A/N: And we're back! Apologies in advance for the monster of a chapter, but I wanted to deal with the immediate aftermath of the whole mob thing in one chapter, so here I've worked to highlight the changes in relationships and balance of trust straightaway, so that I can move on to other matters as swiftly as I could. Obviously the psychological effect on Clary will have a long term impact, and even to an extent on Jace, but there will be other more widely felt and unprecedented repercussions to come (though perhaps not entirely unprecedented now that I've told you that- no matter). Thank you once again for the positive responses to the story, they are very heartening and really keep me going! I think that's all I really need to say at this point so... enjoy :)
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Chapter 9:State of Play
Road to Durre Manor, Northern Lakelands, June 1536
Clary Morgenstern felt surprisingly good cradled against him, with her small head propped against his shoulder and the rest of her tucked nicely between Jace's 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. Worst of all, compensation for his loss was highly unlikely, he was certainly not about to receive either an apology and new clothes from the Kings of France and Idris or the aforementioned peasants.
Heaven help him, if the Dauphin didn't marry her now he'd be the next one rioting.
Pessimism aside, he could now sport a fresh bruise on his cheek which was sure to make him appear even more dashing.
However, his primary concern now was Clary. Things had indeed taken a particularly ugly turn in Oldcastle, he dreaded to think what might have happened to her had he not intervened. He could not even begin to describe the terror he had felt arriving in the middle of the town to find waves and waves of enraged bodies tussling and clashing and not a single princess in sight. Through some miracle he had decided to mount a pile of barrels against a tavern in a desperate bid to catch a glimpse of the princess at the same time a distinct red head made a similar attempt to gain a standing on higher ground. His relief had been short lived; the girl looked in bad shape, there was a group of particularly sinister looking bastards hot on her heels and there was no way he was going to be able to get through the crush quick enough to help her.
Just as she hit the ground he remembered Verlac's new-fangled and untrustworthy weapon, panicked and taken aim. Like a canon but used by hand, he had been told. Jace had absolutely no experience with canons, but then again he had no experience of riots either. So he 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 he could see that his actions had been utter idiocy. Just idiocy it seemed that had been blessed.
The blinding flash of light and combined scorching heat of the device meant that he almost dropped the damn thing. Luckily his burnt fingers retained their hold, but the weapon's resounding bang had more of an effect than had been bargained for. What must have been the small metal ball the contraption had contained flew out, struck the wooden frame where it left a blackened mark on the timber before 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 it had a similar effect on the surrounding rabble; following a stunned outcry and a momentary panic the crowds kept out of the way of the barrel's contents which were now flooding the streets with water and twitching sea life.
Once the source of the new uproar was traced all eyes were firmly on Jace.
He must have looked thoroughly demented, wielding his mysteriously deadly weapon and crying threats with utter hysteria as he raced through the hurriedly parting crowd, cutting through the once tight packed crowd like a knife. Not a great deal of acting was required, the device had frightened him every bit as much as the townspeople, but somehow he managed to work it in his favour; 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.
Their actual escape was a blur now, Jace could vaguely remember sweeping Clary's light body into his arms with ease and thinking that a life of holy austerity at her convent had been kind to her; the girl weighed almost nothing. Once he had her safely in his grasp he had 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 had arrived unchallenged to where an unconcerned Wayfarer waited, chewing on a patch of grass. From that point onward it had been simply a matter of shoving the still warm metal in his belt, lurching into the saddle, securing his grip on Clary as best he could and galloping out of Oldcastle before the locals could discover Michelangelo was not a threat.
Even though the worst of the danger had passed Jace found he felt no peace as the distance between them and the town increased, and it was not because with just 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 he was growing more and more concerned with every second that passed and Clary did not regain consciousness, once they were at what he judged a safe distance from the trouble and he gratefully slowed Wayfarer to a walk and inspected Clary properly.
They had not been kind to her, that was clear. Not only was her gown torn in several places but her hair was tangled and dishevelled and her throat was ringed with angry red splotches, not unlike some of the burns kitchen maids gathered on their arms, but these were distinctly finger shaped. She would have worse bruises than him at any rate. The most frightening wound of all was the cut at her temple, while most of the blood had dried to a rustier colour and pasted dark auburn tresses to the side of her face it was still pulsing and oozing bright ruby liquid that trickled down to her cheeks.
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 in an attempt to control his thoughts.
