A/N: First and foremost I want to highlight that the end of the second last section of this chapter does include an execution scene, nothing extremely graphic or harrowing but it's best of you have a heads up. On a lighter note (pardon the pun) I also wanted to mention your comparison of this to Reign, a show which I have to confess I have watched the first season of, so I can see where you've picked up on the similarities. In fact, the little lantern toy I talked about earlier was in fact based on one a young Mary Stuart and the Dauphin Francis reportedly shared when they were children. To an extent yes Clary could be paralleled with a young Mary Queen of Scots given her headstrong personality but I personally feel from what I've read of Mary that Clary could lack the- dare I say it- arrogance and ambition that would get the poor Scottish queen in so much trouble later in life. I am to an extent modelling Clary more on another lady who was just about her contemporary but whose identity I will not reveal at this point because I feel such a revelation would be a spoiler, you'd see where I am steering Clary as a character and the sort of bother she's going to get herself in or not get herself in as the case may be. ;) Finally on the subject of Jace's reading habits, all I'm willing to say is watch this space, one has to wonder what was in circulation at this point in time and wonder what it is exactly he's reading...
Chapter 4: A taste of Hell
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.
"D'you reckon 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' 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 her at all and that's why they say 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 whore he insisted on crowning."
"Got tired of? What the hell does that mean?"
"Well he's done with her. 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 don't care what that Kirk lad has to say there's no way she'll be back as queen. I heard he's already got another wife lined up."
"But he can't just get rid of her! She's his wife!"
Eric snorted "Aye and so was the last poor lady until he decided otherwise. If Henry wants her gone she's gone. And the things he's having said about her, when month ago they'd have had your tongue out for saying her nose was too long! These days I'm hearing her calling a witch and a whore 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 Emperor to have her. He wouldn't go to all that bother only to set her aside."
"Well 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 struggling to find reasons to push petitioners away. Her father had strictly commanded her 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 her listening to any pleas or interfering in court affairs.
Clary had borne the frustrating and contradictory request in silence but Simon could tell she was inwardly seething. She hated having to pretend indifference when in reality all her mother's gruelling lesson's had supplied her with a more than competent set of skills to help her deal with the troubles of her countrymen. Jocelyn must have always anticipated her daughter's recall to the capital and had raised her accordingly; Simon was firmly of the opinion his friend had ample wit to tackle anything thrown at her in these palaces, she was merely lacking the confidence and the chance.
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, "Well I heard 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 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 hadn't seen her wound up like this is a long time, and quite frankly 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 she entered into the sin of adultery with five other 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 Simon" She repeated, her eyes boring into his.
Eventually Simon understood and moved to the seat beside her, "Clary…" She shook her head, refusing to let him soothe her distress.
"Oh Henry had his reasons alright. She miscarried his son you know, less than four months ago. Because a queen is nothing without a prince and nothing is easily disposed of. He despaired of ever getting a prince from her so he invented some lies so hard to believe no one would 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, "You mark my words Simon there's no way she'll survive this. They have yet to try her but I'll wager he's already signed the warrant for her execution.
'And what does that mean for me? She was the wife of a king and they still destroyed her. A queen is meant to be untouchable but that won't stop them taking her life. What will make me safe, when I'm the wife of a king?"
"Clary, Clary!" Simon clutched at his friend's wrists to stop her wildly wringing hands, "That could never happen to you! Listen to me; not every man in Christendom is Henry Tudor! And Anne Boleyn is a friendless commoner, you are a princess by blood and no one would ever harm you for fear of insulting your father. Being locked away in these rooms isn't good for you, I know you want to avoid attention but I believe a 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 cack from his immediately, evidently unconvinced by his assurances. "Being of the Princess by blood did not save Katherine 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, a sound completely devoid of any amusement, "You of all people should take more heed Simon. One of those men they accused with her, Mark Smeaton? The one I hear they're currently twisting a confession out of in the torture chamber? This time last week he was her musician."
-000000000000000-
Carefully 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 whatever 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, like the strength in the ties of our faith for a start 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 so quickly that the jewel crusted crucifix at his chest thumped the back of Valentine's throne and clattered there with each eager breath. Jonathan seized the chance distraction to release the yawn he had been holding back for so long.
