A/N: So I actually have a legitimate excuse(s) for disappearing off the face of the earth for the past while. Firstly, I considered admitting I was on exam hiatus and then dismissed that idea, because let's be real: I'm the sort of useless human whose failure to upload in weeks would not shock or alarm anyone :) And secondly.. (drum roll please) I actually broke my goddamn finger. Playing a highly intense, life or death game of- wait or it- snap. Only to me could this happen. I'll allow you guys a moment to let that sink in. So: context, I am currently typing a) partially obstructed by a splint and b) attempting to wean myself off painkillers. I would say that this is not up to my usual standard, but that would imply that I have standards... So yeah, sorry about so much- which is incidentally also the title of my autobiography.

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Things Better Left Unsaid

Western lands/ road of Alicante, late August 1536

Somehow both deep in thought and not really thinking at all, Jace crumbled the piece of bread between his fingers without having enjoyed a bite. He had sipped on the ale which had been its companion and some of the dried pork which also occupied the plate, but it all tasted so dreadfully dry that he had to concede that he had no appetite. Now he was resorting to tearing off strips of the small loaf, at first to try and delude Alec that he was eating and now was merely grinding it into tiny specs of white out of frustration. Now it could both look and taste like grit. It fell to little snowy hills on his plate, and around the rim in thinner piles, forming instead a light crust of dust.

Alec ceased frowning at whatever paper was to hand- starting to squint in the fading daylight- and started frowning at Jace instead. "One could simply send it back to the kitchen, rather than destroy it."

"I revel in the destruction" Jace grumbled, reaching for his drink again.

Alec rolled his eyes, "Speak, damn you. You never were one for silent moping Jace, and I can tell you are desperate for an opportunity to vent."

Jace only deigned to respond with a scowl, "Desperate, am I?"

"And not the only one," Alec muttered in reply, letting his papers forlornly flutter back to the table and he nudged them back into their wallet before allowing the cover to flop shut. He then rubbed his eyes, under which there had appeared darkening circles these past few days. "It is disheartening, to put it mildly, for all these efforts of ours to amount to nothing. Nothing other than our sister having caught the eye of the Prince as a potential whore, it would seem."

Jace might have flinched at the coldness of that assessment but instead felt a snide half-smile unwrap itself, "Well you hardly know that. Perhaps he has his father's penchant for common women and intends to have our dear Isabelle crowned." So foul was his mood that he decided to needle his friend further, "Surely the Prince's determination to befriend you while he was here indicates that an alliance between your families is not far off."

Alec's nose twitched at the suggestion, and the corners of his own mouth sloped glumly downwards "Now you sound like my mother." Then, after a pause he deflated even further, concluding bitterly, "We have been wasting the past five months of our lives, and they say that time is money. Money lost, in this case."

The exasperation which had coloured his friend's tone was more disheartening than anything, and Jace told him so, the beginnings of resentment beginning to lash in his own gut, "And since when has the pay check mattered so to you, Alec?" Alec shot him a rather furtive glance, but Jace was too annoyed to notice it, "With a young man in his grave, you are concerned with the expenses of our little sojourn here?" Alec glowered, but never got the chance to speak, for Jace tore on: "And not just any man but our one hope for a decent King of France. Everyone knows this new Dauphin is another pleasure-monger like his father, who will be ruled in all that he does by his own puffed up pride, sly ambition and the desires of his wily mistress Madame du Poitiers! Francois was a decent man who might have been a great king, and was certainly the only Valois I believed in."

Alec's annoyance hardened to foreboding, "Jace- what is it you are trying to say?"

Jace tossed his cup back to the table with an indignant clatter, thrust his hands into his hair and lurched anxiously forward onto his elbows. "What am I trying to say? Well to put it plainly I do not want to go back to that crowned womanizer, nor his ungrateful son Henry, nor indeed his Medici viper of a daughter in law who is sure to be exulting in all this!"

A low whistle tore through Alec's lips and his eyes shot to the door, which remained closed, "Unfortunately neither you nor I have a choice. King Valentine is not inclined to favour anyone these days, least of all me, and so I have to go back to my native land and fling my hopes on those of the King of France. So must you. There will be no fleur de lis in Clarissa Morgenstern's trousseau."

"But that is the very heart of the matter," Jace raised his head to look Alec in the eye, all frustration gone and his speech now low in timbre and grave in tone; "France is not my native land."

What little colour had been in Alec's tired, ashen face drained from it, "You cannot mean that."

"I do, for little else has been on my mind since it happened. Damn me to hell if you wish, but I am that selfish. I have no wish to serve France any longer, not with the prospect of a monarch I could respect and sincerely serve gone. I do consider appealing to Valentine, so that he might agree to keep me as a permanent ambassador and his continuing link with the court of France. At best, I pray I have the courage to request he consider my application to repossess at least some of the lands which belonged to my father. Considering that I have served his family, his daughter-"

"That is the heart of the matter," Alec interrupted, voice even lower than Jace's, blue eyes blank and dour, the only note of emotion being the continued twitch to his nose, "his daughter."