Clary's eyelids fluttered agitatedly and at last opened slightly, blinking frantically before a glassy green gaze fell on Jace. "Princess? Can you hear me?" Jace demanded, his voice unforgivably panicked. She muttered something incoherent and at the poor response something within him, 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 I'm scared" she insisted blearily, moaning slightly and pressing her eyes shut as though the light hurt them, "Don't leave me!" The raw fear and pleading in her tone made him instinctively draw her closer. The sight of the fiery, confident princess reduced to such vulnerability filled Jace with a startlingly powerful urge to protect her, to hold her even tighter and take away all the pain. "All is well. I am taking you home Clary, you are safe now. You are safe with me," Jace found himself speaking with a tenderness he had thought was beyond him.
Even now, stained, bleeding and dirty as she was he was able to see the edges of beauty on her delicate features. As of yet the roundness of the childhood lingered on her face, but it was unmistakable that the small, straight nose, neat mouth and sharpening cheekbones which made her pretty now would soon see her grow into a beauty. Despite the fair lashes and dusting of freckles that excluded her from the measures of traditional beauty she remained captivating, somehow the imperfections made her more endearing and it was more the knowledge of lively spirit this face held that made him want to keep looking at her, to appraise her in a way he could never have dared to were she awake.
Under his study, the princess' lids continued to twitch and her lips trembled, another soft groan escaping her. That woke Jace up, he did not have the time to stroll along and judge her appearance, the girl 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 on her he 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, half expecting the thing to explode again and blow them both to Kingdom Come. Sucking in a single bracing breath he 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 disappear from view. Satisfied it was gone, he nipped Wayfarer's sides with his heels and started to canter south again towards his destination, reminding himself to get Verlac to write to his mad inventor and tell him the invention did not work. It had come to Jace's attention that these gun things were bloody dangerous.
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Clary's dreams were confusing and frightening. She was convinced that there were monsters everywhere trying to get her, like the scary demons in Hell Dr Fell had shown her painted in the church. As a result, she was partially glad to wake up in a strange bed but primarily disorientated. She flew upright, floundering about in the thick, weighted darkness with her breath coming in sharp, harsh pants that hurt her throat and left her head spinning.
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. She was afraid to stay in the bed but she was more afraid of leaving it and in such a difficult situation her stalemate of terrors left no remedy save bursting into tears.
Clary hated crying, 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, afterward she had borne all of Jonathan's pinches, tricks and taunts with dry eyes, no matter how much her eyes stung and her chest ached with swelling sobs. However, tonight her disorientation at the unfamiliar surroundings mingling with the fresh distress of her nightmares made her usual self-control impossible, so 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. It was only later her charge would remember that her nurse had taken the night off to take care of her own child, Clary's friend Simon, who had come down with a fever. For the time being all the poor girl could do was struggle to calm herself down and stem the flow of tears, failing quite miserably.
Finally the door of her chamber was pushed open, dropping trails of low light from the room beyond across the red and green carpet and floorboards at the foot of the princess' bed. In the brightening entryway Jonathan appeared, carrying a tremoring candle in one hand and a closed book in the other. This Jonathan was not her brother but he might as well have been, for the sight of him calmed Clary instantly.
In fact 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 and be more grateful for the loved ones she had in life. Clary had borne the chastisement meekly but she knew that secretly Mrs Lewis agreed with her and loved this Jonathan much more than her brother as well, 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 in reply, looking at him with her young face so heart-wrenchingly full of despair that he instinctively moved closer to the bed. "Where is my mother? I want her. Where is everyone? Where are we? I'm scared!"
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 and 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 have a few drinks themselves and 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 nearly twelve now and especially clever, everyone said so, therefore he was right about everything.
"Why didn't you want to see the masked?"
