A/N: Ample warning, excuse my language but this is about the part where everything goes to shit.

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Chapter 8:Two Birds, One Stone.

Chatton House, Broceland, June 1536

Walking through these colourfully opulent rooms and hallways it was not hard to see why this house had been the seat of power for the Dukes of Broceland. Clearly even after the first Morgenstern king, the current King's grandfather Jonathan VII, had invaded Idris and seized its throne the remnants of the deposed Herondale family had happily departed their capital with a Dukedom and continued to live like princes in their palatial home here at Broceland. A king's ransom had been paid to dissuade any of the royal cousins from making a bid for actual kingship, money Jace's ancestors had happily gobbled up like greedy fish, mouths constantly gaping open in the hope of more. Honestly, he could hardly blame them, what manner of man refuses the chance to enjoy the lifestyle of a king without having to shoulder any of the subsequent responsibilities? The blend of archaic luxury in huge carved fireplaces and bare stone walls in the older parts of the building with more modern decorations in patterned rugs, panelled walls, and pillars shrouded in gleaming gold leaf latticework made Chatton House every inch the palace.

If only it weren't so filled with ghosts.

Despite all of the tasteful comfort Jace had only managed a handful of restful nights since they had arrived, his restfulness only accentuated by an especially troubling conversation with the house's present resident Lord John Carstairs, the Earl of Chene. They had been wandering the guardens after one of the king's meetings where Jace had politely stopped to admire the craftsmanship of the nymphs and other creatures carved straight out of myth and into the huge stone fountain at the front of the house, when he had made the mistake of broaching the topic of the Carstairs' residence here. "We are the guardians of Chatton House" the Earl had corrected him with a smile "we do not live here. There is a perfectly good house at Hending for my family, the Carstairs family have always lived there, you see. True, we keep this house and my wife oversaw the recent refurbishments but we have never stayed here unless as a part of the court. To do otherwise- it would not feel right, nor honourable"

"Naturally, it is a royal palace." Jace had agreed quickly, sure that comment would close the conversation.

"It is more than that. It was Herondale house and no Carstairs would pretend entitlement to what belonged to a Herondale. For us, to live here- it would be akin to walking in a dead man's shoes."

Jace battled with his shock and finally managed a laugh. Better he made out Lord John's words were ludicrous, if he exhibited any approval he would have condoned a statement that was dangerously close to treason. Besides, while treason was the ostracising brand on his forehead and the nightmare monster breathing down his neck he needed to find the dark humour in it all or he'd go to pieces, "Surely a wise decision, since it is filled with dead men. Perhaps Chatton House is haunted. Most things belonging to the Herondales are; not only did they lose the crown but then they lost their heads to put the crown on. Divine will cannot get any clearer than that, King Valentine is better suited to be its master. "

Lord John's expression had held some kind of disappointment then, but what was Jace supposed to say? An excellent idea sir, let us seize the house and then launch a full scale rebellion! For Herondale, the rightful King, hurrah! The thought alone was deadly.

Even now, forcing himself to stride confidently to the Princess' apartments he suspected he wasn't seeing what people expected him to when he looked around the timeless grandeur of the palace. He did not see what he had lost and he did not see what he hoped to gain; he merely saw what he had been running away from for the past eleven years and evidently not fast enough.

Nodding to the guards at the doors he entered into utter chaos. There were women flapping about everywhere, carting dresses and jewels and furniture about and trying to stuff too many things into their trunks. One of them even flew past dragging a clearly reluctant lap dog on a gilded lead. Jace hoped she stopped short of trying to squash it into her trunk as well. Somehow in the midst of all the shrieking and arguing and fighting with lids and locks the Princess herself seemed completely calm, perched on a trunk that had been successfully shut and completely engrossed in the battered book in her lap. Jace approached, knowing better than to wait for a herald and cleared his throat before her. It happened to take another cleared throat and then a lengthy wait during which the ambassador's limited patience was sorely tested before a pair of green eyes were raised to his.

"Excellence I have it on good authority there is no room for any of your own gowns amongst my belongings." Jace rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. Honestly, the damn women sapped away more and more of his professionalism every day. He needed to reclaim it and learn how to retain it around her if they were to pull this off.

"What are you reading?" She flipped over the book to allow him a look at the worn title page of Mallory's Morte d'Arthur.

"Ah, you seek courtly love, chivalry and romance?"

"One must find it somewhere."

"Your own courtly experiences are not what you expected, then?" Jace grinned.

"On the contrary Monsieur Herondale, they have been exactly what I expected," she peered up at sagely before snapping the book shut. "Anyway, I fail to see how the events at Camelot embody the spirts of either chivalry or courtly love. A queen unfaithful with her husband's most trusted knight? How romantic. Where is the true love supposed to be anyway? Guinevere and Arthur? Guinevere and Lancelot?"

"Surely even Guinevere does not know the answer to that."