"Alec-"

"No! I will hear no more of it, no more of this nonsense. You cannot stay with her Jace, you know that. You dare not entertain for a mere second any thoughts that suggest otherwise. Married to Francois she may not be, but her father has grand designs on her and her legacy, that much he has told me, in those very words. I can see it is likely too late for me to tell you that you cannot love her, but surely even at that you can see your-" he snorted bitterly- "love is doomed. She is going to marry a prince, not an ambassador- not even an Idrisian born ambassador. And I am sorry Jace, that the truth of this must hurt, but this is no new revelation! You know where you stand at this court and it is far, far below her."

Jace shot to his feet, ears ringing as if his friend had boxed them with his fists rather than facts. The stool beneath him was knocked backwards, greeting the rough wood of their chamber floor with a scraping bang. "If you knew a damn thing about-"

Alec too got up hastily, a fresh thought of panic pouring from him: "Tell me you have not sullied her."

Jace broke off on his retort, "What?"

"Tell me you did not bed her Jace, for the love of God and all that is holy."

Colour sprang to the accused's cheeks, "No," he snapped aggressively, "I am not such a fop."

Alec exhaled sharply, "Then you must admit that you do recognise, in knowing your life is forfeit for such a thing, that this is where you brief dalliance with the lady ends. And that as far as the rest of the world is concerned, it never happened at all."

"God, it must be such a delight to you, this shining and clean cut crystal that is your own image, your own reputation. You really are a paragon of the dutiful son and the humble servant."

A cloud passed over Alec's blue eyes, his head lowered and his brows dipped into a defensive frown, "You know not what you are saying. You would not understand what it is to value what I value, to want what I want. All because you are still a petulant child, who blames everybody else when aught goes wrong, who cannot take responsibility for a single thing and cannot see the danger in his actions. You are still the sort of immature fool who cannot see where the pages of the novel ends and where real life starts. You think there is something heroic in loving her, do you not? You are so blind that you think she would thank you for getting yourself killed for love of her?!"

In that moment, for the first time in all the years he had known him, Jace wanted to strike Alec Lightwood. He wanted to lay his hands on him then his fists- but it lasted only a second however, and when that one torrent of utter rage ebbed away all Jace wanted to be out of this room, and away from the words he kept hearing which would not stop making sense.

"At least I know what it is to act on love. To truly, deeply want something. All you will ever do is what you are told, and you will only want what you are expected to want; an heiress, your castle, the ear of the King. I doubt there has been a moment where you put your heart in anything."

The way in which Alec flinched made Jace wonder if he may as well have swung for his friend, and to his surprise at that it was Alec who strode for the door as fast as he could. His furious exodus saw him snarling a parting curse at Jace and almost colliding with the serving girl sent to reclaim the plates of the supper that had not been properly eaten, before finally slamming the door.

If only it were true that Jace could not see the damage of his actions.

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Exhaling as subtly as possible, Luke Graymark dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead with his kerchief and tried to keep his expression interested. He had been attending them for almost twenty years now and yet these damn council meetings never got any more bearable, especially not when was roused at the first trace of summer dawn and hauled to the chamber for yet another emergency meeting, despite it being barely the fifth hour after midnight. However, it would not do to be seen fidgeting like a crabby child trying to delay bath time. He had a purpose here, he reminded himself, as another trickle of sweat dribbled down the back of his neck. Her purpose.

At least with sessions within the Clave there were high vaulted ceilings, plenty of windows and dozens of clamouring voices trying to be heard, which meant that few were monitoring his every move, unlike the King's private Council chamber. Though he doubted that even the Clave's buildings would be tolerable in this heat. The heatwave seemingly had broken, but it was still desperately clammy between storms and the surrounding skies were filled with the grumblings and growling of approaching thunder.

Despite years of being at the centre of this court Luke knew he would never consider himself aught but a country lord, through and through. The disputes of the representatives from the counties around Alicante and their gripes, which tended to dominate Clave proceedings, were of far greater interest to Luke. However, during the days when the sun had rose and set on Valentine Morgenstern, Luke had been so eager to please that he discovered his own aptitude for dealing with the political intricacies of the King's privy council; hence his seat. A seat which much to his external and internal discomfort, he still held.

"I sent word to the Prince at Edom as you had asked, Sire, though I only received a response yesterday," Starkweather was currently reporting in his customary clipped, dispassionate tone. "The enquiries I made amongst his household could only reveal that His Highness had been off with no one besides Sebastian Verlac in his company, I know not where, until a week hence. He spoke little of where he had been but did assure my man that he would return to Alicante and wait for us there." Starkweather's cheek twitched slightly as he proceeded to do his damndest to shield himself from his own ignorance, "I am sure here is no cause for concern, my lord. The prince is young..." he tried for a spark of humour, "Long ago as it may seem to younger eyes, we were all of us two and twenty once." The surrounding table of the King' closest companions and greatest peers in the realm chuckled obediently, even Luke forced his mouth upwards to a smile, spurring Starkweather on with an ounce of confidence. "I daresay we are better off not knowing where and what Prince Jonathan and his friend are doing."

Valentine did not look convinced, leaning back and running his thumb over the carved armrest of his chair at the head of the table. "Better off not knowing?" He echoed, and at the sinisterly quiet, meditative tone whatever dregs of nervous laughter still lingered instantly melted. "Need we remind you that Jonathan is our only son? The only Morgenstern heir?"