"The masque Clarissa" he corrected softly, sounding superior in the way older children do. "It is a manner of play, only all the players are masques, they act out their scenes and there is dancing. I did not go because 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, but his 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 and showed himself willing to purchase pricy copies in order to inspire this hoped for eagerness. Tutors told the king that Jonathan was more than capable of making quite the scholar, but he was evidently heartily disinclined at the moment. In this instance he had bitterly complained of the sword he had wanted and so the book had been thrown 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, it tells about the events of the Trojan War. No foxes, just Greeks. A story about a very beautiful and foolish princess and the bravest of all the heroes, it tells of their most courageous feats and brilliant tricks." With his words his voice rolled, rising and falling in his usual storytelling style, beginning to exhibit the carefully crafted excitement and genuine emotion behind his enthusing that would forever captivate her. He grinned at her again, "As for Felix the Fox, well I must admit he is my own invention. I suspect my tales fall just a hairsbreadth short of Homer." He plucked the book off the 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! I'm afraid. 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 real 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. "Clarissa, you should never be afraid when I'm here. I will always look after you and keep you safe. I would never let anything hurt you." 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 believed him and trusted him as she did no one else. So she permitted him to tuck her back in and settle himself on the edge of the bed, the paltry light of the sole candle turning his untidy curls to a dull bronze as he watched over her with that serious gold stare, those remarkable eyes that only existed on him.
"Don't leave me," she begged, peeping up at him with a mildly fearful, sleepy gaze.
"Never," he promised and Clary let the final reassurance lead her back into the depths of an untroubled sleep, because this Jonathan never lied to her and he had promised to always protect her.
Or so she had thought. Only a few short weeks later he had disappeared without explanation and 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.
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One moment Clary was waking up from her nightmares to a darkened room and the next she was being jolted awake by the thrashing pain in her skull, opening her eyes to blazing colours and flashes of a familiar face, the troubled gaze and echoing voice swinging madly before her in a way that hurt her head even more. The unexplainable fear that still had her in its clutches drove her to try and move her lips, to soothe him or warn him she wasn't sure, but then she was a child in the dark again and losing him no matter how desperately she called his name.
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The sight of Durre Castle looming before him in an impressive grey stone, albeit faded to a muddy brown at the bottom in the descending darkness and tumbling waters of its namesake river nonetheless loosened the weight in Jace's chest and the grip of fear around his throat. "Almost there" he reassured the half conscious girl in his arms though he had long ago established she could hardly hear him.
"Jonathan," 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 and Jace was not about to try and loosen her hold. For one, it reassured him that she was not about to slide off Wayfarer and it also comforted him: 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, he knew that even if they weren't fatal they could leave life changing consequences, then his whole rescue would have been for nought; 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 and walls would come to his aid.
Damn these last century castles. Clearly this particular abode had been built in the previous century, when times of upheaval had made such defensive houses a requirement. Not that Jace was averse to such architecture, in fact having grown up in the Lightwood's border castle in Adamant he felt more secure in them than in the open palaces that were now so in vogue. At this very moment though, he would love to be able 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 entire army outside his walls 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."
The razor wit so similar to his own would otherwise have heartily amused Jace, but a low groan from Clary frightened him enough that he opened his mouth to deliver either a heartfelt tirade or ear-splitting scream, whichever his vocal cords produced first.
Then divine intervention took an unexpected form and 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 me! 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 had to say to the gatekeeper must have 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 calling for her brother and 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. "Oh 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 the other two boys 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." He seized a nearby lantern and beckoned instantly, "This way gentleman."
"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. The man 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 behind his friend. Jace noted despite his fretting brain that 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 can assure you." Jace winced upon his shoulder making contact with one of the confining, damp stone walls that surrounded him, limbs sliding 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, yet at the moment he seemed remarkably calm and simultaneously rather cagey. Jace despised feeling as though he'd missed something. Still, he had bigger things to worry about presently, 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 which must lead 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 yet gently Jace laid his precious damsel out on the bed and then was hastily wrenched back while the more sensible of Clary's attendants made some effort to clean her wounds. This was probably the time 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, croaking out her brother's name once again, "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 and fixed an inquisitive gaze on her friend, "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, stomach flipping at the possibility. The mere notion half thrilled him and half horrified him, that even years later this girl could remember the boy who had told her stories to illicit a laugh and dried her tears, on one occasion going to such lengths as hitting a young Mark Blackthorn for teasing her unforgivably on her brother's command. It meant he had not been forgotten by all the Morgensterns, but the fact that a Morgenstern remembered him was dangerous considering it increased the likelihood of further hostility from her brother. Still, his heart leapt and still his feet remained planted firmly on their place on the 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, who was at the moment storming towards the young Frenchman 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. Realistically he knew that Valentine couldn't whip him or deny him meals anymore, not while he 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 while 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 with a more satisfactory answer than those whom I have questioned before you, Herondale."
