think of anything but her warm breath on his cheeks, or of how close her lips were. How her left hand was lifting his, laying his palm at her waist. Where he could feel the beginning of her curving hip and the heat of her flesh. Instinctively his fingers tightened, gathering the silk, pulling it upwards as his lips skimmed hers-

Go back to rutting with your Morgenstern whor*!It Not a voice he knew or had bothered to identify. Not one he had punished for the outburst as he had ridden by. Not one he could forget either.

Jace wrenched his hand away as if her skin were an oven plate.

He jerked several inches backwards, knotting the sheets around his legs and twisting the warm with the colder, untouched folds. Clary's fair lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes peered up dazedly at him, roused from a particularly pleasant daydream.

He could only stare back, horrified and desperate.

Clary glanced away. Her hand strayed nervously to her hair, drawing the braid back over her shoulder and worrying the end of it, "I'm sorry."

Jace stuttered out something about how she need not apologise, but she refused to heed it, "No, it is too much. I presume too far." Now she was the one fixing her eyes on the tester "But." Jace's eyes were drawn to her throat as she swallowed, "Just know that we can, whenever you wish it." Her cheeks caught fire, as she wriggled further under the blanket she hastily replaced, and pulled up to near her chin, "I want to."

Jace uttered a breathy exclamation of something thoroughly blasphemous. "God, Clary." She was reducing his restraint and reservations to splinters much faster than a lumberjack could a log. He pressed his eyes shut and contemplated, for all of a heartbeat, keeping them that way.

Her head had fallen to the side again and he knew without moving that she was still looking at him in that blessed way of hers. With patient hope. Trusting him even we did not trust himself.

"What kind of man am I?" He laughed with bewildered bitterness, "For you to want. For anyone to want."

She shuffled closer one more, gripping his hand and placing it over her heart, so as he might feel it pound under his touch. "The man I fell in love with." She affirmed simply. "I'll always want you." Her tone turned a touch apologetic, "I do not have your way with words. I know not what else to say."

He shook his head slowly, opening his eyes at last, "You have already said enough," he told her honestly. "If you truly mean that?" Jace ought to have hated himself for the blatant insecurity, but he was doubted his ability to hide anything from her.

Clary nodded solemnly, enclosing both his hands in hers with finality, "You have given me no cause to surrender you. None." She spoke quietly but forcefully, with not a trace of hesitation or regret. She made to say something else, but his lips were already on hers.

Clary dissolved slowly and uncertainly into the kiss at first. Then her hands were closing decisively on his upper arms and shoulders, while Jace's fingertips dug into the soft skin at her hips.

This should have been gentle, reconciling. Perhaps it was at first, but it did not remain so for long. It melted into something more intense.

Jace ought to be careful with her, gentle in the way he touched her and conscientious of what he was doing, but all such concerns were fast fleeing Jace's head. He ceased simply hovering over her and pressed his body into hers, crushing them together. He yanked her hair from its ties in a manner that could not have been painless, but she moaned, and he was a man half-crazed.

He could sink his fingers into her hair at last, just he had wanted for weeks. Clary gasped into his mouth, so he released her lips- but slowly, dragging the bottom one between his teeth on the retreat.

Jace abandoned the long torment of his mind and let his body take over.

All that mattered now was what he wanted, what he really wanted.

Clary must have felt the same, for she kept scrabbling at his back until removed what remained of his clothing and then promptly tore her gown over her head. Once there were no more barriers, he gripped at her breasts and again at her hips, properly now. Je roughly hitched her legs over his waist. Her wild breaths drove him wilder, pulling her body tight against his again.

He pushed inside her and held her tight enough to leave marks, possibly bruises. But she left her mark too, sinking her nails into the flesh at his arms and back and her teeth into his neck.

Before their couplings had been slow, sweet, confirming. This was a claiming.

There was little preamble and no restraint. Nor were there soft words or kisses to accompany this. Jace slammed his eyes shut, caught up in their movements and in how her panting was rapidly being replaced by enraptured cries. Until she was losing control entirely, her body shuddering and clenching its way through climax until he joined her there.

Afterward, gazing back up at that angel tester, Jace was more than a little dazed. He could scarce believe he had just done what he had and in the way he had. Even more remarkably, Clary had not protested. On the contrary, she was still curled around him, pressed snugly into his side. Her arm looped around him. fingers closed tightly over his bicep.

As if she feared he might disappear again in an instant. He almost laughed at the notion. Surely he had just proven beyond a trace of doubt how entirely a creature of flesh and blood he was.

He was tired, he realised, but it was a different kind of weariness to the one that had plagued him for days. It was his body and not his soul which felt so thoroughly worn out.

Jace meant to speak to her, say anything- but he was not sure there was anything left for him to say. So he closed his eyes, meaning to savour the moment, only to find he had no energy left to fight the sleep that moved in to claim him next.

-0000000000000-

Clary opened her eyes to darkness. Slowly, she grappled in her sleep addled state to come to terms with what had woken her. She kept blinking into the black chamber, trying to recall the frantic movements that had roused her.

Her next observation was that she was alone in the bed. Her hand floundered about in the dark, tips skimming a still warm pillow.

Jace had slept restlessly, she recalled, for she had lain awake watching him for hours. Her mind had been too active for her to fall asleep immediately. She'd held him, tracking the rapid movements of his eyes under his lids and listening to his deep, balanced breaths. He'd twitched and jerked in his dreams. That had compelled Clary to hold on tighter.

In all his fidgeting Jace must have settled long enough for her to fall asleep. Clary had no recollection of having done so until her tired eyes were protesting at the prospect of reopening. It did not feel as though she had been over for long at all.

She started to call for him, but a choking sound reached her before she could make a noise.

Bewildered, she shrugged off the matted blankets and crawled to the edge of the bed.

Several mild mishaps with the tinderbox later, a flame idly fluttered to life.

In the meagre light she found Jace, bent over the pot and dry retching.

Alarm singing through her, Clary snatched her robe from the end of the bed and tugged it around herself. She hurried over until she was on her knees beside him, setting the candle on the floorboards behind her.

"Jace!" She reached for him. He shivered miserably as she came in contact with his damp, cold skin.

"I am sorry," He mumbled, turning his cheek away, "It will pass." He swallowed with difficulty, "It will pass in a moment."

When they had first met, he'd reminded her of a lion, she remembered. All unshakeable pride under that mane of gold hair. She tenderly prised the fringe of it from his sweating forehead, laying her other arm over his shoulders.

He closed his eyes wearily and kept mumbling apologetically, "I did not want you to see me like this. Every night."

She kept stroking his brow, breaking away from him only long enough to pluck a rumpled blanket off their bed and tuck it around his trembling body. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, my love." He leaned into her, dropping his head in exhausted defeat against her shoulder. She held him in the quiet for a time, then attempted to coax him to move as best she could, "Come back to bed."

"You should go back to sleep," He agreed, "I will find no more rest tonight."

"Well, we cannot sit on the floor all night," she pointed out with calm practicality, laying emphasis on the 'we'.

He argued anyway, naturally, "You need not."

"I think I do. I remember swearing to be a loyal, loving partner for the rest of our days."

"There was also a promise of obedience," Jace muttered, "Not that I expect it has, or will be, observed."

He did follow her back to the bed. Upon returning, Jace lay so his head was against her heart. Clary kept running her hands through his hair as soothingly as possible. She kissed his forehead, "If I ever do as am told then you will know I have been replaced with a changeling."