Besides Clary, Luke added silently.

"How then, could allowing my son to disappear into thin air not be cause for alarm Starkweather?" In the strained silence his head then snapped to the side to eye Pangborn, "Not to mention the alarmingly apparent inadequacy of the spy network which you run for me." Pangborn gaped uselessly, swallowing air frantically as he failed to form words while Starkweather dropped his head to the papers piled before him with some more composure.

Unfortunately Pangborn did recollect the ability to speak, and foolishly used it to protest; "Majesty, no one knew that the Prince was planning to leave his estate at Edom-"

Wrong move, Luke hissed under his breath as Valentine's ire exploded.

That proud idiot should have known better than to challenge the King around whom the Council was already treading on hot coals. The situation so fraught with danger already, with this new threat to his crown- the first coherent one that had arisen in years- Valentine was like a cornered bear. "We pay you good money, our money, and plenty of it to make sure that someone knows Pangborn!" The King roared. "If you cannot manage that, one of the few tasks we give you then you are of no use to us whatsoever. You think that we cannot find a dozen more where you came from with ease, you spineless, snivelling idiot?!" It was at moments like this that Luke considered whether a total outsider would find the sight of these supposedly powerful, fully grown men all cowering like frightened schoolchildren dreading a whipping from the dissatisfied master. But Valentine's anger was no laughing matter. This was a king who had driven the love of his life into sanctuary, ordered the deaths of many a once treasured friend and whose power knew very few bounds.

A white faced Clary had admitted to Luke only days ago that she had displeased the King greatly, and that alone made Luke want to melt back into the background altogether. Yet that merely signified that he had ground to recoup here, as far as Jocelyn was concerned. And though Clary herself had sealed her lips over what the rift between herself and her father might have been Luke reminded himself to learn a lesson from Pangborn's failures; he had put Maia in the girl's train for a reason, and her lips were not supposed to be sealed on anything. Luke was supposed to hear from her all that went on behind the closed doors of the ladies household. He added another mental note to speak to Maia and remind her of such duties.

For now, Valentine's temper was eventually subsiding and his shoulders slackened, "If we relied entirely on you fools we would prove a sorry monarch indeed. From now on eyes never leave my son, is that understood? Everyone he meets, everywhere he goes, Jonathan does so at our knowledge, if not at our command."

"Your concern is understandable, Your Majesty," the Earl of Chene began tentatively, "And such a careless lapse of attention will never occur again, but with respect, I feel compelled to point out that the Prince is no child. He is in his majority and legally we cannot bind him so."

Reliably, at the stirrings of another fit of wrath, the Duke of Lyn leapt in to defend his friend. Jack and Jill, Jocelyn was wont to have called them when she was in a scornful mood, or perhaps Castor and Pollux were she in a finer one. "Indeed, he is- though I pray not for many years yet- our future king. Surely he should be given some liberty? Your Majesty is yourself emphatic that for the sake of his future rule Jonathan is not to be coddled. It does not seem right, nor perhaps especially wise then, to restrain him so."

Not especially wise, the poorly chosen words provided Luke with the chance be needed, and hastily steeling himself he leapt into the discussion before Valentine would lose his sense of self-control altogether and sign all their death warrants. "My lord of Lyn, surely you see that His Majesty's orders are beyond wisdom? At a time like this, even assured of the imminent crushing of these rebels as we are, to allow the Prince's whereabouts to become suspect is the worst kind of folly. Yes, at a time of peace we can afford to allow our heir to indulge in a bout of youthful foolhardiness, and in the future when order in this land is restored Prince Jonathan should be left free to conduct his affairs as any adult man might, practicing his skills of government at will. At this very moment however, the matter of paramount importance is to ensure that the royal family are protected from this rabble until they are defeated." Now Luke allowed some acid top creep into his tone, "After all, I was under the impression that we were gathered to discuss how best to restore order in the counties."

Luke did not need to turn his head to feel the glimmering warmth of Valentine's approval. As if he were not aware that the only reason he held a seat on this council in the first place was to support the King in all that he did. Once, in his naivety he had thought he might use his position to make a difference; that even if Jocelyn was not to his bride then at least as Valentine's they might steer Idris into a golden age together. Now he knew better. He was no different than all the rest of these parrots in their robes of state, if not perhaps a more articulate one.

Despite himself, Luke had to admit he was rather pleased with his own little speech, crafted impressively and delivered on short notice upon the tongue of man who doubted Valentine's cold sadist of a son had ever done a foolish thing in his life, and often wondered if Idris would not be better served if its Crown Prince had a noose around his neck instead of the gilded collar his father might supply. Try as he might, Luke could never fully bring him to accept that Jonathan was as much Jocelyn's child as Clary. The gurgling, sweet baby boy that the woman he loved had once bounced on her knee and blown kisses to as he was carried away on a nursemaid's hip had been taken and warped by Valentine.

Even now Jocelyn feared that her boy had become a second Valentine, swearing that the son she should have had was dead to her and Valentine had killed him, playing his wicked games and destroying the child that had once existed in order to try and build his ideal heir. Luke had never, not once in the past ten years, had the heart to tell her that Jonathan was much worse than Valentine.