Jace forcibly slowed his own heart rate and 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. Jace recognised it instantly, having mastered a similar disguise years ago. 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 happened Your Majesty."
Jonathan's stare intensified, Jace could feel the hidden urgency burn his turned cheek without moving his own eyes from Valentine's. Oh panic by all means Morgenstern. His Majesty would love to hear of how you abandoned your sister to her peril, and of the distinct possibility you even constructed that danger for her.
Before Jace could make a proper decision as to whether or not he was really going to drop his old foe in the dung Valentine's head snapped from side to side as he irritably shook it, "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 with the flaps of his dark cap drooping over his wrinkled cheeks and wispy grey beard bobbing 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 will may wake up feeling disorientated and sick but 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 and all will be well because of your actions. I will not forget this." His words sent a trickle of warmth down Jace's spine, like he was still a little boy who practically glowed upon being the subject of some of His Majesty's scarce praise. Having gotten all he wanted Valentine turned on his heels without another word to Jace, and following some brief converse with the physician himself, exited the chamber.
Jace's gaze drifted instantly back to Clary, and through the shifting skirts of her fussing ladies around her he caught a glimpse of her sitting up on the cushions with some kind of rag pressed to her head and a cloudy gaze fixed on him. Even from the other end of the room he could see clearly that her lips formed his name.
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.
"But what if she-"
"Clary Morgenstern will be fine. You have done your bit, beyond satisfaction. Isabelle was caught in the middle of that uproar too you know and she has recovered, so too will the princess; you heard the physician's report as clearly as I did. But what happened today changes everything in this embassy. Come." Much as he hated to admit it, he knew Alec was right. And he had missed his friend, though he would never articulate that either. Besides, now that the danger had properly passed the last of Jace's energy had drained out of him and he found that he longed for nothing more than a warm seat and whatever words of advice his friend may have.
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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 is for the best he cautioned himself. The less people noticed him the better, not only should he prefer this invisibility, he should actively court it. 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 bacon or any other 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, but 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. Idris was close to Spain in its treatment of anyone suspected to be less than the required pillar of orthodoxy; most people of the Jewish faith had been expelled from the land in recent years. Before Luther had ever put pen to paper the Idrisian Jews had been given a simple choice: convert or leave. Those who had remained in open defiance had met a terrible end; in the months following Valentine's ultimatum a particularly bad plague swept through Alicante, and in the midst of such death and suffering the 'infidels' had provided the perfect scapegoat.
It did not reflect on him well as a person 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 in fact been Jewish 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 and they were not going to flee because he commanded them too. Still, they had changed their names and kept their knowledge of the Torah well hidden. 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, he would understand that they would have to keep their Sabbath candle covered and would not mind that they dared not pray above a whisper. He had loved his people when they had been Pharaoh's slaves and so seeing His Idrisian believers humbled and fearful would not challenge his 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 as such made an exceptionally good impression on the queen, so that by the time Clary was born she had been promoted to the position of the princess' primary nurse and governess.
Tonight his fears were entirely for his friend; he had caught but sole a glimpse of Clary's limp figure as she was hurried to bed. Helpless and hopeless, he had taken 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 or how, but he did know that he was not moving from this spot until he knew that his best friend was going to be well. Simon had watched the King and Jonathan visit briefly, and upon the first of the musician's many failed ventures to the princess' 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. That sent him on a new trail of fretting, he had to reassure himself several times that they had travelled together with the luggage and had managed to avoid Oldcastle entirely. Mayhap she'd been dismissed early then. Mayhap after the events of the day Valentine did not trust a commoner to touch his daughter, a possibility which was nearly as disconcerting for Simon as his ignorance. 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 chastisement 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, which screeched alarmingly at the sudden re-instalment of his weight.
Isabelle lightwood paused at the sound and looked at him. She actually looked at him, creamy skin and glimmering eyes even more beautiful than usual in the darkening room, the slanting shadows cast by the candlelight accentuating 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 and she knew who he was. She recognised him as one of the musicians at any rate and 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.
Despite the fact that his head was whirling with delight and his shocked lungs were struggling to work 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. Simon doubted the girl ever made a move that was not faultlessly graceful. "Just a minor wound. She is confused, but awake, praise God."