He had long wearied of watching these diplomats, especially watching them play the Catholic card as though it were not the ace that several other parties were also holding. While Jonathan could admit to a personal admiration for the Spanish methods of ensuring the devotion of their people to the Catholic Church and he relished the prospect of a similar Inquisition taking flight in earnest in Idris, even 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. Truthfully Jonathan felt that Clarissa's stilted adjustment to life at the centre of court, albeit right at the heart of his kingdom, should be beyond his interest. That being said, he could not help but have his eyes follow her when she entered a room, monitoring her every move as though he may catch a glimpse of something he recognised. This sister he had seen so little and heard even less of was one of the few enigmas in Jonathan Morgenstern's life and consequently he relished the thought of tearing her apart, cracking her open like one of those new intriguing machines and surveying the cogs within in comparison with those that he might find in himself. Sadly, the opportunity had yet to present itself as 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 beating heart of Idris then the Gard was arguably the beating heart of Alicante but Clarissa showed no interest in any of that, or rather Valentine had no intention in letting her have any interest in any of that. With her little form determinedly climbing the set of steps over the green as though they were the Alps Jonathan sensed a certain impatience fuelling those swift, irritated steps and wondered if he could not help the opportunity he had been waiting for present itself.
Raphael's dismissal and the Cardinal's tactful departure forced him to return to his present situation. 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 while turning to face the 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, over the requested papers that had been laid out there for his attention. His Majesty's mind never stayed on one matter for very long. Nonetheless, his father lifted his gaze and scrutinised Jonathan at the comment "Ah, 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 so your sister is not good enough to for his own heir, nor good enough for a future Empress."
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 Roman Empire combined. Only a lunatic or a man like Valentine Morgenstern, it seemed, whose ambition clearly knew no bounds.
"Of course it is preferable that we wed her to France and see ourselves in a position of power immediately rather than see her confined to the nursery and wait for that boy prince of Maximilian's to come 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. "However we are not about to reject the Hapsburg's out of hand. They are, we must remember, the most powerful dynasty on this continent."
"So they have no chance?"
"Yes they have a chance! The situation in Italy could change in a heartbeat, or Maximillian could die within a month of the wedding and make that boy a King and your sister a queen along with him! That is much better than Dauphine!"
Jonathan shook his head in exasperation, "Her marriage will always carry a risk, Sire."
"Every move carries risk. And with such high stakes…" his thoughts trailed off into silence and left the prince stunned. Nothing more than an alliance hung on his sister's wedding, did it not? Before he could voice his confusion he was being waved away, Valentine looking unusually perturbed upon observing 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.
Opportune 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 absolute 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, turning her proud cheek to him and pointedly focusing 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, "Careful Excellence, 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 had recognised her old playmate, yet presently she seemed to truly be in bad temper. The real cause of her upset had thus far eluded Jace but she was certainly using his past grievance as an outlet. Unfortunately he was not the only one who seemed to have noticed this , 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 him 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 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 you always get us killed!"
"Peace, my lord!" Clarissa choked out eventually, sympathy quenching her amusement, 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 and possible blows he would surely receive.
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" he reasserted stubbornly.
"If I can remember it you must be able to, you are older than me."
"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 he would 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 opportunity. He wasn't going to spoil her mood again when they were now getting on relatively well, in between barbed words and subtle jabs. He 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 every other second.
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 Clarissa Morgenstern 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 perfect trick. Thankfully their mistress showed no interest in frolicking about with them, which was probably a wise decision. All of them looked a touch ridiculous, cooing over a bunch of spoiled fur balls.
Isabelle meanwhile, had found another kind of dog to play with, engrossed as she was in what was sure to be a fascinating conversation with Raphael Santiago, the Spanish Emperors' ambassador. If he was hoping to wriggle some information on the princess' 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, and 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 Gard served the purpose of both palace and prison but apparently 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 Black Tower had the most morbid fame, it housed the most sinister criminals and it was well known that once you were a prisoner held there you would only ever leave by way of the axe or sword. For the past three centuries it had held the worst of Idris' murderers and traitors.
Some twenty one years ago it had held Stephen Herondale.