She had to kill the memory of her son to prevent Valentine doing the same to her daughter, she had told him once. That had never fully settled with Luke, since Valentine had barely glanced at Clary in her infancy, content to leave the raising of her up to her mother until she could be married, while he took full responsibility for the upbringing of their son. There was some other reason, if not several, that Jocelyn had been so determined to leave.

Presently, Valentine dropped his chin forward until he propped it up on the top of his clasped fingers. "Indeed, my lord of Aconite." His dark eyes flickered around the table before he added in a gruffly meditative undertone, "Would that my son's whereabouts of late were such a mystery."

Luke was yanked out of his ponderings by the comment. He knew that Valentine was far from blind to his son's many poor and dangerous qualities, if anything he was more keyed into them than anyone. If Valentine suspected as Luke did, that Jonathan had played some part in the destruction of a French alliance... but why? Why stoop to such cold blooded measures to end his sister's betrothal? It made so little sense that Luke had to contemplate that Jonathan might have assisted in the murder of the Dauphin simply because he could.

Valentine dropped his hands and hastened on with matters before anyone could press him as to what he meant. "What news of- should I deign to call these ruffians rebels?" For a man who refused to even acknowledge the hordes of unhappy peasants currently marching throughout his lands toward his capital- to which the lords themselves were hurrying to return to and defend- he was certainly giving the impression that he was worried.

The ensuing report came from the flushed Marques of Edgehunt, Penhallow stating bluntly that the peasant forces in the south and east had now crossed his own lands, and with the mirroring force in the north they were closing the net on the capital city.

Though he may feign contempt, Valentine was so short tempered and uneasy these days that Luke saw, for the first time in years, Valentine Morgenstern was afraid. He so revelled in his role as the grand puppeteer, who knew exactly what strings to pull on every man he surrounded himself with to ensure they did his bidding, that whenever events spiralled even slightly out of his control he struck out at anger and when that wore off took a sharp turn to panic. To anyone who had not known the King for as long and as well as Luke, the two may be difficult to distinguish between.

What had Valentine perpetually in a bad temper these days, and saw his hand never stray more than a few inches from his blade, was the unprecedented repercussions of what he assumed would be a quick solve to a mild problem when he had allowed Oldcastle to burn. It would appear that with their own residences smoking the citizens had simply travelled to the nearby villages with their discontent and there had found many a kindred spirit. This much they knew because the peasantry appeared to have roused themselves and decided that with their pitchforks they would march upon Alicante (their rude ignorance obvious in their failure to comprehend that the King was not yet at Alicante) and demand that henceforth the King's justice should be just.

Not altogether a ridiculous demand, though what should have been a ridiculous mouthpiece had proved much harder to quiet than the King had at first assumed. The rustic force should have been scattered and sent back to their homesteads by the local authorities and county sheriffs. The difficulty there being that many of those on the march did not have homesteads to return to, and the treatment of Oldcastle had been one outrage too may for much of the Idrisian lower classes.

The initial uncouth displays of indignation of burning property and maiming livestock had quickly and suspiciously evolved, emerging from Broceland as this military march with clear demands. Worse, contrary to expectations some of the local landlords and knights had sided with the rebels. And so they should be considered as rebels before the Council. Not that Valentine's pride would ever allow that.

There were also rumours that some of the greater lords had not reacted with the proper horror and fury upon learning of the events, while the lowlier court members were not to know of the disturbances at all- out of fear that their sympathies with the rebel cause might be such that they chose to assist it. It had never occurred to Valentine that the women of the court, the first of whom was Clary, may need to be aware of the situation. Such things were not women's troubles, he would presume. Luke had toyed with the idea of telling Clary, then dismissed it. On one level, the upheaval in her personal life had her uneasy enough, and on another Luke felt he knew her well enough now to expect that armed with such knowledge Clary was not the sort to sit idly on it. Strained as things already were with her and Valentine, the wisest course was to leave her exactly as he desired. Ignorance was supposed to be bliss.

Still, the mob were now armed with better weapons, marching in a more sophisticated fashion and had this cunning fox of a King bolting back to his den.

And why? Because someone had harnessed this agrarian agitation, some faceless threat that had Valentine fearing and suspecting everyone. That was bad enough, but in the more recent reports it had emerged that this threat was no longer necessarily nameless.

The mysterious link between the instigators of this anger and its supporters was becoming more obvious; the link which had persuaded them to raise banners and a war chant, like a real army might. And though they claimed to be first and foremost designed to make the King dismiss his "false and mistaken advisors" and not a rising against the crown itself, it had surfaced the name being bandied about the lips of these would-be rebels was Herondale.

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As far as Isabelle was concerned, this was not the worst thing she had ever done. Surely it was upon the list of many things that would prevent admittance beyond the pearly gates, but it did not top that list.