The comment made the princess laugh, bright little head dropping forward with mirth. Jace took a hasty step back and halted the spread of an accompanying smile of his own. He wasn't supposed to enjoy the sound of her laugh.

At last the merriment subsided and she laid the beloved copy on the trunk beside her, folding her hands over her stomacher and made a show of appearing queenly. Jace had to stop the progress of another smile.

"So then, Your Excellence. I doubt you've come here to discuss the work of Thomas Mallory. You got my message?"

"Yes" Jace confirmed, bemused. He prided himself on not being easily shocked but being cornered by Isabelle first thing in the morning and told that the princess wanted to see him as soon as possible was unexpected. Not the king, the princess.

"Forgive me the makeshift summons, I couldn't find an official messenger to spare" she flashed him another proudly impish smile. Both of them new all too well the last thing the princess was permitted to do was hold audiences, especially not with foreign envoys. "But I doubt there will be a better time," she gestured to the surrounding tumult of bickering and cramming, "This way I doubt we'll be overheard, everyone is far too preoccupied to even realise you are here." She sounded far too pleased with herself for Jace's peace of mind.

"You're interfering," he informed her, "How unacceptable."

"He says having responded. I must also note that you are still standing here."

"Curiosity is an exquisite downfall."

The young princess tucked a strand behind her ear and nudged the curved headdress in the process. She must still be adjusting to the business of jewel studded hoods. Clary struggled to hide a wince of pain and rolled her shoulders back, chin lifted. "I have a proposal with regards to your own proposal, or rather that of your master." Jace raised an eyebrow, inviting an elaboration. "I am seeking an alliance, and where better to look for someone to facilitate what I want than where there is mutual benefit?" Now all traces of amusement were gone and the ambassador was drawn in earnest to whatever schemes the girl had hatched. He was on a never-ending journey of discovering what exactly lay underneath those pretty russet curls, he feared he'd never complete the voyage to his satisfaction.

"What I am about to say must not go to your head, Herondale, take it from me that is quite big enough and you are not solely responsible for my opinions."

"I am listening meekly Your Highness."

"I favour the Duke of Brittany. Now I am not stupid enough to presume that what I think or what I want in all these negotiations matter, but I fail to see my insignificance as a suitable reason to exclude myself from the proceedings entirely. So I thought I would turn to you, the person who is King Francois' voice in all of this and has, besides myself, the most to lose or gain from this marriage." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Just think, Sir Jace, a nice chateau in Normandy, coveted rooms at court…."

"Promising." Jace conceded, his inner haggler taking the reins, "But not convincing."

The princess of Idris straightened up and appraised him. "Mayhap Lord Herondale then. And a chateau in Brittany to accompany the one in Normandy."

"And a town house in Paris to accompany my new coveted rooms at court."

"You know I don't have to agree to any of this. You'll make it your business to bring about the Dauphin's success with or without a Parisian townhouse."

"Well you don't have to buy my willingness to promote the French cause to your father, true. That is merely the immediate future, what happens once we are successful you are wed and can call yourself Dauphine? You will find yourself at a foreign court where everyone is so very suspicious of your accent and the different way you dress and eat. I could well be a lone voice of support for you then, Princess, and the closest thing to a friend you have. By then you may find yourself wishing I had a lordship as the higher I am in the pecking order the more my opinion matters, and therefore the more useful I am to you. And as Your Highness has agreed I am quite capable of bringing this about by myself and I have the friendship of the Dauphin already and with it the likelihood of advancement, so why would I require your assistance?"

Clarissa Morgenstern nodded, "True, but your success is far from assured. I could help with that. The more lords in that council chamber sympathetic to your cause the better."

"You don't control a single lord," he deadpanned.

"No but I do influence their wives, their daughters," she sent her eyes gliding around the room to punctuate her statement. "Moreover you make the fatal male mistake, never underestimate the power a woman can have. Yes the Dauphin will advance you but how far? He might give his good friend a knighthood but a bride whispering in his ear could guarantee his good friend a chateau. Or several."

"And a townhouse," Jace insisted instantly.

His new ally lifted the corners of her mouth in a placating smile, "Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen."

Jace nodded, grinning at the girl dictating orders and playing princes from her perch on a trunk of dresses. "You may enlist my help."

"We may enlist one another's help." Clary clarified briskly, jumping to her feet. "Now if you'll excuse me I have to go ensure my Cicero is not abused by this manhandling."

"Cicero?" His stunned question exploded as he whirled to face the dainty little girl shouldering past him, "How the devil do you go from Camelot to Cicero?!"

Clary beamed at him, "You didn't imagine my thoughts were entirely devoted to knights in shining armour and damsels in distress did you?"