At some point during her statement she had lowered the pile of linen in her arms, revealing the impeccably fastened bodice of her maroon gown,the ruby necklace pressed against her pale chest ringed in a chain of gold, and the neckline of her dress which was exquisitely dotted with fine lace, gold thread and pearls all of which winked softly in the dim lighting. She was flawlessly dressed as always in her usual fine clothes and daring French fashions, looking as though she had just drifted leisurely out of a Paris dressmakers; not a hair out of place. Clary had told Simon recently that she suspected Isabelle could stride through a storm and emerge with nothing amiss aside from her marginally damp hair. He had believed that too, until today.
He had been watching from the window as the bedraggled lords and ladies of the court had gradually trickled to the safety of Durre Castle and had been stunned to espy a clearly shaken Isabelle swinging herself out of the saddle remarkably bareheaded, her hair an unruly mess that was so at odds with the carefully braided coil that had been slipped into her riding cap that morning. Aside from that she had been missing a glove, the hem of her skirts had been ruthlessly torn and there had been a glaring streak of mud across her cheek. All this Simon had been able to see from his distanced vantage point, he dreaded to think what distressing blemishes her appearance may have yielded from a closer look.
The overall affect had been to fill him with an unexpected, lurching, sweltering anger. How dare anyone do such a thing to her? How could anyone think to harm this extraordinary girl, the girl as bright and as bold as the ruby at her throat?
It was folly, he conceded then promptly ignored, to feel such an irrational urge to defend a girl he had (at that time) never spoken to. At least wanting to protect someone like Clary was a reasonable desire, he had looked out for her ever since they had been little children. Once in Broceland Forest when he and Clary had been around ten, his friend had twisted her ankle terribly jumping from stone to stone and had fallen in a stream, whereupon he had fished her out and carried her home to the convent, spending the next few days perched on the end of her bed while she fought off the ensuing chill. But Isabelle Lightwood did not strike him as anything close to a damsel in distress, if anything he could more easily imagine her galloping up to his rescue in a suit of shining armour, it seemed the far likelier prospect.
Nonetheless, he still felt the need to comfort her, to say something, anything, to show her he thought of her. "And you?"
"What of me?" she demanded.
Simon swallowed briefly past his dry mouth, "Are you well, my lady? You were caught in the disturbance too."
She 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, and then it was Simon's turn to be astonished as her voice wavered with some untold emotion at the end of her sentence. All he could do was blink back dazedly at her, he firmly believed that even if he did know what to say he would struggle to form a single coherent word.
"Yes. I am perfectly fine. Of course."
"Of course," Simon echoed weakly.
She peered at him with a new sort of fascination, as though she was considering something about him, giving him another of those bald, unabashed looks that was so unusual on a woman. Then she made her mind up about whatever it was she had been considering and crossed the room to him in a series of dainty yet brisk steps. She balanced herself on the arm of chair near Simon, offloaded her linen burden on the table beside them and 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 besides Master Musician?"
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In spite of all the danger and trauma she had suffered, Clary recovered quickly. Among with all of her lessons and lectures Jocelyn had also unwittingly 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 the more she dreaded to think what her mother may have suffered during the years of her marriage, she felt she was finally beginning to see why the queen had relinquished her power and run away from her husband. 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 regained consciousness she had not seen him, but then again she had seen very little oaf anyone having been locked up in her rooms once again.
The frustration of the situation and lingering nausea from her head wound kept her in thoroughly poor spirits, and 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 for her to look at the same handful of noble girls all day every day in good spirits, as impatient and irritated as she was currently their unshakeable courtesy was grating against her more than ever.
Worse, she had run out of reading material. This left her in truly dire straits, which could not have made her company any more pleasant, she had to admit.
Thus Jace Herondale found her on the second sunny afternoon trapped in a corner chair, flipping through a book with no great enthusiasm and emitting frequent heavy sighs of boredom while she cast wistful looks out the window and over the busy courtyard beneath her sill.
"The French Ambassador is here, Your Highness" Aline Penhallow called over to her 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 holding any kind of clarity was of the role he had played. Since then, she had spoken with Isabelle -who of course had spoken to her brother Alec who was the only person Herondale would confide in- and the bigger picture had slowly become visible. She was still reeling from the suspicion cast over her brother, she had known Jonathan was a dangerous enemy, she had seen that much the day she had watched the burnings in Alicante, but she had thought that surely he would draw the line at turning his wrath on his own family.