Jace made the vaguest hum of agreement, but his eyes did not close as she had hoped they might. A traitorous part of her did long to slip away to sleep, but he had fought his demons alone all his life. Jace needed to realise that he need not do so any longer.

In good times and in bad, she had sworn to love him. Unlike most women in her position, when she had done so Clary Herondale had meant it.

She saw out the remaining hours of darkness with him, talking about nothing in particular. She filled the silence with every boring, petty detail of what had happened at court while he had been gone.

It was so unfair. Neither of them were saints, but they did not deserve this.

This was supposed to have been their happy ever after. Like all the romances, their troubles were supposed to be tied up and swept away by marriage.

This was only a setback, Clary strove to reassure her unquiet mind.

In time, with her help, he would heal. A few months in Broceland, away from the city and her father. All would be well.

Jace had saved her, whether he knew it or not, from a life of unhappiness and a faraway, loveless marriage. Now it was her turn to save him.

She had to.

-000000000000000-

There was a reason, Alec Lightwood reminded himself furiously, that he abstained from recklessness. Given his ill-luck, he should have foreseen that on the one damned occasion he decided to indulge- he got caught.

Isabelle had concealed liaisons Alec was glad he did not know the number of, meanwhile Jace had successfully sustained an illicit dalliance with the King of Idris's very own daughter.

Alec must have been absent from lessons the day they had learned the skills to do so.

Before things had gone to hell, he had been having a particularly pleasant morning. Ordinarily he was relatively careful, he usually only ever spent the night with Magnus at his house. That way there was no chance of a wayward servant stumbling upon something they ought not.

But since he had returned to the city, nothing felt uncomplicated anymore. Being with Magnus had once been his escape, now it was just another of the many sins Alec could not confess and knew not how to live with. With all that was whirling around in his mind, Alec was not finding sleep an easy companion. Last night Magnus had been detained at court until the small hours of the morning, by which time he had stumbled back to Alec's rooms looking as bone weary as Alec had felt.

"Another party on the horizon?"

"Would that it were so. No, His Majesty was grilling me for a progress report."

"Progress on what?" Alec had waited, the way he always waited when he invited Magnus to offer him details.

"Believe me, ignorance is bliss."

Alec had scowled, "Easy for the one with the knowledge to say."

"Alexander," Magnus's voice had been jadedly chiding and he had turned to properly face Alec at last, reaching for him. Trying to ward off a squabble, ward of any further talking at all.

But Alec was tired of it, of others pretending they knew what was in his head, telling him what to think. He hated it, and in that moment, looking up at Magnus and his forced smirk, Alec had almost hated him too.

"And you are well enough disposed to know what my mind is, all of a sudden? God, Magnus, I thought you the one person who knew better than to tell me what it is I should want."

Magnus had flinched, making to withdraw his palms from Alec's face.

Until Alec had caught at his wrists. "Stop. Just stop." Heart pounding, head wheeling Alec tried to make him understand, "Cease treating me like a child, as if I were something that has to be protected. I am not. You think you have done bad things, been in bad places?" He had to exhale a scoffing laugh, "Well, as have I."

They had never fought before, not beyond their usual well-intentioned bickering, and Alec sensed even before the shock on Magnus's face gave way to a new intensity that he had tipped the balance here. What they were to one another, that was changing. And not in the way Alec was used to perceiving such things; the cooling of passions, then the falling apart.

"I know you are not." Magnus's eyes seemed luminous in the throbbing candlelight, "But, Alec, you still do not know what it is you mean to me."

"Enlighten me."

"I do not want to drag you into it. My mess, my darkness. There is plenty of it and you," He locked their fingers together, "You are a light for me."

Alec swallowed, flicked his eyes up and down the man staring and fidgeting before him."

"I am not a toy. You cannot just use me as your escape, then drop me and go back to the real world whenever you feel you have to."

"No," Magnus agreed slowly. "You are much, much more than that Alexander."

The new intensity was frightening as it was wonderful. "Prove it."

The memory of Magnus, of his mouth on his, and indeed all over, brought Alec slowly back to consciousness. Still half in the world of dreams, Alec tightened his arms around Magnus and pressed his face further into the mess of dark hair on the pillow beside him as he relished the mild sunlight seeping through the window and warming his back.

The room had been filled with soft, slow breaths, now it was split with a gasp.

Alec was fully snapped to wakefulness by another choked, "Oh- Sweet mother of God!"

He whipped himself upright, joining the room's new occupant in being appalled.

"God. Isabelle!" Another horrified pause, then all Alec could proclaim was, "sh*t!"

His little sister made the perfect stereotype of horror, hand stuck to her mouth, eyes wide as a fish's. Between all the shouts and Alec's scramble for the bedsheets Magnus had been thoroughly roused. He shoved a long lock of hair off his face, "I thought you told me she knew?"

In faith, Alec knew his sister was not someone who was easily shocked. But finding him in such a compromising position proved a fresh and unprecedented terror. For them both.

Isabelle recovered enough to unstick herself from her spot on the floor. She stumbled backwards, toward the door, unpeeling her fingers from her lips to mumble out, "Yes, that it was men. I had no idea there wasaman."

Magnus relaxed, lounging back against the mattress. "Well then. Good morning to you." He unleashed his best smile, "I do believe we have already met. Introductions seem a touch unnecessary in this circ*mstance."

Alec thought he may just drop dead, wrenching his attention from his lover to his sister who, to make matters even more astonishing, broke out into a helpless fit of laughter. Magnus remained reclining, propped up on one unconcerned shoulder. Eventually Isabelle strangled her hysterical mirth to silence and began to look a touch nauseated. "I think. I'm afraid I must. Excuse me!"

Isabelle being speechless was a phenomena up there with the rarest of eclipses. Alec was sure soon there would be those who would dedicate their lives to avidly studying it. A new field of philosophy, most like.

He was not at all disposed to bask in the glory of this particular moment, as Isabelle spun on her heel and ran out the doors like a devil was chasing her.

-000000000000000-

Chapter 23: Obedience

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Obedience

Chapeltoute Hall, Alicante, May 1537

To the dulcet tones of Julie Beauvale's wobbling Latin, Isabelle speared the shirt's fringing with the tip of her needle, channelling all the vigour of a Spartan warrior wielding a javelin. An incredibly bored, intellectually wasted Spartan warrior. A fearsome being nonetheless.

She was not sure whether to be exasperated or delighted that the Queen's face carried the same weariness she felt at the day's proceedings. Jocelyn called out yet another insipid pronunciation correction to her temporary lady, who toiled onward through the psalms. Jocelyn's eyes had glazed over long ago, her fingers wound slackly through the bundle of linen in her lap.

Apparently, through his adolescence and into the early days of his reign, Valentine's shirts had been mended by his mother. The old queen, Seraphina of Saxony, sounded an even more formidable matriarch that Isabelle's own mother. To the point that even when her gnarled, ageing fingers fumbled and ached throughout the chore, Seraphina had been aligning Valentine's stiches until her last breaths. Upon which, the torch had been passed to the young King's new wife.

It had been a symbolic assignment; proof that the lady the Privy Council had sneeringly dubbed "the milkmaid from Aconite" was just as regal as her predecessor and was to be treated as such.

Thereafter, Jocelyn had stitched the King's shirts dutifully und unwaveringly until the day she disappeared into Broceland Forest. Upon return, she had reclaimed the thimble alongside her crown and gotten back to work.