Simon Lewis was, undeniably, an inordinately sweet boy. Sweeter than should care to spend his days on the likes of Isabelle Lightwood, and surely much sweeter than should care to share his lunch. Yet here they were late on Sunday afternoon, relaxing in the grounds of one of the King's many hunting lodges where they had temporarily halted; sipping some of the wine Isabelle had spirited from her brother's chambers and nibbling the bread and cheese Simon had pilfered from the pantry. From the hilltop that they currently occupied it was possible to watch the various smoky splashes of clouds chase one another across the sky. Sadly they all too often screened the sun, and seemed to be growing more frequent as the afternoon wore on. Perhaps the good Lord was playing the role of Isabelle's conscience, and threatened to send more rain to halt her using of the trusting boy before her.

Nearby the horses they had "borrowed" without necessarily seeking the correct permission cropped contentedly at the grass and occasionally whickered their satisfaction. It was something of a relief to get out of the house, with Jace moping about as though the world were ending, Alec panicking as to what was to become of them and Clary drifting about her own rooms in a state of shock as the court was harried from house to house on the road back to Alicante. If Izzy did not know better she would assume the very hounds of hell were on their hells. No one seemed inclined to enquire. Nonetheless, the one thing Isabelle had heard for certain was that the Crown Prince was due to be recalled to court. With that reunion to dread and the realisation that Jace and Alec had been recalled to Paris without her, Isabelle had not been in the finest spirits. So, guilty as she might feel about spending time with Simon, his suggestion they come out here for some fresh air and peace had been too attractive an offer, and Isabelle had seized it.

Initially, courting Simon's attentions had ben nought but one of her all too familiar ploys to get her father's attention. She had hoped, as had been accomplished by her unsuitable sweethearts in the past, word would reach her father and the incensed Count would immediately remove her from the situation. She had also initially hoped to use someone who had not an ample enough contingent of feelings to be wounded when they realised that she was using them; namely Prince Jonathan. Unfortunately his long absences from the court, and the many preoccupations he had while he was here, made such a scheme impossible to execute. Meanwhile, the naive young musician had provided the perfect backup plan.

However now she found herself in an increasingly tense predicament; despite the fact that her grand escape was no longer required she was still seeking out Simon, and leaping at the chance to go on picnics with him. Although Isabelle was not prepared to admit as much, even to herself, she was beginning to like him. And by that she meant his presence was tolerable, and his countenance slightly pleasing. Nothing more. Of course.

Moreover, with Clary's friendship (the first real friendship she had ever had with another girl, and of which she was still learning, mercifully alongside her new friend who had never had such a relationship before either) she was beginning to find herself almost at home in Idris.

One had to admit; it was ironic that upon arrival at this court she had been determined to escape it, only to find that she would rather stay in Clarissa Morgenstern's train than set foot in Adamant ever again. But as the months had passed and she had grown accustomed to this new way of life, she had come to almost enjoy it. Besides, when one thought about it, the alternative of her parents' house was much worse: being suffocated by her mother's unending rules and expectations, and her father's refusal to try and accept his daughter might be a person and not a problem/threat that had to be removed and married off as soon as possible.

Her father had sworn to her that she would never be back at the French court for as long as there was breath in his body, and though when the threat had been issued Isabelle had not believed him, over the months that had elapsed her lord's wroth showed no signs whatsoever of relenting. Isabelle had been forced to admit that perhaps this time she had gone too far. In recent years she had thrived off picking confrontation with her sire, in dressing in a way that would annoy him, being a determined spendthrift and allowing herself to be seen with unacceptable boys. It had driven Alec almost as insane as it had their father, and for that she had been sorry; but she had been doing it for him too. And even for Jace, in a way. For as long as she remained the difficult child and Alec the reluctantly dutiful and perpetually awkward, Jace's talents (which were obvious at the best of times) were illuminated. While her parents were diverted trying to prevent her from destroying what remained of their reputation and persuade Alec to make any kind of public appearance, Jace proved a balm to their ambitions. Handsome, charming, charismatic, witty and ambitious he had proved exactly the kind of child they would have wished for. It put them in the best possible position to approve of and encourage him, and at last he might have the experience of a family who appreciated him.

Jace was unrelentingly hard on himself, nothing he could do was ever good enough for himself and as far as Isabelle was concerned that was Valentine's fault. It had been ingrained in him all his life that he was too weak, too slow, too soft. Isabelle feared that Jace would never come to accept himself, or see that his first foster father's expectations were unrealistic, but at least allowing him to know what parental approval felt like from the Lightwoods would be a good place to start.

As Simon serenaded her it was possible to at least stage an admirable attempt to forget all such things. He strummed away while she sipped her wine and allowed a small smile to cross her face. He really was not so bad to look at, and his focusing on the strings his fingers danced over left her free to watch him unwatched. He did have nice, clear skin, albeit a little pasty. There were a few freckles on his nose which were oddly endearing, and his dark fringe was growing out and constantly had to be brushed out of his eyes which she was also finding quite adorable. They were a pleasant shade of brown, lighter than his hair and her own near black irises. They reminded Isabelle of roasted hazelnuts, and were shot through with flecks of darker brown rather than green or blue, which she supposed was typical Simon; consistent to the last breath. And God knew, she had little enough consistency in her life.

This could be what she needed, someone she could rely on at this court, especially since her brothers were soon to be gone. While she knew she could entrust most things to Clary, her station would render her more powerless than powerful in the future, whereas Simon would always be free to do as he pleased, as long as he could perform a ballad on request. There was a great deal of freedom in being nobody.