Initially she could not properly fathom why her own brother would turn on her so swiftly and viciously, it seemed an inappropriate response even for him to the usual sibling rivalry. Then after an enlightening conversation with Isabelle she had learned that her brother was in fact determined to displace her as second in line to the throne, he was so averse to the notion of having her named after him as their father's heir that he would entertain the possibility of replacing her with Jace Herondale, whom he had absolutely no love for. The potency of his hatred left her seething. While she was to her father's eyes a mere pawn to be pushed around various kingdoms and the board of politics in order to gain him more power her brother clearly had no better opinion of her; to him she was but an obstacle to his own power games and one he was sure to attempt to remove again. Only next time he may taste success.
Chilling as her own brother's apparent part in the events that had played out, the more interesting character in all of this for her was undoubtedly Jace Herondale. The boy who had once sworn that he would let no harm befall her had not reneged on his promise after all, perhaps abandoning prospects of greatness and royalty for her and defying her powerful brother in the process. She owed him her life and with it 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, a hand straying over to her shoulder and the plaited hair lying there, to check it was as neatly in place as possible. "You must forgive me, I was not expecting visitors."
"Your Highness, I only hope to make a better impression on you than I did the last time we were in such a position."
Heat pooled in her cheeks at the comment, in such a state she reminded him of the first time they had ever met. "So much has happened since then, it feels like years instead of weeks" she mused, shooting a scouting glance in the direction of Aline who seemed engrossed in her playing, not that such apparent concentration was any reason to loosen her words from the required protocol. All of her ladies were someone's pair of eyes and ears, her father's, their father's, her brother's, the list of possibilities was endless. Each and every one of her ladies pretty and young faces hid a spy. Whispers in corridors, notes passed under tables, she would never know who was reporting what and to whom, all she could be sure of was that a person of such importance as herself had her every gesture noted and one false move could be catastrophic.
Nonetheless, for this conversation she was willing to make an exception, "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 and 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 cost. 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 her as it once would have. "You do not need to thank me, nor apologise. I did only what any honourable man would have, and in truth it is I who have behaved despicably. So I am sorry. At Oldcastle I merely treated you with the consideration and respect I should have done from the start." She flushed again, but this time not from embarrassment. He looked at her with honest repentance, eyes gleaming with the kind of emotion he normally kept so well hidden.
"Why would you do it?"
The question, vague as it was, needed no embellishment for Jace to grasp its meaning. She fixed on him an especially frank look, while the ambassador started at the forward question and the depth of her understanding as to precisely what had passed between the three o Valentine's children at Oldcastle.
Jace shook his head marginally, lips twitching to a half-smile as he regarded her and provided an answer for more honest than she had anticipated, "It was for you. How could I not?"
The barriers were lowering, Clary noted with pleasure. Clearly 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 who was finally willing to open up to her. The two stared at each other for a very long moment, a fresh trust blooming between them.
At last he spoke, "I must confess that I am devoid of a white flag presentl 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. 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, clasping his hands behind his back and trying to reclaim his usual lofty dignity but the gold gaze on her was still filled with pleasure and 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 best 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?"
"Latin best, but I speak some Spanish, English, Hebrew-"
"Hebrew?! I pride myself on being a learned man, your father and the Count had me taught like a prince but even I must confess my ignorance when it comes to Hebrew! Who taught you?"
Clary stuttered on her reply. She had unwillingly steered the conversation into treacherous territory and was dangerously close to getting Simon in real trouble. "As I said, 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, amusement now tinged with a darker contemplation as he regarded her. "You are better educated than some boys I know."
Clary shrugged, "It is of no real consequence, my studies have been terminated. 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, instead giving her a swift nod and turning back to the Princess.
Clary chuckled softly, "Her long estranged husband is on death's door. She will be expecting you to declare your intentions soon."
"I am afraid I have no 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."
There were rumours circulating the court currently surrounding his surname and the repercussions of it, rumours and speculation Jace was apparently oblivious to. There were plenty who were of the opinion, including Kaelie, that the man's royal blood and his new fame as the Princess' saviour would soon lead to advancement and perhaps a title. As he had so recently pointed out, he had all but been raised a prince.
None of this was what really occupied Clary presently, however, "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.
"No. I make very few promises, Your Highness. That way I can keep those I have made more easily," he insisted, looking at her conspiratorially.
A strange elation bubbled in Clary at his words, working hard to curb a smile she peered up at him 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 with genuine, unrestrained joy, it truly did light up his face.