Whoever had taken charge of the vestments' wellbeing in her absence God only knew. Isabelle knew for certain that Clary had never been called to serve. Having seen the King's daughter sew, she could not feign surprise at the Princess having been overlooked.

Izzy might have feared looking too idle for risk of being called upon to read next, given that her Latin was even more abysmal than Julie's. However, through some unidentifiable mishap or favour, she found herself the Queen's new favourite.

It hadn't taken much to make Jocelyn like her.

The first time Jocelyn attempted to urge her to a bible reading, Isabelle had craved pardon.

"Why should you not read as the other girls do?" The queen snapped and Isabelle, bored, irritable, and suddenly embarrassed that her ignorance was about to be exposed, had snapped back just as sharply, "Because I am a fervent Reformist."

There had come an audible gasp. Thick silence struck, until the stunned Queen looked to her young maiden's unrepentant, scowling face and dissolved into hearty laughter. "Have a care, Lady Isabelle," Jocelyn chided when at last she managed to draw breath again, realising that she should not have giggled in the first place, "That is no laughing matter." While her struggle to recollect herself offered mirthful contradiction one bleak, contrary sense of humour slyly smiled at the other.

"I do admire your spirit, Isabelle," the Queen had told her privately since, "Would that we lived in a world where a girl was permitted to have such character. I pray you find little cause to dull it."

Isabelle had shrugged, "I am an intolerable shrew and the bane of my father's existence. And methinks, in recent months, my mother's." In those days any such utterance was hastily followed with a glance to where Mayrse would glower helplessly while pretending to be enveloped in conversation with someone else.

"Ah. I suspect you remind Mayrse too much of herself."

Reading Isabelle's disbelief, Jocelyn had laughed again, that wry, brittle sound she reserved only for when they were together, "I suspect that is what scares her so.. You remind her of herself, or the girl she was." After a small, pensive pause Jocelyn added, "As my daughter does me. This world is unforgiving to wilful women."

Isabelle had been tempted more than once, given their new accord, to urge Jocelyn to comment on one of the darker rumours she had heard during her time in Idris, to ask outright if Mayrse and Valentine had been lovers, or if her teenaged mother had only wished they were. If, perhaps, that explained the sudden arrangement of marriage to her father in the first instance. But that would be going too far, even for the admirably devil-may-care Isabelle Lightwood. Besides, she was not certain she wanted to know anyway. Even had she the knowledge, what could she do with it? Lord it over her mother, use it to urge Mayrse to turn away from this idiotic Jonathan Morgenstern plan? Not likely. Not while the memory of her mother's face the night she had exposed Robert's debauchery still dug in her heart.

Poor as things were with her own mother, she did not think that searching for some maternal affection was what had driven her to Jocelyn's bosom. No, having observed the woman's interactions with Clary and heard the duch*ess speak of her, Isabelle was sure Her Majesty was no paragon of motherhood. In fact, she recalled now that had been one of the first things that had endeared Clary to her. Isabelle had decided to befriend her upon realising how alone in the world the feisty young Princess had been. Even where both her parents had failed her, Isabelle always had Alec to rely upon. Who had Clary, for a protector and confidant that would not betray her to the first lord willing to slip a shilling? Jonathan?

Isabelle had put herself first in line.

However much she may despise waiting on the Queen less than she had expected, that did not mean Isabelle was not desperate to have Jace and Clary back. The two women wrote often but never exchanged anything of serious account, knowing that every line was perused before the missal reached its recipient.

Valentine had always found his throne an uneasy seat. There could be no other excuse for the mistrust he regarded everyone with, even his daughter.

Still, Isabelle only had to endure the rigid tedium of life with the Queen for a fortnight more; then the court would be on progress. The duch*ess would be back at her father's court and Isabelle would have her friend back. Not a moment too soon.

Unfortunately, thinking of Clary always saw Izzy's thoughts stumble next to Simon. She would be lying if she tried to pretend his snubbing of her still did not smart after the passage of time. She also could reluctantly admit that it was more than her pride now bruised black and blue. It was for the best, of course, that much she rationally knew. But the heart was seldom rational.

It was as astonishing as it was painful to her, how icily Simon had distanced himself. She'd once thought the warmest, most open-hearted person she had ever known. He had proven since to be very cold. Mayhap the person he thought her to be deserved such isolation as punishment, but the exile did not enable her to explain that she was not that girl at all.

Isabelle did care. She cared so much it lay like a tonne weight upon her chest. All her pretence of carelessness and freedom had crumbled down, dissolved from the air and now it lay a deadweight on her shoulders.

She cared about him. She cared for him.

All the while she privately scorned Jace and Clary and even now from what she glimpsed of Magnus and Alec, she could not resist looking at what they had and wanting it. Not a simple, uncomplicated love, now she was doubtful to her very soul such a thing existed, but a love all the same. Someone who might make all the dreadful things in this world worth enduring.

Bitter irony seeped sourly beneath that secret wish. Such a thing might always be hopeless for Isabelle, who had not even the courage or trust to be honest with herself.

All these years Isabelle had pranced about in low cut gowns, tossed her hair and flicked up her skirts to scandalously flaunt exposed ankles, she had been carefully embellishing a mask. Baring as much of her flesh as she might so other, more important things might never peek to sight. Ensuring no one might know the scared little girl beneath. The girl who had realised with dread by the time she turned thirteen and her innocent body began to betray her into a woman's shape, that her face would be uncommonly pretty. And thus, her best asset would be her life's hindrance.

Men would desire her for it while women would despise her. Even her own parents believed it; they'd terminated her education soon after her first arrival at the French court, noting how easily she turned heads. They had assumed, and not incorrectly, there was no need for her to be especially learned or talented. Her looks would be all Isabelle would need.

Isabelle spent the years of her adolescence playing into it all, keeping everyone who was neither Jace nor Alec at arms-length. Until Clary had come along, in that bull-headed, hands on hips, no-arguments way of hers, and refused to be held at bay.

But since Simon, her carefully built armour had been bashed in around her. Isabelle was trapped inside it. The one boy who had begun to see past her façade had eventually caved to the assumption. No one would love her for her heart, or for the person underneath the elegant clothes and dry wit. Who could blame them? Isabelle barely knew who that girl was herself.

Even if every time she drifted past the lutenist her heart faltered in her chest and her breath snagged, even when Isabelle longed to catch him by the sleeve and bid him listen to her. She remained exactly as she had been a year and a half ago.

Playing the harlot to evade being the wife and ending up just as her mother had. Bitter and abandoned.

Letting her eyes flit back over Jocelyn, Isabelle found her new mistress continued to be no more enraptured with Julie's devotions than she was. In fact, where her mind shirked from the months to come, the Queen's seemed to dwell only there.

For all her ingratiating herself with Jocelyn, Isabelle could not pretend to know what exactly the lady's carefully, constantly churning thoughts might be. She liked to think for Clary's sake that her mother was contemplating how best to smooth their relations. That was not to say she had to wonder if Jocelyn loved her child. Jocelyn loved her daughter too much, if anything. An entirely repressing, consuming love, though the Queen would not see it that way.

Hopefully this season's progress could resolve that somewhat. Once Jocelyn realised that she had not lost Clary entirely, she might allow for a rekindling of their closeness. Ideally, a model of intimacy that allowed for Jocelyn's claws to loosen their grips slightly.