"No. Clearly you are a clever girl" the ambassador muttered to himself at the sight of her fleeing to the defence of her Latin, shaking his head and making good his escape before Kaelie could corner him. His interest in the saucy blonde with her coy smiles and increasingly shameless vies for his attention was rapidly waning. All attempts to let her down gently thus far had been hastily surrendered in the face of her insistence, but Jace knew that sooner rather than later he would have to properly break things off between them. What he had seen as a harmless flirtation she had been viewing as a serious courtship, not the formula for true love after all. Too late, he realised that she had caught sight of him and was dumping what seemed like a jewellery box on a nearby stool and was starting to hurry towards him. Shrugging briskly against his rising panic, Jace turned on his heels and all but bolted for the door.

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"Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen? Those are the exact words that were spoken by my sister to Jonathan Herondale?"

Aline Penhallow nodded, fidgeting on the spot before her Crown Prince. Even here, in the quiet corners of darkened hallways one had to be careful what one said and to whom, as this girl well knew. The mixture of the cool shadowed air and tension had her trembling faintly and the fair skin of her chest raised in gooseflesh. "Yes, Highness. But there was a lengthy conversation, that was just the part I heard."

Jonathan Morgenstern was already striding away, "Believe me, my lady, you heard enough," he threw over his shoulder, beckoning impatiently for Sebastian Verlac to leave his cousin's shoulder. Sebastian hurried to Jonathan's side the feather in his cap bobbing along with his hasty movements, "I told you what she heard was useful!"

"The usefulness will depend on what we do about it, naturally."

Verlac waited, dark eyes fixed on the prince's eagerly, "So what are we going to do about it?" Jonathan and his companion marched out into the courtyard where their mounts waited, lowering the brim of his hat against the patches of sunlight breaking through the clouds. There was the unmistakable heaviness in the air and trace of rain in the wind that warned of a coming storm though at the moment the weather was fair. Jonathan paused by the side of his great bay, mind whirling. This had to be done quickly and effectively, he doubted he'd get a second chance with his father. He had two birds to strike and only one stone to hand, the field would have to be cleared in one fell swoop and he was beginning to see a way in which it could.

Carpe Diem as his old tutor Master Starkweather was fond of muttering as he shuffled about in dusty robes, looking incapable of seizing anything. Appearances could be deceptive, for all his apparent harmlessness he was possibly the greatest mind in the kingdom and so Valentine had gone to great lengths to get the man firmly in his pocket. Starkweather, now advanced to the post of Lord Chancellor was the ideal man for the job, with all the genius to put the King's ideas promptly into action and none of the integrity to voice any complaints or exhibit disobedience. That considered, Jonathan should really have known better than to take his sister at face value. The supposedly innocent and fragile maid hid her scheming and ambition well. Perhaps his sibling was not unlike him after all.

"My father has already departed, yes?" he demanded of the groom still clutching his horse's reins and looking a touch nauseous.

"Yes, Highness," he yelped in response.

Jonathan pushed his foot onto the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse's back with practiced ease and gestured to Verlac, "You are going to find my sister and introduce yourself as her escort for the journey south. Then you will locate and send the French ambassador to me. We are going to divert our course slightly, to show my little sister the scenic route. I do think she's missing out, fond as she is of shortcuts. Clarissa ought to be in the care her brother anyway, one must be careful on the roads in these turbulent days."

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Oldcastle, Broceland Forest, June 1536

Hours later the stench of the soldiers still hung in the air. The unmistakable reek of trailing smoke, churned earth and cluttering dust was far from unfamiliar to seven year old Tom, who had been dreading the visits for all of his short life.

There were still those who remembered a time when life had not been snatches of feeble peace between the army's calls, like Old Tom, his grandfather and namesake, who was constantly muttering about how 'it didn't use'ta be like this' but Mam was forever shushing him, and telling her youngest son she'd smack the living daylights outta him if he repeated so much as a word of the old man's grumblings. In his seven years times had always been hard, but it had gotten worse since Dad had gone off in search of better work in the city and never come back.

Mam had tried to keep things going as best she had but she couldn't work the fields by herself and none of the boys were old enough to help her, so they'd been forced to let the land go and move into Old Tom's crumbling cottage. Mam had even swallowed her pride and gone knocking at the shut door of the Church, knowing that occasionally during the worst days they could be persuaded to give some relief. Unfortunately not even Tom's sallow, grimy face and his mother's pleas had been enough to prompt anything beyond the excuse that "times are hard missus".

Times were always hard. Now crouched as they were in the woodsmoke filled gloom of the small cottage the family could only wait, foxes in the surrounded den, for the worst of it to pass. The soldiers were long gone, but the dust stirred up in their wake showed no sign of settling. Mam poked the flames in the grate, trying to warm the usual gruel over them and making no attempts to quell Old Tom's mutterings. "They should'na come! They have us half dead as it is, they start coming during the hungry months and soon they'll have no one to beat the taxes outta'!" His words drew another sob from Tom's sister, Sybilla who huddled in the corner tearfully with her baby pressed to her empty breast, casting another terrified glance at her husband beside her who was pressing damp rags on his bleeding and swollen limbs. This visit had taken the last of what they had. By winter there would be another family crammed in the hovel.