Jace wondered what it must have been like for him. He knew that as a noble his father would have been housed comfortably, though he couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel to look out of your window every morning and into the courtyard where they were building your scaffold. It had surely felt like a manner of hell on earth, or some kind of deliberate punishment from the king to force a final cry of repentance.
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 he longed to stop dwelling on his father's demise but Jace 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. Now years had passed by and it seemed Stephen's treason was the inescapable guilt he 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 name.
Staring up at the tower he felt the usual chill creep over his skin and wished to God he would soon far away from this godforsaken place.
A sudden disturbance amongst the girls on the green unexpectedly caught Jace's attention, they were now hastily rearranging themselves and donning their most becoming expressions as they each sank into their obeisance. Finally they parted to reveal the form of Jonathan Morgenstern striding across the neat grass towards the steps 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 isn't it?" Jonathan proclaimed, full of apparent joy. "I must profess it's all rather unexpected! 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, "a diplomat. And 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 small hands and clutched them before his chest, creating the perfect tableau of the Morgenstern siblings. When the tender moment passed 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 on the outskirts, in the dust.' Jace momentarily entertained the childish vision of himself shoving Jonathan's meaningfully turned back so hard he would be pitched over the stone wall and smash onto the ground below, taking his sister with him.
There would be kind of justice to that; a Herondale spilling Morgenstern blood on the same ground Morgensterns had spilt Herondale blood on.
"Come now, it is wrong that we should live under the same roof and see so little of one another" Jonathan was currently lamenting 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; he strongly suspected that 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 on the other hand wouldn't spare them so much as a second glance, "You can leave us now." Jonathan's imperious dismissal rolled of his tongue and over his shoulder with ease and smacked Jace square in the chest. That was one of the things about Jonathan Morgenstern Jace had always hated most: he seemed to be in a constant state of forgetting he wasn't wearing a crown yet. Jace wondered if he wasn't starting to regret not having murdered the pair of them when he had been presented with the chance.
Now they had no option but to remove themselves and the rest of the small party made their reluctant descent into the yard below. The lute player lingered at the bottom of the steps while Jace kept moving, pulling Alec with him on his hurried journey on, trying and failing to get out from under the shadow of that tower.
-0000000000000000-
The barge surged over another swollen wave and Clary automatically 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'm 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 at the moment she was too preoccupied with her imminent drowning to death to make very 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, if you were to be spotted."
Instead they struggled downtown with the tide in what was not the more comfortable and probably safer royal barge because Jonathan had insisted it would be immediately recognised.
"Why all the secrecy?" Clary demanded.
"Because His Majesty has likely has a whole state entrance planned for you. Just as he has everything planned for you, and he won't have a second of it done otherwise, or a single detail overlooked."
Clary blanched at the mention of a state entrance. In her mind that entailed a great deal of people staring and a procession which would provide a great deal of opportunities for her to fall flat on her face and seal her disgrace of 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 ventured another look out from behind the curtains drawn around them which coated everything in a greenish light.
"Call me Clary" she requested on impulse.
"Why?"
She wanted to say because the king is the only person to have called me Clarissa in my life and I am quite certain he hates me but she felt that would be inappropriate, so instead she shrugged and replied, "I've always been Clary."
"Clary" her brother sounded it out experimentally.
"Why does the king have so many plans for me?" She fully expected that Jonathan would know, he was always with the King when he was at court and he had many friends to fill him in anything he missed while he was absent. He was certainly the best informed person at court, Clary even suspected the King had some plans only Jonathan knew about and she desperately wanted to know if any of them involved her.
"I don't know" Jonathan deadpanned gloomily, much to Clary's surprise, "He insists he only has one plan and that is to find you a husband." He looked so bitterly downcast that she trusted he was telling the truth. "Personally I fail to see why he'd want to make so much of a daughter he's going to pack off in a 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 abroad and would likely never return home again. "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 her father 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, but as person he had barely spent more than a few hours total with her in almost 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. She supposed in a way she would forever be haunted by the father she'd never had.
"Perhaps" her brother didn't seem convinced. "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, she is not much older than you in it. And you are an almost perfect likeness."