Jocelyn was every bit as desperate and guilty as the rest of those creeping furtively around the edges of this court. It must be painful, glimpsing that for all her former impact upon the King she had only been viewed as a misplaced possession for some time now. Even queens remained women. Shackled by their sex.

And yet, Isabelle was not prepared to underestimate Jocelyn's value as an ally.

She was still a straight route to the King. And it was His Majesty who would choose the bride and terms of the Crown Prince's marriage.

Sadly, as one of the Queen's many ladies in waiting, Isabelle could not flounce into the audience chamber and urge the King to join her by the lily-pond for a heart to heart.

She'd make do with drawing out his Queen's memories. Through them, Isabelle had begun to understand Valentine better. At an agonising pace she came to know a lonely boy, an only child of cold, hard parents who dared demand nothing less than excellence from their sole heir. A boy who had been isolated all his life, shouldering from birth the burdensome shadow of the man he must grow to be. The strong leader Idris needed, the Morgenstern dynasty needed. As singular and untouchable as the lone star that dotted his family banners. Except, Valentine could not afford burn up and fall to earth.

Isabelle could not imagine growing up like that. She had spent much of her childhood sealed up in the family keep, yes, but she had always her brothers or servants' children to rough around with. A small pack of them often yipped around the battlements like a litter of overexcited pups. For Valentine, without living siblings, he was taught to treat all his court friends with suspicion. To accept that for all they offered, they'd only offer as much as benefitted them.

There had to be some perks to being a king in waiting from one's first breath. Emotionally aloof as his parents were, at any given opportunity the court and world were reminded of the importance of that little boy. Of his divinely ordained destiny to rule. He had been overprotected, every Morgenstern supporter painfully aware that they were one mishap from losing their only heir and therefore everything.

As he grew into manhood Valentine gained much power, but at the cost of all his freedom.

That, according to Jocelyn, was how Lucian Graymark had found Valentine. Restricted to the point of strangulation in ermine trimmed robes. Luke had never been to court, Jocelyn explained one day as they flipped through pattern books in a bay window, with an expression even Isabelle's years of practice could not read. She had babbled on about his father not trusting Luke not to shame them all if he went, convinced that his son was too quiet and reservedly awkward to make the desired impression. He and Jocelyn had come of age on their respective estates in Aconite, and being the only two well born people of an age in the region, became fast friends. Even now the queen could admit they had not been satisfied, "We would spend the bleak winters and yawning summers pacing the hedgerows and waiting for our lives to start."

One day, they did. On the royals' summer progress, the two boys crossed paths. Both sheltered in different ways, one by obscurity and one by the very opposite, both unspeakably lacking company. "I suppose fond as Luke was of me, I was a girl. But I was his childhood and he was ready to grow up and venture into the real world. I would never be enough." Jocelyn confessed, hard-eyed and matter-of-factly, but the wistfulness was traceable.

Given her mother's offhand comments and the way in which Luke tracked the queen around the room, Isabelle could guess Jocelyn Fairchild would have secretly been more than enough for the young Lord of Aconite.

Regardless, Lucian became the first man to ask nothing more of Valentine than friendship, to truly care about what went through the head under the crown. Certainly one of the first to dispute with him on the rare occasion that a detail for their shared, gleaming vision for Idris's future was not identical.

Soon Luke introduced his new friend to his oldest and Jocelyn's fate was sealed. From what she had felt herself being under that frank gaze of Jocelyn's, Isabelle could imagine how exhilarating it must have been for the then Crown Prince, to find a woman who refused to bandy her words. A woman who saw an unloved young man behind and offered him the simplest kindness: unconditional affection.

Better still, Jocelyn supported his ideal of a reborn Idris: a new nobility and a court founded on loyalty and obedience above riches. A country cleaned of the undesirables: the heathens, the idle poor, the sinners.

How spectacularly that picture perfect reign and union of kindred spirits had shattered was one aspect of her history Jocelyn did not touch upon.

All Isabelle knew was that Valentine remained resolutely oblivious to both his dream for Idris and their marriage being dead in stagnant waters.

Isabelle calmly received all this information with open ears and a closed face.

In fact, as the days wore on Isabelle became increasingly convinced that this uneasy compromise between herself and the Queen was all that sustained them both. Sharing her history, willing some self-explanation and cautionary message into her reminiscing, Jocelyn imparted all of this to Isabelle while wishing it was her daughter to whom she spoke.

Equally, Isabelle listened attentively, mourning privately that she would never have a similar conversation with either of her parents.

Dwelling on anyone's private unhappiness or past was not enough to safeguard Isabelle's future.

Izzy keenly set about aligning what she now knew of the younger Valentine with the present one. The lonesome boy had become a mistrustful man, who looked around and no longer simply saw a circle of opportunistic leeches but plotters and assassins. The woman whose love he had once been so grateful for was now his entitlement. The boy planted on a pedestal all his days was now a difficult man to rein in. One who knew his own mind and his power and would allow neither to be negotiated with.

Isabelle was dragged from her less than holy contemplations by the arrival of the King in flesh.

He may be unaware of the power he had over her destiny specifically, but Valentine still moved with the quiet, unquenchable confidence of one who had apparently never lived a day in doubt of the immeasurable influence he did possess.

Grateful for Julie's instant silence and scrambling hastily to her feet with the rest of the women to sink in unison to their display of submission, Isabelle tactfully tilted herself forward with the curtsey and puffed her chest out.

Her resented armour may have trapped her, it remained armour nonetheless. Still protective.

Now was a moment of genuine thanksgiving, for her decision today to wear a dark blue that brought out the unblemished whiteness of her skin and drew so nicely on the sloe dark eyes she lifted with deliberate coyness to the waiting monarch.

Lastly, a note of self-congratulation to herself for having secured the stool next to Jocelyn. However attractive the queen may remain for a woman her age, she was still halfway through her forties. The body that carried those years only served to make Izzy's face fresher.

Valentine's eyes could not but turn momentarily to her.

If was impossible to tell if he approved or disapproved, but for now it was enough that Valentine looked.

Isabelle could do much with that look.

This routine; a little flirtation with the father, had worked well enough before in ruining an alliance with the son. Isabelle didn't need to act, she didn't even need to lean him on. A flutter of the lashes, a little audacity. Any blemish on her reputation in Idris would suffice. Though this part she despised, it had served Isabelle well once. it could do so again.

"Your Majesty," Jocelyn greeted her husband quietly as she was bid to rise.

"Good afternoon, dearest." The King laid a token kiss on the back of her hand and accepted the vacated chair beside her while the rest of the women scattered to a host of other tasks, all circling outwards from the Queen as ripples in a lake disturbed by a sinking stone. Isabelle did not go far, opting to sort through the small vase of flowers on the sill just behind Jocelyn, well within His Majesty's line of vision. Dutifully, paying the smallest scrap of attention she could spare, Isabelle set about plucking out dry stalks and crumpling withered flower heads between her fingers, listening avidly all the while.

"I have news from Broceland I thought I might share with you." Isabelle could imagine the hunger on Jocelyn's face as her husband dangled this before her. Jocelyn was desperate for any word at all from the daughter who would not respond to her letters with any more than the most bland, brief comments.

If Valentine had received other news, it must be noteworthy indeed.

"Our son has made quite the impact already."

"Our son?" The Queen's shoulders darted up and then plummeted again as the realisation dawned. "You mean Jace."