The hungry months as they were known spanned the weeks between the crops of the last harvest rotting or running out and the beginning of the new one; they were the worst days of any year. Right now, Tom's hollow belly never stopped aching and what little flesh his limbs had gained last year had long been stripped away. The soldier's knew that, the King knew that and as such they should have known there was never any point in scouting out grain or money from the people in these months. Even if they did have some, they would be needing it now most of all.

"Aye, but they be needin' a dowry. To hell with us, the Princess needs a pretty wedding dress." Sybilla's man croaked angrily, "the courtship of the likes of Kings and Emperors is a costly business y'see. Our lovely Clarissa won't be leaving with anything less than the fortune her new husband demands."

"They can't take from people what they don't have!" Tom started at the unprecedented savagery in his mother's tone. She never raised her voice or complained no matter how bad things got. Until now it seemed.

"And I hear they tried to burn mill! Seems those who won't pay their dues have to pay in other ways. Businesses that won't contribute enough soon find themselves out of business." Grandpa was far from doting, whatever Mam might say.

"Things will get good again when Dad comes back," Tom piped up in an attempt to console his poor Mam.

"Your Dad isn't coming back Tom," his mother told him bluntly, slapping her spoon against the side of the worn pot, "And even if he did we couldn't feed him."

Tom stiffened and his grandpa prattled on. "But then what can you expect other than greed from a usurper!" A week ago those words, had Old Tom dared to speak them, would have been greeted by a horrified shushing. Today the silence that followed the outburst was one of grim agreement and in the shadows cast by slumping walls and a patchy roof all pairs of eyes glittered with pure fury.

That was the danger of leaving people with nothing left to lose.

Last winter Tom had lost his sister Lottie, he glanced around at his starving family, his weak siblings and the limp nephew Sybilla so desperately clutched and wondered which of them would survive this one, if any at all, for the sake of Clarissa Morgenstern.

The frantic beat of running feet outside broke the spell. Instantly Mam seized up the poker and Old Tom struggled to his unsteady feet, the younger Tom diving behind him in fear. Then the battered door creaked open to reveal their neighbour Henry peering inside and breathing hard. "Riders!" He panted out rapidly, "To the North."

"Dear God!" Sybbie whimpered, "Not again!"

"No! Not the soldiers. Come to the town quick! It's her. The princess."

For the longest time no one spoke, the quiet only pierced by Henry's hard breathing and the faintest whimper from the baby. The hatred surging within the room pounded in even Tom's young, innocent body. Hours after her men tried to scorch the town she thought she could parade through and showcase the pretty jewels and gowns Valentine's subjects were starving for? Without consequences? Wherever did she find the gall? He supposed it didn't matter, given the atmosphere of the cramped room Tom doubted she find that kind of audacity again.

"The bitch of Alicante," Sybilla's husband snarled with utter loathing from the floor, forcing his battered limbs to haul him upright.

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Today seemed to be the day for Morgenstern sibling surprises. Watching Jonathan warily from the corner of his eye Jace adjusted his weight in the saddle so that his elbow bumped against the hilt at his waist in what he hoped was an imperceptible movement. Being this close to Jonathan would have been a frustrating and uncomfortable experience in any circumstance, but when the Prince was treating him nicely Jace just about managed to surface from his astonishment enough to want a sharp blade in his hands. Unfortunately he felt that riding alongside the heir to the throne with bared steel was at best impolite and at worst illegal. Considering the King's unyielding determination to maintain the superiority of his family and his consequent desire to highlight the supremacy of his children of late Jace suspected that the latter of his assumptions was probably true; therefore his hands would not move from the reins however much they wanted to.

Ever since they had set out from Chatton House earlier in the afternoon Jace had felt niggling unease like a fish hook in his gut and the bad feeling alone was enough for him to well and truly put his guard up. Having been born with the surname that left the executioner's axe hovering over his head at all times while simultaneously being left as his own primary protector in the absence of parents or kin, Jace had long ago learnt to trust his own instincts.

Oblivious to his companion's suspicious discomfort Jonathan continued to chatter on about the various tutors and servants they'd had as children. "Do you remember that ass, was his name Midwinter? He used to try to teach arithmetic."

"No. He never taught me." Jace replied tightly. It was true, as the two boys had gotten older their rivalry had fiercely intensified. Nips in the nursery had turned into broken bones in the weapons yard and after Jonathan had broken Jace's wrist for the second time during a sparring session when they were eight the King had decreed that they were no longer to share any lessons. The separation had been a gradual process, initially the two of them had shared governesses and nurses, rather because Jace had never been appointed one of his own instead the care of him had been left to a young nursery maid who would eventually become Clarissa's nurse. Then they had shared Hodge Starkweather as their tutor until it became clear that despite the fact Jonathan was slightly older Jace was infuriatingly capable of keeping up with him and may even prove to be the more diligent student.