Isabelle's scrutiny of his features may not have gone entirely unnoticed, for Simon lifted his chin and grinned slowly, "You are not listening."

Isabelle shrugged and tilted her head backwards, letting her eyes flutter shut and pretended to sun herself, the facade of nonchalance significantly undermined by the blanket of dreary cloud swathing the sky. "To men? I never do."

Simon chortled, Izzy cracked her eyes open somewhat to watch his setting the lute aside and stretching out on his side, propped up by an elbow. "How problematic. Not to mention hurtful, as I laboured ceaselessly to compose that tune which conveys my very soul."

She looked at him directly over her shoulder. "Simon, I know you did not compose Greensleeves."

"Ah. There you have me." She rolled her eyes and snickered, but this time her amusement was not mirrored. "But in truth, you look as though you are deep in thought. You could speak to me, of you wished."

A pause, then- "I would not know where to begin," Isabelle sighed.

"Nor would I, I suppose, were I asked."

Isabelle's eyed him again, with more avid interest. "What do you mean by that?"

This time when Simon smirked at her there a cynical edge to it, "You think yourself so enveloped in secrets, Isabelle Lightwood, that no one notices you have them. That is not true. I have always seen that there is something you are hiding."

For once, Izzy was utterly speechless. She could not believe, nor was she prepared to accept that this, her chosen diversion and what was supposed to be the most flighty, insubstantial relationship of all was about to hold a serious conversation.

Simon straightened slightly. "I am not going to press you," he said, in the kind of tone one might adopt in dealing with a spooked animal they did not want to bolt. "I am simply saying, I have secrets of my own."

She swallowed another swig of wine, alarmed to find her dry throat ached, "I prefer your usual witless banter."

If she was not mistaken, he was disappointed. Well what had he thought to expect? That she might bare herself to him at the first invite? There were things she was not prepared to tell even Alec; like that she knew fighting a future of marriage and trying to make her own way was a doomed battle in this world, that she was afraid of what might happen when her parents did not reconcile, that though it was her father's own faithlessness that caused the fall out she blamed herself for telling her mother of it, how she sometimes wondered that if she had not made life in their family so difficult her father may never have strayed. How could she even begin to explain she had watched Clary fall in love so easily and part of her had been intrigued and part repulsed? That she would never trust anyone enough to surrender her heart to them, let alone her future. She believed that no one would be able to love her, aside from perhaps Alec and Jace who were family and had to love her.

She was saved from having to dismiss Simon any further as the first laden drops of rain started to fall. He lunged to protect his lute, and by the time it was safely bundled up the shower had turned to a downpour. She had to laugh, as the duo scrabbled about to collect their things and charge for the nearest copse of trees, her laughter was finally, stutteringly echoed by Simon. Her merriment only escalated as they stumbled and constantly dropped the belongings and scraps of food and bottles that overflowed their arms. Cursing and giggling she finally made it to the vague leafy shelter and turned to face Simon.

She must have looked a sight, clothes sodden and cap askew, but his laughter paled away as he reached out and prised away a soaked strand of hair that had stuck to her cheek. His fingertips were a glancing warmth against her skin, and the sudden intensity with which he looked at her now sent her breath skidding to the back of her throat.

"Isabelle-" he began solemnly, and at that the numbing panic wore off to one of frantic action. She reached out for him, grabbing at his damp collar and hauling his hot lips to hers, silencing and distracting him the only way she knew how.

-0000000000000-

These days, Clary's things rarely left their cases. There were no more state dinners and no more revels. The past week had been one relentless haul toward her capital city, and much of what she possessed was still miles behind amongst the baggage train she had not spotted in several days. Not that she required anything, since there were no more reasons to dress up, and she was hardly in any location long enough to require diversions. It had her exhausted, and no one would tell her why this haste was so necessary. She did not doubt that it was, her father was not a whimsical man and, for the most part a rational one. He was not one to startle himself at shadows, yet something here had him spooked.

Clary had only glimpsed Valentine at mealtimes and prayer services, and they had not spoken intimately since the incident. Immediately after it, there had been no outward sign that he was still angry with her, for he had greeted her calmly, if not coolly, since. Yet she still felt the tension crackling between the two of them as clearly as she saw the bright fissures of lightening split the sky these nights, and was in no doubt that while her father might be diverted at present, he was not prepared to forgive her. It had been almost a week and still Clary's heart stuttered when he met her gaze and had to prevent herself from tensing when he walked past. She could not convince herself she was being ridiculous. Yes, on one hand it seemed that as her father's only daughter she was the most and only valuable currency he had with which to purchase a foreign alliance, but on the other she knew that unless he thought her an easy pawn to work through he would decide her not worth the bother of wrangling out negotiations and send her back to the convent.

That Clary was not willing to risk. Miss her mother she might, but she did not miss the huge walls of the order which had sheltered and stifled her. She had always dreamed of what might lie beyond Broceland forest, and she and Simon used to concoct plans of how they might run away and discover that world.