Valentine nodded, the edge of some sour humour marking his face. "Yes," he agreed shortly, "Seemingly he's offering shares of his grain to the tenants. What was stockpiled for his own kitchen is now, I hear, going home in the buckets and pockets of every nameless John in Broceland for the winter. Meanwhile the local Church roof has been replaced, amongst other monetary encouragements for parish charity. On another, uncorrelated count I am sure, the jewellery I gifted Clary for her wedding has disappeared."

Isabelle had to nip at her tongue to keep a giggle or a smirk at bay. Here she was, unable to get her father's attention at all, while Clary's very jewel box was being scrutinised.

Isabelle amused herself by imagining Jace squinting at the scales, tongue poked out in concentration before shrugging and tipping the whole pan of grain into the upturned apron of a farm wife. Then she envisaged Clary beside him, with her sleeves hawked up and her freckled face flushed and smeared with flour kneading a flop of dough. Surprisingly, the fantasy was not difficult to conjure at all. On either count.

"I hear a begrudging respect has arisen for the new Duke among the people. Now they have both felt a strike from the back of his hand and grown to appreciate the good fortune that can come from his open palm, I cannot imagine they will be keen to rise against their lord or his ilk again."

Valentine sounded as pleased as if he had achieved all of this himself, Izzy noted from another feigned nonchalant peep over at him.

Since he took credit for shaping the man, he also took credit for that man's deeds. Although Izzy guessed the King's approval stemmed from the cunning he assumed drove Jace's actions. It would never have occurred to him that Jace might act because he believed it to be the right thing to do.

"Good news at last," Jocelyn murmured, dipping her head and speaking more to her shoes. Upon His Majesty's entrance she had at long last found the motivation to continue her sewing. Valentine helped himself to a goblet of wine Lady Penhallow had scurried over with, lounging back in his chair. Or at least, as close to lounging a man like Valentine could get.

"Indeed." The King tinged his words with some further dry amusem*nt. Listing the exploits of his newest nobles as if they were a duo of children sneaking sweetmeats from the pantry and he, the fond parent, pretending to turn a blind eye. "I wonder if the Brocelanders will ever recover from the shock. To think, they've gone from haughty Stephen cantering by with his nose in the air to his son rolling bales of hay with them! He and Clary wish to play at country nobles." He paused for another smug sip, then cast a mocking, glinting eye at his wife, "In her blood, I suppose. Small wonder she has taken to the shires like a duckling to a pond."

Jocelyn's head shot up as if he had landed a kick to her shin, starting as though she'd been unexpectedly accused of something, "Not enough to dilute the Morgenstern, presumably."

Valentine flashed his slow, serpentine smile, "I should think not."

Upon taking another long draught of his drink, the King's keen eyes strayed upwards, to where Isabelle hovered, looking over her shoulder to the royal couple. A

As her eyes snagged Valentine's, she was faced a dilemma. Ideally, appropriately, Isabelle ought to lower her gaze. Instead, with a sudden flush of daring, she held the stare.

She waited for his temper to explode, or for Valentine to land some withering complaint of her. When it was not forthcoming, she readjusted her shoulders so she was half facing him.

Considering sheep, lambs and hangings, Izzy decided to push the limits a little more. She fired off a little half shrug and lifted her brows, twirling a drooping rose between her fingers as if to sayWhat?Before slowly and deliberately turning back to her task.

Isabelle felt a tad dizzy as she became falsely immersed in the dry petals again. She had just broken the first piece of court etiquette she had been taught. One never,everturned their back on their king. She knew not even what the punishment for such an offence would be. She only knew her desperation was such that it gave her the gall to try.

Isabelle also had enough experience to trust her feeling that he remained staring; attuning to the gaze of a man now came as a sixth sense to her. No more was needed for the moment. Not with Valentine's eyes burning a hole in her shoulder blades, not when the light from the window illuminated her silhouette- all perfectly curving hips and small waist.

Valentine was not a man to ignore or tolerate such a breach of respect.

If he did have her flayed, what of it? She should have been frightened, but that razing numbness in Isabelle's chest expanded instead. Let him do his worst. A few lashes might serve to divert her. She was sick of only aching on the inside.

But Valentine kept up his stream of small talk with the Queen, asking her about some noblewoman Isabelle had never heard of returning to court. Until, just as she heard Valentine take his leave with the scrape of a pushed back chair and a soft farewell to his queen, a parting purr was directed at her, "Lady Isabelle."

None of the other women received a goodbye by name. She should have been dizzy with joy that the king of Idris even knew her by name.

She would never be the gushing, startled maiden; there would be no,Who, me?

It was with a side smile and proud amusem*nt that Isabelle turned, making herself as sharp and lovely as ice.Of course, me.

Silently, more than a touch theatrically, she lowered herself to another curtsey and dragged her teasing smile out of retirement for Valentine Morgenstern.

Why let a prince ruin her when Isabelle could do it for herself?

-00000000000000-

Chatton House, Broceland, Mid-June 1537

It had taken Clary longer than she had imagined it would to grow used to waking to the sound of birdsong rather than church bells. Quelling a yawn, she stretched out her limbs lazily, blinking her eyes open to evaluate the hour of the day. The cocoon of pale reddish light cast by the haphazardly drawn bedcurtains told her it was still early morning.

She was already more at home in Broceland than she had ever been in Alicante. This was hardly a surprise; she had grown up in the convent nestled in its vast forest. It was still odd not having a euphonic harmony of the city's many chapels to herald in the arrival of every hour.

She stretched out again, relishing the drowsy relief of her loosening muscles, and smiled to herself as her toes bumped Jace's ankles.

Rolling over to face him, Clary huddled under the covers and appraised her slumbering husband. It was rare for her to wake before him. Ordinarily, he was up and about at first light of the early summer mornings. It pained Jace to waste a moment. He had too much energy and too many things to do to rest for more than a few hours. Especially not when he had so much to occupy himself with.

In the weeks they had spent here Jace had been extremely busy, making ties with his neighbours both lowly and noble. For the most part he had left Clary to deal with the latter, hosting an array of dinners and accepting a swathe of invites. By riding out with a young widow, praying with an elderly one and frequently inviting small parties to luncheon and dancing, hour by hour Clary befriended the women behind the lords of her father's Council. Or at least, those in her neighbouring vicinity.

Clary had to fill her hours somehow, since Jace was seldom out of the fields. He was learning about crop rotations and harvest preparations, assisting wherever he could. Jace heard suggestions and he made them.

He offered his people every hour he could spare.

Thankfully, the quiet of the Privy Council allowed him to do so. There had been very little royal correspondence from Alicante beyond a confirmation of the date for the King's impending arrival from Pangborn. Apparently Jace and Clary had the honour of hosting Valentine and his court on their first stop in the summer progress. Thereafter, the Brocelands would re-join the court.

The good news was Valentine would not tarry long in their house. Clary was worried they would not have enough food to sustain the whole court. Since she was the one playing hostess, the buck fell to her to ensure all went smoothly. Yet with Jace's generosity to their tenants and decision to forget all existing rent arrears, Clary was feeling the pinch. Thank God for the Countess of Chene, Lady Carstairs, whose subtly guiding hand and years of practice entertaining His Majesty at Chatton had made her indispensable of late.

Clary still just had to hope the King would be eager to hunt for his own meat in the grounds, leaving her able to just about scrape by.