Upon reflection that was because he had always been alienated from the group of other young noblemen in the making who had been selected to be the prince's companions. In lieu of friends, which he had no desire to make given the only apparent options were the pompous, brash and immature lordlings that hung on Jonathan's every word, he had taken to his books. Jonathan's games had always been rough and oftentimes borderline sadistic given the things he could bully his adoring friends into doing, besides by that time the alternative of little Clary was already walking and talking, babbling along beside the two older boys who fascinated her. The difference being that while Jonathan had been quick to brush off his embarrassing and 'idiotic' clinging little sister Jace had significantly more patience for her, and she had adored him for it.

For Jace the mixture of discovering he was far from averse to the notion of being the princess' first idol and also recognising that anyone else the prince disliked was a good candidate for friendship had led to his welcoming of Clary's attentions. Perhaps friend was too far, in those days the age difference between the little girl and himself had allowed him to make her more his minion. Oh yes, Jonathan Morgenstern had from the earliest days been surrounded by a crowd of adoring young men who would grow up to be the most powerful men in the land while Jonathan Herondale had a single supporter: a five year old girl.

Start as you mean to go on.

He still considered Alec to be the first friend he'd ever had. Encountering another boy close to his age who had never met Jonathan Morgenstern upon arrival at twelve in Adamant had been a most heartening experience. Without the Crown Prince around to ensure he was only regarded as the court pariah Jace had actually managed to secure himself a friend, and as time progressed to an extent Isabelle had managed to replace little Clary, although being slightly older and sharp tongued even then she had never matched the previous standard of crony. Little Max would prove a far better worshipper as the years went by.

The most poignant part of having this relationship with the Lightwood children had been that for the first time in his life Jace had gained something by himself, and something that was all his. Finally he had something and someone in his life that could not be taken away from him in a heartbeat on a whim of Valentine's.

Mayhap it had left him complacent. He was not blind, he saw the way Jonathan looked at Isabelle, as though she were a chunk of meat he wanted to devour, nor was he oblivious to how often Alec had been at the prince's shoulder in the days before his departure and of course he was currently off on a mission of the King's. He had been naïve to think there was anything he could gain in his life that Valentine couldn't take.

At his final snapped comment Jonathan had given up any attempts at conversation and instead had urged his mount in a clipped trot onto a side road. Jace turned Wayfarer to follow without a word. In a corner of his brain he wondered if Jonathan's separating the two of them from the rest of the court was stage one of his cunning scheme to assassinate Jace. Although killing someone out of sheer dislike and a history of childhood quarrels was a real blow below the belt, even for Morgenstern. Besides, considering the rugged grey of the sky and the warning restless rumble of thunder far off in the distance perhaps the leafy shelter of the alternative route was simply an attempt to avoid the coming rain. The prince was sporting a rather magnificent hat, it would be a shame to see it ruined.

Jace loosened the muscles of his left shoulder and stretched the fingers on his dominant hand as subtly as possible, even if this was a sinister plot and it came to a fight he fancied his chances; thinking back on the vicious blows exchanged in their swordplay practice he concluded that he had been a match for Jonathan then and was surely a match for him now. Distancing themselves from the rest of the lords could further work in Jace's favour, one on one were odds he could deal with.

Eventually the path widened onto a hill which once mounted provided an impressive view of the town beneath. Oldcastle as it was called, the largest town in the area and named for the stone ruins of the ancient castle located just a few miles away. Today the town was just a cluster of wooden buildings surrounding a squat stone chapel. Not far from where the two boys had halted the river Durre cascaded past the form of what could well have been a flour mill, currently cloaked in billows of black smoke.

"What happened there?" Jace demanded.

Jonathan ignored him, "Do you know why you are here Herondale? In Idris, that is." All traces of the previously affable companion were gone.

"Surely you have some idea of what my ambassadorial duties entail, my lord?"

Morgenstern laughed, white teeth bared in what became more a gesture of hostility than amusement. "Then let us try another question shall we? This one I'm sure you can answer adequately. Who stands to inherit the throne after my sister, in the absence of an heir from either of us? Suppose what happens if the two of us die today."

Jace's stomach jolted. Had he really been brought all the way up here to have his family disgrace rubbed in his face once again? "I suppose then it would pass to the last of the old dynasty bloodline. The Blackthorns?" He had never given much thought to his other distant cousins. The Blackthorn family were the only remaining line of royal Herondale blood besides Jace himself thanks to a Herondale princess having married into the family a century ago. Luckily for them, they were far enough removed from the House of Herondale not to have been troubled by the Morgenstern rise; they'd had the good grace to retire to their country manor near Lake Lyn decades ago and unlike the remaining Herondales had never caused the new reigning family any bother. "No Blackthorn has sat on the throne of Idris and none ever will," He pointed out to Jonathan frankly. The only cause your father could have for complaint is that Andrew Blackthorn has plenty of sons where he does not.

"Not the Blackthorns," Jonathan returned equally brusquely, "you."