Now she was free, and more a prisoner than ever. Even as shackled as she was to her father's schemes, at least there was a prospect of liberty. Once married she could have her own household in the very least; and even an uncertain future meant a kind of hope.

If only her present private situation was a little less uncertain than the public. But since the passing of her betrothed Jace had not said more than a string of words to her, to offer his condolences in a clipped, reserved tone and then drift away. She did not fear that he had forgotten her, surely no more than she had forgotten him.

A suspicion that was soon proved to her. After some tentative questioning of Isabelle Clary had learned that the situation was precisely what she feared. She was not the only one with her bags packed, although she did not share the same destination as the rest of the French embassy. Izzy had been quick to assure her that she intended to remain in her service, but since there were no more prospective husbands for her in France, Jace could not hope to do so.

But she had not expected him to part without a goodbye. Not until a suspiciously damp Isabelle had hurried into her chambers on Sunday afternoon baring the worst news possible, the drooping feather from her hat dripping balefully onto the floor as she hissed in her ear that Wayfarer was saddled in the courtyard.

"He cannot be leaving! Not this very day!"

"He might be," Isabelle corrected grimly, making a show of sniffing a dab of new scent which she splashed on a kerchief and raised to her mouth, screening her lips and muffling her words so no one save Clary might hear them, "He has left in such haste before, Clary. Our- his master is at war. Since the new Dauphin is already married there is no deal to broker here, and King Francois will want every diplomat he has at hand while he continues to fight Spain. He will need the likes of Jace's skill at his disposal to deal with such pressing matters. "

Clary shot her a panicked look, ignoring Maia's curious expression and her attempts to sidle closer to the other two girls. "He would not go without telling you."

"He has done before," Isabelle shrugged, "and if Alec was not leaving with him immediately, as he sometimes does not, then he would be content to let Alec say the goodbyes."

"To me?" Clary demanded, aware that the pitch of her voice was something of a whine, "He would not go without saying goodbye to me?"

Her lady shot her a look of unmistakable pity, "Mayhap it would be better that way Clary. Goodbye is always painful, and beyond that he could struggle to find a suitable reason to see you."

At this point, Clary was sick of the whole charade. She no longer cared what people thought of her being too friendly with an embassy, and she no longer cared that she was already on thin ice with her father. She needed to see him.

"Do you need some assistance, Your Highness?" Maia enquired, at last daring to address her mistress.

Clary barely spared her a glance, "No." She rose from her seat and tossed her prayer book aside, the sudden rise disturbing her ladies. Aline and Helen glanced up in surprise from their sewing and one of her newer additions, Julie Beauvale, clumsily broke off her playing of a small harp. All questioning eyes were on Clary, and she waved away their silent inquisition with a vague sweep of her right arm. They had made to rise with her, but at her frantic gesture had to flop awkwardly back into their seats. In fact, Julie missed her stool and floundered until her backside hit the floor, which might have been amusing had Clary not been in a blind panic.

"Just a moment," she gasped faintly, then charged out the door.

Certainly things grew more farcical, as her unprecedented exit also startled the guards at her door, and the only indication she had of their shock was the distinct clamour of metalwork as the seized pikes and knives and whirled round looking for an assailant, the closest thing to which proved to be the normally impeccably dressed and carefully behaved Isabelle Lightwood, who barrelled out the door after her.

Bareheaded and still trailing a small river of rainwater after her flicking train, not unlike a snail, Isabelle soon caught up to Clary on her longer legs. "Princess!" she panted through gritted teeth, "What the devil do you think that you are doing?!" She tried to catch at Clary's flapping sleeve and halt her, but Clary somehow managed to disentangle herself and continue her quest, still half-blind with the fear she might be too late.

The Princess darted out into the stable yard, and without a trace of grace splashed her way through a muddy puddle and was almost trampled by a stallion which was being led across the yard and finally spied the dappled coat she had been looking for. Beside him was the distinctive figure of Jace Herondale, the set of his shoulders and ease with which his hands flew over the various straps and buckles of tack making him instantly identifiable. Clary doubted it was only the recent dash which had her heart hammering now, as she crossed the final few paces to Wayfarer's neck.

"Jace" He glanced up briefly from where he had been inspecting the tightness of his girth, then turned away again only to whirl incredulously back to her when the realisation sunk in. "What in God's name are you doing?!"

"What in God's name are you doing?" she fired back planting her hands on Wayfarer's strong neck, as though the touch and sheer force of her will could keep him and his rider where they were.

"You should not be here. People will talk, those grooms are already doing so."

"Let them."

"Izzy is but over there, Clary you must go back to her. Now." He tried to turn her away from the horse, steering her with the screen of his body as best he could without bodily grabbing her and dragging her back to Isabelle. Despite how she might behave, she was still the King's daughter, and he was not permitted to lay a hand on her, not unless invited to.

"No." she said more firmly, "Jace, do not leave me. Do not make me put you aside."

His eyes flickered around her face, as they had done before, but this time it was more than not meeting her eye. This time it gave more the impression of how he was trying to memorise every feature; the exact shape of her nose, every freckle on it. "I doubt there is a man alive who could make you do anything. Better men than me have tried and failed, that much I do know." The dryness to his voice failed to move her any, for it still took every scrap of her self-control to keep her hands stroking Wayfarer rather than clutching Jace and holding him to her.