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The following day Jace cleared his schedule for her. Of course, it took all of his charm and persuasive techniques to secure Alec's agreement in the matter, but secure it he did having pointed out that this could be the second real turning point in their embassy that week. After all, as Alec himself was the first to point out that the whole game had changed with what happened at Oldcastle, now that Jonathan Morgenstern clearly wanted Jace's head on a pike he had declared himself their enemy, and consequently all the other players had to regroup and rethink their next moves.
Jace did not need Alec's permission to spend the day with Clary but he had wanted to be firmly on the same page as his friend here, particularly now that he felt a tangible distance growing between them with every appointment with the King or the Prince Alec was called to.
So he had made his way to the Princess' apartments not long after first Mass with the Iliad in hand and had embarked on a far more enjoyable day than he had expected. Somehow the two of them managed to keep the bickering to a minimum and by the time he had to reluctantly leave his chair by the window he had discovered that he had more in common with Clarissa Morgenstern than he had realised. Upon spending most of the following day with her as well Jace could conclude that they had a similar taste in books and enjoyment of music and saw eye to eye on a number of political matters, though theology more frequently met with debate. She made him laugh, genuinely laugh, which was a definite rarity and he was unforgivably willing to prattle on with her on whatever intelligence or nonsense 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 was ashamed to admit he could not have mentioned the Dauphin's name more than three or four times over two days. And he hardly noticed, when she spoke to him, when she pulled one of her faces or laughed with him he found himself being honest and open with her. With her on those two days he stopped being the French Ambassador, or the Herondale traitor, or even her rival for the throne and he was left with just being Jace. And somehow, what he should have despised he found himself 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, so as their second day drew to a close he forced himself to decide that it would be their last. Clearly the princess was fully recovered, 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 she had emerged from her confinement and there would be an audience of courtiers to keep him on his best behaviour and his mind on the game. It's just a game Jace, she is but a piece. A piece who would be his prince's bride, if he could bring it about. It's just a game, all a game…
But Alec was right, what had happened at Oldcastle and in its aftermath had changed the state of play and it wasn't the same game anymore.
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Jonathan Morgenstern's visit to his supposedly invalid sister was both long overdue and far too soon for her liking when 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, 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 a fragile princess made from glass, who could easy tumble to the floor and be shattered, and thus had to be handled with the utmost care, like Monsieur Herondale's beloved books. Perhaps she was not entirely a separate creature to her fantasy princess of glass whom she now longed to draw, she suspected that every conversation she had with Jace he saw through her a little more.
She had been sure that the King would put a stop to the visits as soon as he got wind of them due to her ban on dealing with anything that roughly resembled a petitioner, and above all 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 use to describe her father's actions towards her or indeed anyone.
Her brain pulled the reins on that thought and drove it to a halt as she caught sight of the wrong Jonathan waiting for her by the fire, carefully completing 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 learnt in the hardest of ways that just as one did not show their cards at the table one did not wear their heart on their sleeve at 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 own succession, but without a shred of proof she could not go to the King, that much was obvious. Instead she would have to grit her teeth, go on playing the loving, trusting sister and watch her back.
Presently she glided over to the proffered seat and took up her position opposite Jonathan on the other side of the board.
"I am sorry I could not come and see you earlier but His Majesty kept me very much engaged." If she didn't know better he would have looked perfectly repentant, hand pressed to heart and 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 as a brother should but I honestly thought that you would be safe with Verlac…"
A pretty speech and to ignorant ears an utterly convincing one. Many of her ladies assembled a short distance away sighed and swooned at his words, touched by his heartfelt apology, Clary on the other hand was far from won over. It was indeed your fault but I doubt you blame yourself. Well you may lament, but only because your plan failed. Aloud she offered an accompanying speech of forgiveness, "Oh brother, you know I would not blame you!" 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 chink out of the armour to let him know that 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 as Jonathan made his responding move:
"I'll never trust you again."
"You never should have in the first place."
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A/N: Thank you for reading :) I have to admit I'm not one hundred per cent thrilled with how this chapter came out but I figured after tearing my hair out for a while to just leave it and focus more on where the story goes next seeing as I have some pretty big (and hopefully exciting stuff to come). And while I'm throwing in all that suspense I am going to tease you a little further: the little girl in the first chapter/prologue bit is not Clary :O dun dun dun...