Every muscle in Jace's body seized up as though he had been flung in an icy river and then just as quickly it felt like he had been bathed in fire. "Me?" His own voice echoed in his ears, heart pounding in his chest like a hammer at an anvil. "That cannot be Your Highness. When my father died-"

"When the axe fell you forfeited your lands and title, not your claim. The charge of treason gave the crown the right to absorb your title and take away your duchy but not your name and not your bloodline. No one can take away the blood that flows in your veins. King's blood."

He graciously gave Jace a moment to recover, who could well have looked ridiculous staring back at the prince in shock and dread. "So let me ask you again Herondale. What are you doing here?"

"None of that matters" Jace finally managed gruffly, struggling to speak as tactfully as possible, "Like you said I have both you and your sister ahead of me, so it will never matter. Once I settle your sister's marriage to the Dauphin as I intend to, it will matter even less because soon- God willing- she will have a son for France and Idris to succeed her if the need arises."

Jonathan chortled again, steering his horse towards the thin trail that lead towards the town. Carefully picking his own way down the treacherous slope after his prince Jace failed to keep at bay images of his conveniently mangled body at the bottom of the cliff and Jonathan's oh-so sorrowful face as he addressed the King, "a most terrible mishap, Sire. Fell right off, neck broken instantly, there was nothing I could do…" Jace had to admit the fall was likely not dramatic enough to provide firm foundations for that fear, and by the time he had fully mentally exaggerated the notion of such a useful and untimely death they had already survived the descent.

The ride into the town however had no positive impact on Jace's threadbare nerves. Weaving through the streets as the rain started to fall Jace noted a chilling emptiness and drawn shutters, which stirred up his thrumming fear and lending an twitch to his fingertips, still gripping the reins and longing for a blade in hand. He should have known something was amiss when they'd passed the vacant fields on the ride in but now he was convinced that something was wrong. "Your Highness-" he began to voice his unease to his companion, but Jonathan quickly waved him back to silence. Now Jace could hear an ominous commotion up ahead, the noise he had mistaken for thunder was in fact a stormy din caught between stamping feet and yelling voices, punctuated by the occasional screech which could have come from a human or a horse.

Pulling up to another unanticipated halt, Jonathan stood in the stirrups, yanking the brim of his hat out of his eyes and staring down the broadening street with pure concentration. Jace noted that this must have been the main thoroughfare and passage through the town, his companion had exhibited uncanny wisdom in choosing the alternative route. A moment later the figure of Sebastian Verlac approached at speed, his cap askew and his ragged coat slipping down his right shoulder. As he drew closer Jace spotted an ugly black eye and bleeding lip, then realised that Sebastian was clutching his reins in one hand and brandishing, actually more flapping about a strange metal contraption in the other.

"Verlac," the prince snapped, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Mobbed," the young lord gasped out through gritted teeth, "like a pack- of rabid dogs- the lot of them! Run mad."

"You were mobbed? Then where are the rest of you? Where is my sister?" Jonathan demanded shrilly.

Sebastian tried to form a reply but Jace's mind had shut down, utter horror closing around his head and dismay sinking icy jaws into his heart. Clarissa Morgenstern was caught in the midst of rioting peasants, the shrieking, braying mass that had lords in ripped clothing staggering and riderless horses currently galloping past Jace and Jonathan in a frantic bid for the open road leading out of the town. Wayfarer danced anxiously under Jace and he instinctively turned his heels inwards to drive the horse half a stride onwards.

The arrival of a heavy hand on his shoulder made him whirl round to face the prince so fast his neck muscles wrenched with objection. "Leave it!" Jonathan snarled, black eyes flickering between alarm and something that seemed a mere stone's throw from elation to Jace's stunned stare. "Herondale your embassy's over. Reconcile yourself to the fact and quickly for the love of God, before the rabble is on us."

"We can't just- she is your sister, they will kill her!"

"Not necessarily." Morgenstern spoke swiftly and with intensity, shortening his sentences with urgency but never once stumbling on his words, almost as though they'd been rehearsed. "Abandon your current ambitions, for this opens the way to new ones. All they need do is dishonour her and my father is one heir short; with her virtue gone she'll get neither husband nor crown for she'll never be a queen. This forces his hand. You'll be acknowledged, titled probably. Your days of diplomacy are over. You are now second in line to the throne. Congratulations, now ride!"

Jace shook his head, his world whisked upside-down so swiftly and without warning it was accompanied by a surge of nausea. The sensible thing was to ride away from here of course. Jonathan was right, though it pained him to admit it. Moreover, it would not merely be shrewd but also beneficial for him to ride away.

No more days of kissing monarch's rings and pandering to their pretentious and patronising commands. Jace Herondale would be a prince again and the diplomats would be kissing his ring. No more being treated like an insolent child, no more being laughed at and snubbed. How stupid they'd all look, all the lords who had challenged, doubted and mocked him and their sons who had laughed when they were all all grovelling and bowing with their noses to the floor at his feet.