That genuinely shocked her. Jocelyn had almost never spoken of Valentine, and when she had Clary had always gotten the distinct sense she was picking her words with the utmost care. She had always struggled to comprehend what had happened between her parents, from what little Jocelyn had to say of her estranged husband it all held the heavy implication that she hated him and had to watch her words because of how dangerous it was to hate a king. Clary had always lived under the assumption that the feeling was mutual and that was why the King had his palaces swept clear of any signs of the woman's existence.
Could it be possible that he still loved her? That in truth the memory of her and their ruined relationship was too painful for him to dwell on? That in embracing their only daughter with all the pomp and ceremony he could afford he was trying to repair the damage done some ten years ago and 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. The thought of her father being governed by his emotions was disconcerting and comforting in equal measures, and above all difficult to believe.
"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 make sure 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 and brought the breathless, swelling excitement of their previous mischief flooding back to her.
"Besides it is a far greater crime to keep such a pretty girl cooped up!" Jonathan continued, "Even the loveliest of birds will lose its nice plumage if it is not allowed to stretch its wings every once in a while. And it would be a terrible shame if you were to stay in the heart of your capital city and not see any of 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. Worse than that, 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 would be at her lessons with her mother. Now that there was none of that to occupy her she struggled to find any contentment in the menial occupations a woman of her station was supposed to pursue. In fact she could practically feel her brain shrivelling up with every line she stitched.
So when Jonathan had offered her an outing into Alicante she'd leaped at the chance. It hadn't taken much persuasion for her to plead a headache to her ladies and disappear into her privy chamber 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 without warning.
"Be calm! We've just docked!" her brother reassured her with some amusement. Clary nodded and swallowed her heart back into her stomach, silencing the hysterical 'Hail Mary' she had launched into mentally in the hope of divine salvation.
Taking a few rallying breaths Clary stood up and quickly brushed down her skirts. Beside her Jonathan also rose from his seat and after a short consultation with the boatman offered her his arm with another pleasant smile. "Let's go see our city."
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The next few hours passed swiftly, too swiftly. Quickly as the time passed it was thoroughly well spent; Clary couldn't remember the last time she had enjoyed herself like this. It definitely made a pleasant change to walk down streets where no one knew her name, or stopped and whispered when the saw her.
In Alicante there was plenty to see and do as they were winding their way through streets of wood and stone, watching the sun sink behind the thatched roofs and stony steeples or the boundless variety of people. Clary's ears were filled with the wild sounds of horses clopping, woman gossiping, men brawling and dogs barking while vendors fearlessly hollered their wares over everyone else's noise. Above it all the bells of so many churches rolled out a seemingly constant chiming, providing the pulsing and soaring song of city life. Her eyes were also ensnared, between the modest homespun garb of servants and workers and the glamorous colours and cuts of more costly garments Clary's head swung like a pendulum, not knowing where to look.
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, which was so hot and fresh that it burnt her fingers and practically melted 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 and pointed out to her the steeple of Christ Cathedral; where the kings of Idris were crowned in its Chapel Royal and laid to rest in its crypt. 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. He was 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 a promising new read.
It was a pleasant change, to not have to worry that all eyes were on her or stress about any upcoming social events and presentations. 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 sixteen 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 possibly forever, to marry whichever king or prince had been chosen for her while the uncertain fate of Anne Boleyn stood starkly before her as a reminder of just how vulnerable and precarious that future would be. It all just seemed like a surreal and distant dream when there were the more immediate and tangible events of life in a lively city playing out right before her eyes.
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 before firmly gripping his younger sister's arm.
"We're late." He remarked with some disappointment, "No matter. Come on"
"Late for what? Jonathan, where-" Clary was cut off by a brisk tug as Jonathan towed her along while he skirted the crowd, looking for something or someone and far too preoccupied to give her any answers. The assembled people were just as impatient as her brother, shoving and cursing around Clary, but thankfully Jonathan's grip on her was as tight as shackles and eventually he seemed to catch the attention of whoever he had been searching for; a stout bald man gave the prince a thrilled wave and beckoned for some men at arms to assist them. Soon they were surfacing from the throng and Clary greedily gulped in a lungful of fresh, cool 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 coursed forward with renewed vigour for whatever was about to occur, chanting and bellowing.