None of that needed to be dwelt on this very moment. Not when she had a rare spot of peace to be thankful for her husband sleeping soundly. That too, she had come to appreciate, was a rarity.

She'd surrendered a lot of sleep to sitting awake with him for the long hours after he thrashed awake from another nightmare. After the first few weeks Jace had ceased being sick after jolting awake, until after a just over month of being established at Chatton House they had slept undisturbed through the night.

After some nagging, Jace admitted to still being plagued with an array of ill dreams. He no longer surfaced from them violently enough to disturb her. She urged him to wake her if he needed to, yet Jace refused. "Having you here is enough."

Now Clary thought of it, they'd not had an incident since.

This morning, through a crack in the curtains, a band of white, dawn sunlight had fallen upon him, illuminating the skin of one bare shoulder and turning the tips of his hair mellow gold. One hand was reaching across the mattress toward her, the other was tucked away under the pillow he lay upon. It was such a position of such innocent vulnerability that Clary was struck for the first time by how young her husband was.

The few years parting them had always seemed an age to her. In that time Jace had seen so much more than her, knew so much more. If he had ghosts aplenty, enough for man twice his age, Jace should not. She could think of no one who less deserved it.

Through slightly parted lips his breaths still came evenly and deeply. Despite her determination not to disturb him, the surge of affection that came upon her left Clary with no choice but to prop herself up and lean over to drop a kiss on his cheek. She slid her fingers into the gaps between his on the hand splayed between them and made to settle herself back down to doze again.

That hope proved short lived. True to form, even under her lightest of touches, Jace stirred awake. He stretched and sat up, shimmying feeling back into his limbs.

Clary watched, smiling to herself. The novelty of watching him wake up, facing the first moments of his day utterly unguarded and with his hair all rumpled, was not due to get old anytime soon.

His mouth stretched in a yawn. "Morning."

"Morning" Clary agreed sleepily. Jace rubbed at his eyes, thrice, blinking his way back fully to consciousness. He wasn't wasting time waking up any slower than that.

"Are you hungry?"

"A little," Clary appeased, though she was rather nauseous. Likely because her stomach was empty.

Jace began to throw off the covers, "Let's scout out something to eat. We have a busy day ahead of us."

"As always." Clary watched him pull on his robe and accepted the offer of hers when he passed it over. "I have begun to wonder if there is another kind. Another expedition with John Carstairs?"

"No," Jace replied cheerfully, "First I want to monitor the granary. Or what remains in it."

Clary feigned a gasp, "Such excitement so early in the day! I fear I cannot cope."

He rolled his eyes, "I am afraid I must deny you that particular thrill. While I am up to the elbows in grain with the servants, one of us must play at being gentry. I believe you have another luncheon planned with the Countess of Chene."

Clary refused to be distracted, "You do not want me to play farmer's wife?" She had ridden out with him before, to the cottages of all their tenants so she could learn all by face and name.

"No. Unless you have a particular interest in wheat farming." Jace's tone darkened as he finished, "Only one of us need reconcile with the commoners in these parts."

His wife kept her tone light, "But I can be very charming." And truth be told she wanted to do away with the myth the King's daughter was some entitled brat who did not care a whit which of her subjects lived or died, so long as they did it in obedience. However, besides one or two obligatory rounds to show herself to the locals, Jace kept her apart from them. His own safety something he could more gladly risk. God help them, Clary suspected that if a disgruntled farmer did attack Jace he would nod and agree they had cause to.

Clary, on the other hand, was never to be in any such danger.

Her spouse was a match for her in every way, including her stubbornness, as he reminded her now. "Exactly. Which is why I need you to flutter yourcharminglashes at Lady Carstairs and her daughter."

The additional unexpected guest propelled her to protest in earnest, "Jace, I think I have the Countess well and truly beguiled by now. I see her every other day. The last thing I need is a widening throng of Carstairs women. We have triumphed on that front, I assure you!"

"Woman," Jace corrected gently, "Lady Emma Carstairs is more of a child."

"I am to play nursemaid?!"

A shallow frown appeared on the Duke's forehead. When he next spoke it was firmly, "Quite frankly, yes. If that should be what it takes to fasten the Earl to me once and for all. If we cannot win the loyalty of a man whose eyes blaze like lamplights at the mere mention of the Herondale name, we are in a sorry state indeed. We need the approval of someone other than your father, Clary.Ineed it, if I am ever to have some room for manoeuvre in the Council chamber, or to have the ability to compromise with the King on anything."

Powerful friends of his own to lengthen the leash Valentine would keep him on. Since breaking free of it altogether was not a feasible option for Jace, so long as he called the sovereign's daughter 'wife'.

Clary tugged at the sheets, "I know all of that," she began with exasperation, then nipped at the corner of her mouth. She opted to run her tongue under her front teeth rather than moving it to words. Jace would not demean either of them by barking commands at her like he might a servant girl, but nonetheless, he expected conformity from her. Jace was not the sort of husband who would throw his weight around and snipe at her constantly for subservience, but he was her husband just the same. He had made what was expected of her clear and marked the conversation closed, turning away and beginning to get dressed.

It was not unreasonable, what he asked, Clary reminded herself as she followed him.

Anyway, most of the time they stayed in relative equilibrium, the occasional butting of heads aside. It was rare that Jace tipped the balance so explicitly. Much as he might jest of her unruliness, when it came to matters of import, things he truly wanted or needed, then she would have to fall in line.

Perhaps that only sat a touch uneasily with Clary because she had grown up in a community of women, a sisterhood. Even then, she'd always been gently deferred to because of who her father was.

Tucking her hair behind her ears and moving in the direction of her wardrobe chamber, Clary scolded herself internally. She ought not to be irrational. It should not trouble her to abide with the wishes of the man who loved and protected her. It was for both their sakes after all.

God knew, there were worse men to obey.

-0000000000000-

Through the gap between Wayfarer's ears the world looked much simpler. It shrank to a small patch of green land or dirt road below the sky, limiting all that mattered to a few square feet directly ahead of him.

In his previous life of diplomacy, Jace seldom had cause to think beyond a matter of weeks. In spite of his skill, his tender age had always made Francois reluctant to give him a permanent posting at any foreign court. Jace, with an unquenchable wanderlust, had never been incited to protest. He had no name, no family and no land to tie him to anywhere. Remaining the lone wanderer had been appealing. There still were times as he paced up and down crop lines that the thought of an open road remained tempting.

Now Jace did have an estate and family name to uphold, not to mention a wife to support. This necessitated long term planning.

He pulled his faithful mount to a halt by the roadside, stuffed his reins into his left hand and swung himself to the ground.

Jace noted with some pleasure that the ground his feet struck was damp and soft. His boots sank into the soil easily. A wet summer may leave many a nobleman or woman disgruntled, given it made outdoor sports unattractive. For the new Duke of Broceland, the almost unrelenting rain was a blessing in disguise.

As far as the eye could see the fields were a lush green. The waving green stalks of umpteen rows of crops indicated they were well watered. Reaching over the low fence to run an approving hand over one swathe of healthy sprouts, Jace noted with satisfaction the droplets of surplus water dotting them in tiny diamonds.

He flicked his fingers dry, breathing in deeply the scents of damp flowers and coppery tang of more rain. Leisurely, Jace paced onwards. The rain had left their entourage from Alicante miserable on the way here. Mud-slick roads were dangerous. They forced baggage carts to navigate big, murky puddles and avoid drowned ditches which would prove fatal to their wheels.