He had been raised as Valentine's second son after all, he ought to be finally recognised as such.

But at what cost? He could still picture Clary Morgenstern's delighted smile from atop a closed trunk, the purity and hope in her little laugh and the warmth and strength in her surprisingly sturdy body as he pulled her to him in a darkened closet. He recalled the way in which her each and every thought and feeling played out across her open face, how the clarity in her gaze and the sincerity in her voice marked a glowing contrast to the vanity and falsehood that surrounded them. Beyond that it was high time he admitted to the impossibility of shaking off his fond memories of an even littler Clary staring up at him with those huge, adoring eyes, laughing faithfully at every one of his jests and demanding he invent yet another new game or recount one of his wild and silly stories for her. He considered the brimming vitality that petite frame held and met Jonathan Morgenstern's eyes once again.

There was no plea there, he realised, just contemplation and a challenge. This was a test, a simple trial and it did not matter to the young man beside him that his own flesh and blood, his only living sibling, was in the gravest of peril a few short streets away because Jace was the case in study. Before he knew what he was doing Jace was shrugging his way out of the dusty coat to free up his limbs and tossing it to Jonathan, then dismounting hastily and tying Wayfarer up nearby. He bound the worn leather straps up loosely upon deciding he was safe enough from horse thieves with the town's entire population seemingly elsewhere and also in anticipation that he would have to make a speedy exit.

Striding towards Verlac at a pace brisk enough to counteract any change of heart he nodded to the instrument in his hand, "My lord, what is that? A weapon?"

Verlac nodded, casting an appreciative eye over the contraption himself. "It's a gun.* Some Eastern eccentric business partner my father had took an interest in such things. He sent me this, says it can be shot like a cannon but from hand. He also predicts it will alter the shape of warfare, but the man's a lunatic. It would probably do the man wielding it more damage than the target. But no one else has anything like it!"

"Fascinating story Sir," Jace replied blandly as he held out an expectant hand. "Give it to me before you hurt yourself."

"You do not know how to use it!" Verlac protested feebly.

Jace made no effort to curb the stinging impatience that had replaced the foreboding in his gut, frowning up at the young lord and growling at him urgently. "I suspect you and I are on much the same plane of knowledge with regard to your strange new weapon, my lord." No sooner had Jace completed his scornful observation than the warm, sleek metal was in his grasp. He gave a gruff nod to the white faced Sebastian and turned in the direction of the commotion. "I recommend you make haste, Your Highness before the life of another royal is endangered," He called over his shoulder, not waiting for a response as he moved rapidly in the direction of the strife.

With such hurried progress it would have been easy for any such reply to have been misheard or misinterpreted, but it sounded as though Jonathan Morgenstern sneered something like, "Oh the Herondales, with their famous beauty and their famous honour" at Jace's turned back before he and his friend galloped off for the preservation of their own hides and Jace headed into the fray.

-0000000000000-

Clary had lost all sense of bearing long ago. In what had been either an exceedingly stupid or an ingeniously clever move once she had realised that she was the primary target of the crowds antipathy she had swung herself off the horse and started to grope around for some sort of weapon. In her mind staying in the saddle on a horse close to white** and in an elevated position was making things a little too easy for her enemies, especially now they were throwing stones. Besides, despite all those riding lessons she'd had with Luke of late she had the feeling that even if she had managed to manoeuver her way out from the wild throng a gallop to safety would probably result in her falling off into their waiting arms and end with her being torn apart.

So instead she tried to conceal herself in the crush of angry bodies, fingers clinging to the leather girth and saddle so tightly that she could no longer feel them, hunching her shoulders and curling herself into a body as small as possible, pressing her head down and fighting with her own slamming heart and ragged breathing.

She was going to die.

There was no point in screaming, there was no one around to hear her and even if they could she doubted they'd be in a position to help. At the first raised voice and tossed pebble her supposed escort Sebastian had turned on his heel and bolted and within minutes most of the other lords had followed suit. For Clary there had been no time and nowhere to run. Hands jerked at her hair and yanked at her clothes while what felt like thousands of blows rained down on her.

The ferocious tugging at her cape cut all the air from her throat and for a terrible second she couldn't breathe, screwing her eyes shut until her forehead hurt too and wishing it would just be over before the clasp holding the cape together broke clean off and the strangling pull on her disappeared. Before she could even process the subsequent relief there were fists and grappling fingers in her hair. This mob was like an unstoppable tide and with each drag of the current the pins holding her hood to her hair were wrenched backwards and upwards painfully until at last the headdress too was pulled free and she was showered in pins hauled free on her scalp with agony so sharp that even behind her shut eyes she saw stars.

This was too much. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She couldn't do anything but be dragged along in the riptide of fury and wait for it to be over. Clary probably should have spared a thought for her poor mother and her wasted expectations, she could have considered her father and all his ambitious and now pointless schemes for her. But now that the real danger was upon her she couldn't do aught but panic.