Clary strained her eyes in an attempt to trace the epicentre of the commotion. Then she realised that from where she was standing she had a fairly clear vision of what seemed to a series of poles. Three of them, assembled in a rough circle and all pointing towards heaven, surrounded by rubbish and spare bits of wood and kindling. Comprehension sank through her as an icy weight on her chest that crushed every breath her lungs tried to take and finally settled in her stomach.
"Jonathan" she turned to her brother, her voice strained and indistinct, "I don't want…" she trailed off as she realised how futile her pleas were, her brother was deaf to anything she had to say focused entirely as he was on the grotesque scene unfolding before them.
The noise and commotion 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 and 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 herself.
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, "I want to hear them scream!" Clary's stomach capsized at his words but her eyes couldn't be wrenched from the horror unfolding before her.
None too gently the accused were thrown against their piece of wood and 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 while the other wept unashamedly and with complete abandon, but 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't do this!" a strangled protest finally escaped her stinging throat. Knowing that certain practices happened and actually witnessing them were two very different things.
"It is for their own good. They are heretics who have denied the miracle of the host and the authority of the Church in Rome" Aldertree told her cheerfully, "The flames give them a taste of hell my dear, and offer a last chance to repent."
"Burn in hell bitch!" one voice screeched above the din, reinforcing his sentiments. The girl stirred slightly on her stake as though woken by the insult. For a dreadful moment her eyes seemed to lock with Clary's. "Did not Christ suffer?" she enquired, her voice ringing out incredibly clear and steady without a single trace of regret. She concluded her defence by throwing her head back as though enraptured by the taunts and promise of pain, before sinking back into her resigned state and staring fixedly ahead as if her suffering were over and she was already gone.
"They're lighting!" Jonathan announced with dark glee and indeed the surrounding kindling was catching fire. It was all too much for his sister Clary tried to avert her gaze in abject horror, only to have her turn hindered by Jonathan's hands, which flew out suddenly and grabbed her face. "Watch!" he commanded, "look at them, they deserve it! Heresy has to be dealt with like any other pestilence! You burn it out!" His fingers bit into her soft skin, locking her in their iron grip. 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.
By some mercy the cries of the dying seemed to excite the crowd more than anything before and they pushed together, blocking from Clary's sight all but the tips of the heretic's heads, and the vague glowing red of the climbing, punishing flames.
In the end not even the thick press of bodies could drown out the screams.
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Upon return to the Gard it transpired that her absence had been noted. Letting herself back into her bedchamber Clary encountered the Lewis', 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 and the warmth of his arms.
"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'm sorry" she apologised feebly "Jonathan told me not to tell anyone or we'd surely be caught." She reached for Rebecca's hand and gave it a despondent squeeze. Rebecca squeezed back, quick as ever to forgive, "Never fear. You're home safe and that's all that matters. But you have to promise me you will never do such a thing again! Another episode like that would surely kill me long before His Majesty could."
Clary nodded in ready agreement "I promise" she assured her friend. While Rebecca visibly relaxed Simon was still studying her with puzzled concern. It was times like these she wished he didn't know her so well. "Are you alright Clary? Did something happen?"
"No, no" Clary insisted hastily "I'm just exhausted."
"Well I had some dinner saved for you, that'll 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 somehow managed to deflect Simon's 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 of something Clary doubted she could stomach, but she knew that unless she ate something Simon's worry and fretting would be relentless.
Steeled in her resolve she 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 exactly as she liked it. But tonight as the smell of the charred black edges reached her nostrils it sent a wrench to her gut. Trembling she tried to lower the knife but then her resolve broke completely.
The smell of burnt flesh in her nose and soul shattering screams for mercy in their ears, she just about made it to the privy before she promptly doubled over and emptied the contents of her stomach.
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A/N: Yikes. Unpleasant to the max. Although I can at least promise you that no one was harmed in the writing of this fic. Except for me who managed to put myself off roast beef. Not that this is a joking matter but I hate to end a chapter on such a sinister note. The real aim here was to highlight the dangers of the time and also to introduce the darker aspect of Jonathan. Fortunately that is hopefully the most horrifying thing to happen, unless my mind manages to conjure up something worse in the future... Thank you for reading :)