For the moment, the rain showers when they came fell frequently and lightly, meaning the county's precious crops were not choked or drowned. The one thing Jace needed most at the present moment was a good harvest.

A year ago, had he thought those words, Jace would have laughed at himself and then contemplated taking up residence in a madhouse. His change in circ*mstances dictated that his priorities abruptly change too. He smiled to himself, watching the frail, pretty form of a cabbage white butterfly flutter past him, its wings like apple blossom petals on a breeze.

Idris remained renowned for its fertile soil, the plains of Broceland in particular, he remined himself as he strolled further down the roadside with his horse at his shoulder. This southern part of his shire, bordering the Lakelands, had a mild enough climate and a bounty of good soil lining the banks of the river Durre. All of this made prime conditions for a high yield. God willing, this year would be no different.

Besides, this year there would be less mouths to feed.

With so many dead for their part in last summer's riots there were markedly fewer men to work the fields. While Jace could not conjure labourers out of thin air, he had done the best he could. At one point he had even contemplated hiring migrating labourers out of his own pocket to work the fields of Chatton, but the sorry fact was that the coin for such an endeavour did not exist. He'd focused his energies elsewhere, mainly on offering whatever charity he could. Relief could only come from the parishes, so Clary had set about sweetening the local church with donations and favours. She'd paid for renovations and buttered up the clergy, even rekindling some contacts with her girlhood friends in the convent. Anything to encourage a more proactive approach to the destitute.

For his part, Jace had taken a more direct approach. He'd struggled to comprehend how anyone here could starve when the land was so fruitful.

The answer to that question had been discovered in his own kitchen. The stores of food there proved stomach turning.

"How much do you expect us to eat?" He'd enquired of his cook incredulously, pacing from one packed, cool storehouse to another. One was crammed with tray upon tray of soft beige eggs, another lined with more fresh fish than Jace had seen in his lifetime. He might have accepted the quantities easier, had he not been shown by Clary the simple, sparse allocated meals for the staff listed in their accounts.

She, as it happened, was the one who alerted him wide-eyed to the "marketplace" downstairs. Technically, the domestic affairs within his walls were entirely Clary's realm, but having listened to his stewards confirm his suspicions, Jace had to acknowledge his claim on the goods was slim. Much of it came into the house to bulk up rent payments. But no storehouse in the world could keep all of it from rotting over the summer, so whatever was not consumed by the resident family would be sold onwards for a profit. Usually in cities such as Alicante or even beyond Idris's borders. Well no longer.

After having Clary section out the minimum of what might be needed in the immediate future, Jace had been able to offer just over a quarter of his supplies to his tenants. Granted, this year's harvest provided they should have enough to see them through the winter and well into the following year.

His ambitions to help improve his people's lives had not been satisfied there. With the help of the Earl of Chene, he compiled a scheme whereby some new high yield and high profit seeds could be introduced to the land next year, funded largely by the Duke himself. He just prayed that he had understood what had been told to him by those locals whom he had spoken to fully, and that this was not to prove a disastrous investment.

Two such farmers lumbered past him now, men with lined, dirty faces and gnarled hands curled around heavy wicker baskets, too old to have partaken in the riots which had doomed so many of their younger neighbours. Sons even.

Each carried a course sack over his shoulders, proof that they had just come from Chatton. With a mumbled "My lord," they doffed their crude straw hats to him and scuffled on.

These two had not quite met his eye but spoke thankfully, all the same. While the gratitude writ so plainly on the faces of some who had hastened to the manor house for their helpings of foods was striking, there were also those who received it all with grim pride or bitter resignation. Accepting what he offered because necessity and hungry children demanded it, lifting baskets and urns with brisk, snappish movements. None of them forgetting that the man whose charity they had to fling themselves on was the reason they were in widow's weeds in the first place.

Jace did not know whether to be outraged or relieved how easily many of them accepted their lot, knowing that whatever their lord might do to them he remained their lord. How willing they were to bow their heads. Valentine had been right after all, Jace had come to realise. At the first crack of the whip these people would fall back into miserable line. They had no choice if they wanted to survive.

And yet Jace could not pretend there were not those amongst them who still looked at him curiously, sometimes with a glance that almost held pity. As if they had come to realise Jace had to fall into his place just as often as they did. Sometimes he feared the last kernels or glimmering embers of anger he could pick out behind tired, desperate eyes was not wholly directed at him after all. Or mayhap he saw only what he wanted to see.

He could be sure that while the tenants may no longer loathe him, they were still far from loving him. Still, that Jace now felt safe enough to ride by himself spoke volumes, even if he did always keep a weapon stuck in his belt.

Jace glanced skywards. The brief moment of warmth from the unsettled late spring sun had vanished, squalls of greyish, smoky cloud obscuring the rays. Eager to avoid the looming downpour, Jace sidled back up to the stirrups and clambered hastily into the saddle again. From his new vantage point, he could see the light brown stone of Chatton not far away, just beyond the overcast patch and still bathed in sunlight. Almost beckoning their master home. For home it had become.

This year he would lay the foundations, next year he would build on them. And in the years after that, until his charity was no longer needed.

A start was all he could hope to make in the short months he had spent here. Now he simply had to have trust enough to step back and let some faithful servants carry the momentum. Of all his new duties and roles as a noble, that was the part Jace was finding it most difficult to cope with. He had watched and served enough lords to know how to strike a good imitation, to walk and dress the part, but he was so used to relying on himself and his own wits that it was difficult to loosen the reins on something he felt responsible for. He would have to. There was no way he could sow a field at Chatton and be in his seat on the King's Council in Alicante at the same time.

For the moment Jace could be mildly satisfied. He'd achieved everything he set out to when he had ridden for the village just after dawn. Filling his lungs with another gust of earthy air, he followed his nose to a nearby hedgerow in full bloom.

Jace let the horse take a mouthful, he made for the cream and gold clusters peeping out from among the greenery, hanging languidly within easy reach of his fingers. Tentatively, with mild amusem*nt as he recalled the first time he had done so, Jace plucked at the honeysuckle stems and brought the little bundle to his lips, relishing its sweetness on his tongue.

Clary had been the one to show him how, laughing incredulously at his incomprehension. She could not believe he had never sucked honeysuckle before, "They must grow in Adamant!"

"I am sure they do but anytime I rode out I was on the lookout for potential quarry, not plants."

Bemused and half-certain he was about to die as a result from ingesting some poisonous flora, he'd mimicked her, unable to withstand Clary's insistence. Now he gathered a small clump for her, hoping all their flavour would not seep out into his pocket between here and the house. Clary would laugh at him, as she always did, bringing her home clusters of wildflowers. It was the very least he could give her. Without her, Jace was not sure he would have found the motivation or energy to begin making things right.

Clicking his tongue, Jace snipped his heels at Wayfarer's flanks to urge him to a trot.

Valentine would descend within the week. For what little time he and Clary had Chatton to themselves, as master and mistress of their own little world, they may as well enjoy it.

-00000000000000-

Hours after the humid summer dusk finally surrendered to night proper, all was quiet in the best of the house's bedchambers, the Duke's traditional quarters.

The duch*ess lay wide awake. Absentmindedly, she watched the reflected firelight pick out the bronze threading in the watchful Angel stamped tester above her. The strands of fabric simmered with light, tiny veins of molten gold.. Technically, marriage could not change the blood in her veins. She was still a royal. There was nothing wrong with Clary continuing to sleep under it.