As another well aimed blow to her spine sent a bolt of pain through her body and Clary felt her knees buckle and instantly the terror disappeared. Forcing her stinging legs to straighten somewhat and hold her weight Clary marginally loosened her grip on her horse. She was the princess of Idris, and the future queen of France, or Scotland or Austria or wherever her father decided to send her! She had suffered taunts, loneliness and condescending treatment to get to where she was and so she was not about to die cowering behind her horse! The blood of conquerors, perhaps even angels ran in her veins and there was no way she was going to surrender without a fight. Opening her eyes a crack she forced a deep breath of air into her lungs and then another, slowly feeling the cool energy flow throughout her body even as the fire of her own fury sparked up in her chest and spread a coursing, righteous heat with each decelerating heartbeat.

She risked raising her head high enough to scan her surroundings, blinking frenziedly past the raindrops coursing down her cheeks and clasping to her lashes. A merciful split second of a gap between the scrambling, cursing flow of townspeople allowed her a glimpse at what seemed to be stone structure, not far to her right. There had only been one building of stone Clary had seen on the ride in and she had remarked on it; the church.

That was it.

She'd chance a sprint to the Church and once there she would claim sanctuary. Bold as these commoners had been to risk the wrath of their king in attacking his daughter she suspected even they would quail at risking the wrath of God by spilling blood in His house. She had the right to claim sanctuary, and once she had done so none of them would touch her. After that- some kind of rescue party was likely already on its way. Truly what happened next was of no consequence now, her priority was to remove herself from her immediate danger. Prior to her newfound nerve snapping to pieces, Clary released her hold on the mare entirely and flung herself headfirst into the rabble.

That they had not been expecting, she collided with body after body, but all of them seemed too stunned at her unpredictable movement to lay a hand on her. Unfortunately the element of surprise failed to last, before long she was being grabbed at yet again. Not pausing to consider her actions she slammed her elbow into the face of one assaulter and sank her teeth into the hand of someone who tried to seize her from behind. At another point a limb smashed into her legs and drove her to the ground but she writhed her way upright again, jabbing her elbows and kicking her way to the surface again, forcing herself to keep moving. For all that it was becoming obvious that she was not going to make it to the church and she had sacrificed her meagre shelter in moving away from the shielding bulk of her palfrey. In blind desperation she veered her course in the direction of what seemed to be a timber staircase of some sort, mayhap leading to a bell tower? Would that count as hallowed ground that might protect her? She simply had to hope it would.

Breaking away as best she could she fought her way up the first few steps until that became futile as well. Slipping on the damp wood she was easily caught and with her skirts trailing behind her there were ample handholds for the swelling rabble, she may as well be trying to swim to safety with pockets full of stones. In a highly ironic reinforcement of her sentiment an unscrupulously flung rocky missile smashed into the side of Clary's head just as she completed the thought. A mixture of the pain and shock of the blow momentarily blinded Clary and her legs crumpled beneath her.

As her body struck the wooden frame beneath her every breath was knocked out of her and even once she could see again the world swung about, blurring horribly before her confused eyes. Even the racket of the mob became distorted, as though it were filtering to her through the murky water from the bottom of a well. Clary's muscles seized up and she found that she could no longer move them through the drumming pain as the world blinked between black and excruciatingly bright colours.

No one was coming. Not her brother, not her father who was far away at his next house, not Luke who was with him, not Simon who was probably still near Chatton with the baggage train, not even Isabelle who had been separated from her in the skirmish.

It wasn't so bad, she could barely feel the hands on her past the whirling pain and pouring rain, she was hardly conscious of her skirts being partially pushed up or of the single bruised male face looming before her, with lips curled back in a feral snarl and suddenly it was gone and the world seemed to cave in to an echoing, earth shattering bang that might have been a roll of thunder.

Miserably, she waited for the next blow, but it never came. Instead the whole crowd seemed to fall away from around her, even the man clutching at her so hungrily just melted away. With what sounded like a thousand pounding footsteps she became aware of a newcomer taking the place of her attackers beside her and a raised yet indistinct voice that was somehow familiar. The next thing she knew her body was being encircled by strong arms. Dear God no more she prayed despairingly as she was held tight and something hot was pressed against her back. Luckily she was spared the knowledge of what fresh torture awaited her, just as she felt her body lifted up her vision blinkered again and then turned completely black.

-00000000000000-

A/N: Two points-

*I am a little premature with my usage of the hand gun, or the pistol as it would be known, but that I will (if my goldfish memory will allow me to remember) address in the AN of my next chapter because it ties in with certain events.

**My years of riding and childhood of horses meant I couldn't do it. I couldn't call her horse white. Unless a horse is albino it cannot be classed as such, it is a grey horse, unless things have changed and I never got the memo. Now if you've read this you have some useless information. Congratulations.

Aside from that I don't really have very much else to add. Ooooh cliffhanger, muahahahahahaha.