It was just discomforting to consider the design sheltered a slumbering Herondale mistress with the blood of King Ithuriel in her veins while the Morgensterns were still a relatively lowly noble house, awaiting the rebellion that would propel them into power. Clary briefly wondered, in her first nights here how she could tactfully have a servant remove and replace it without seeming a whimsical, spoilt little madam with nothing more important to worry about. She'd dismissed it almost immediately, knowing such a request would sound ridiculous regardless of how she voiced it. She bade herself consider it another way, as rather apt. Neither a heron nor a star. It could belong to both her and her husband equally. A reminder of their common Idrisian heritage, whatever feuds had emerged in recent generations.

Blood ties bound them now, she thought with a small smile, her limbs still entangled with a dozing Jace's under the covers. The only sounds were their lazily pattering heartbeats and the measured breaths lightly teasing the exposed skin at the base of her throat, not quite touched by Jace's lips.

The muted light from the dying fire made the room seem warmer, safer. It ought to have lulled her but Clary's eyes stayed open. She shifted, rolling over to gaze into the faintly glowing embers, watching the single flame that still bobbed and fluttered weakly in the grate.

Jace stirred behind her, sliding his arm down her side and pulling closer. She sighed contentedly at the warmth of his bulk against her, twining their legs tighter. "What keeps you awake?" His voice was roughened by the edges of sleep and a reviving lust, "Have I not worn you out enough?"

In the weeks following their reunion in Alicante there had scarce been a moment spent alone together that had not ended in their tumbling into bed or, as Clary was only slightly ashamed to admit, any surface at all. She had found herself hoisted onto table tops and even once pressed against a wall-none of which she could ever take to a confessional. She never discouraged it. She knew this new need for an almost constant physicality was one way Jace sought to recapture an intimacy between them.

Much as he tried, it remained impossible for Jace to remove her face from what he had done the last time he had been to Broceland. Her father had clearly mastered the art of dangling her in front of Jace like a particularly ripe carrot. Valentine must have played on what would befall her were an uprising successful, all the while offering the idea of her waiting happily at home for Jace. Trying to loosen Valentine's influence over Jace would take more than a summer.

In the meantime, Clary had to accept Jace's clinging to her. Keep reassuring it had not all been for nothing.

Secondly, while she could try and reason at being the compliant wife in her mind, Clary knew she could no longer dismiss her own lust as a fiction. She wanted that physical closeness just as much as Jace, on every occasion. The fable carefully filtered to her by her noble friends in offhand anecdotes and clipped off comments had been disproved: the marriage act was not one to be endured rather enjoyed. Or perhaps Clary was simply fortunate in her partner.

Clary smiled against the corner of her pillow and tucked her arm beneath it, turning her head slightly so he would hear her replying lie, "You are the insatiable one, not I."

"Hmmm," Jace hummed noncommittally, fingers curling against her waist while he pressed a weary kiss to the top of her ear.

It was a single needling thought that kept her from sleep, the simple annunciation that had been weighing on Clary's lips for days.

She held her tongue.

Because this would change everything, and not just between them. She'd held her suspicions to herself thus far, knowing Jace had thoughts flying through his head faster than minnows in a creek these days, convincing herself he would not greet any distractions.

She presumed Jace had fallen asleep again and she would have to hold off until the morning- the way she had been holding off for the past four mornings- when he spoke again, "You're all… distracted…. been that way for days. S'wrong?"

Any other time, his sleepy inquisition would have been endearing. Now Clary was too preoccupied to appreciate his sweetness. "Nothing is wrong. Not really." her breath hitched slightly and then, suddenly, the words just slipped out, "I am with child."

For the second that followed Clary could only lay there, stunned she had just blurted the news into the gloom without looking at him. She could not even be sure he had heard her, for Jace was completely still for a very long moment. Then she felt him tense as comprehension sank in.

"What?" This time there was no trace of fatigue in his tone.

"I am with child, Jace" Clary told him again, this time with more conviction. It did not have the effect she had been hoping for, it only pushed him deeper into silence. Clary waited until she could bear it no more. She rolled over to face him. "Speak to me," she tried to instruct firmly in the newly developed lady of the manor voice, her face now very close to his wide-eyed gaze.

The hand reinstated on her hipbone tightened its grip, "You are sure?"

It took a great deal of effort not to shove him. "Yes, I am sure. Almost two months gone, I suspect, for I waited to tell you until I knew for certain."

Jace shook his head slightly, finally emitting a breathless, disbelieving laugh, "My God. A baby. Really?"

The shock had melted off his face and Clary noted with dazed relief that Jace seemed pleased. Better than pleased, judging he grinned at her now. She had not seen him look so happy for many long weeks, not since they were first married.

"Really," she gladly confirmed, allowing a smile of her own to mirror his. Jace's joy and excitement was infectious.

It was precisely what they needed, both of them. Something good to look forward to in the immediate future. A new beginning indeed.

Jace leaned over, kissing her just once, but deeply, adoringly, laughing slightly as he drew hand moved up to her shoulder, absentmindedly brushing her hair over her back and rubbing soothing circles there. "A child. I can't believe it."

Clary giggled at his delighted mumbling and scooted back slightly to inspect his face properly, seeking out the best possible view of the smile that lingered there, "Can you not? What on earth did you think all of this," She gestured to their interlaced bodies, "would lead to?"

Jace shook his head again, struggling to absorb the enormity of it. Even in the gloomy chamber Clary could detect the thoughtful gleam sliding into his gaze, "I did not think it would happen so soon. "

Clary shrugged, "I suppose it only takes once," She grinned again at him ruefully, "It has most certainly been more than once, my love."

"I suppose so," Jace mused before his features froze again. He pulled back, springing briskly up onto his elbow, the sheets sliding further down his hips in a most distracting manner. "Dear God."

"What?"

"You did not tell me. Not before I- A woman in your condition! And the way I just-" He glanced down at her naked form with something close to terror and Clary finally grasped the root of his panic. She laughed until her ribs ached and her eyes watered, the mingling relief at having told him feeding her merriment just as well as the embarrassment wavering across his face, "Clary! Don't laugh. I am trying to be serious."

"I know," she gasped out at last, slumping back against the mattress and reaching out to pull him with her, "I know you are. Trying to be concerned, that is. Do not be. I am much stronger than I look. I have made some delicate enquiries and learned such goings on will not harm the child. My women were firmly of the opinion that lying with a man during pregnancy does no harm and I will take their opinions on childbearing over a man's any day." She refrained from telling him that she had also been reliably informed she would be inclined to want him even more as an effect of her condition, or that she had already begun to feel the impact of that particular symptom. There was only so much excitement a man could take in one night.

Jace gradually relaxed, returning to press swift little kisses against her nose and lips, wrapping his arms around her once more.

They lay peacefully for a time, her head pillowed on his chest. "Your father will have to be told."

Clary sighed before she nuzzled closer drowsily, lips moving against his neck with her response, "But not yet. He will know soon enough. I want to keep it to ourselves, just for a while."

To her relief, Jace mumbled his agreement readily. With more than a little satisfaction, Clary began to foresee that her husband would happily enslave herself to her every need and whim for the next few months.

It inspired a little more daring. Clary proposed with a final breath of laughter, "Let us be the ones keeping a secret for a change.

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