"Please," she whispered instead, astonished that he heard her over the cacophony of the stable yard; the clatter of hooves, booming voices and rasping hiss of a brush somewhere sweeping up stray strands of hay. At least not all life had come to standstill at her presence, she knew there were still some of the grooms and their lads nudging one another and muttering unabashedly, but the lack of a total silence enabled her to continue speaking to Jace, her petite frame disguised from most prying eyes behind Wayfarer's bulk.

"I cannot stay here. Clary, I will not stay."

"Will not?" she echoed, not bothering to disguise the pain that remark had caused her. Jace threaded his fingers through the sagging reins and looked away from her. "Life goes on. I could stay, but I will not. There are too many ghosts here. And besides, even the present hurts. Surely you realise that for your father's plans this is naught but a stumbling block. Already behind closed doors they are whispering of a new suitor." Now he looked at her, earnestly and nakedly, as he dared not look at anyone else. "You deserve honesty. The honesty I could not give your betrothed- my lord- when he lay on his deathbed and I showered his bride with kisses." The raw guilt and the self-loathing was painful to hear, his voice cracked and Clary could imagine the crash of shattered glass as it struck the floor. The harshness of his words struck home for the first time, and Clary realised that Francois Valois had not been a sombre oil painting for both of them. Betraying him may have meant nothing to her, in fact she had never regarded what she was doing with Jace to be a betrayal at all, but the same was not true for Jace.

"I shall try now to be honest enough for both of you. I cheated my friend and prince and I will have to live with that, but staying here, watching you marry someone else? A stranger? That I could not live with. Yes, I could stay as your father's servant, I could call Idris home again, and I have thought of it- but the cost is too high. In order to see you again I would have to be the go-between between your father and husband, whoever he may be. I would have to see you on his arm, bearing his children, and I do not want to live like that Clary. I will not," he repeated. It was not so much what Jace was saying as what he was not saying aloud, even now. It was enough for Clary to dismiss that they were in a public place and lean closer.

"It will not come to that," she lied. "Jace-"

He tried to shake her off again and wiped his face blank, or rather attempted to for Clary was now much more practiced at picking emotions out from behind his protective shield. "I have a plan," she babbled desperately, "to wreck the next betrothal,to whomever it is. I want you Jace, though they say I cannot have you. That means nothing to me, nothing means anything- except that I love you. And I refuse to accept that is wrong."

"Love me?" for a heartbeat Jace sounded wistful, then he scoffed, moving to sidestep her and lead his horse away, "You hardly know me."

"Very well," Clary unintentionally recoiled at the sour tone, "then I hardly know you and still refuse to let you go."

The corner of Jace's mouth curled slightly, though Clary expected he was silently damning her for making him smile as he tried to walk away. It was what she would have done. He successfully manoeuvred his way past her and crossed to Wayfarer's other flank. Instinctively Clary grasped at the bridle, aware that she would look utterly ridiculous if she hung on the horse's reins to fight the departure, but do it she would, even should Wayfarer bit her in the face.

However, following the sound of rustling, a moment later Jace returned with a package in his hand. "Clarissa Morgenstern, one day you are going to be the fairest, fiercest queen Christendom has ever known. Isabella of Castile and Eleanor of Aquitaine will pale in comparison." Clary coloured slightly at the words, taking the package he passed to her numbly, "I have to go today, but I never intended to go without leaving you a goodbye. I was to send this to Isabelle to pass along after I had left. I feared that unless I could say farewell from a distance I would not say it at all."

Clary latched on to the hope his determination was faltering, "Then do not. Stay with me. We will come up with something."

"Would that I could," he murmured, reaching out to touch one of the frizzing locks of hair that had curled out from under her hood in the humidity of the air following the summer downpour. Then he straightened up and raised his voice, "Keep Isabelle with you, keep her out of trouble if you can, though I do not expect you to have much success. Keep yourself out of trouble more importantly, Princess. Do try not to get mobbed again in my absence."

A lump rose in Clary's throat and she half-laughed half-sobbed at the parting words, lowering her head and hugging the package to her chest. She had to step back and let Jace mount, her head tilted upwards as he tipped his hat to her.

"God keep you," she managed to call, voicing her most fervent prayer in days.

"And you," he responded softly, nodding over her head to Isabelle before clicking his tongue and urging Wayfarer into a trot.

Unable to bear the sight of him actually leaving her, Clary ducked her head and hastened back to Izzy, who slung an arm around her and greeted her with a gentle, "You trod in horse shit," as she steered her friend back indoors.

Neither of them saw the men-at-arms who exchanged a single glance and slipped out the gate after Jace.

-00000000000000-

The silver lining to having one's hem smeared in horse excrement and your stockings destroyed by rainwater puddles was that upon return to your temporary apartments was that you could be hustled away to your private bedchamber to change. Once there, Clary sat down forlornly on the edge of her bed. "You can leave me Isabelle."

"You need fresh clothes-"

"I can dress myself. I did it for years."

Isabelle nodded slowly, realising Clary needed a rare moment alone to nurse her breaking heart. "I do not know what to say Clary. I fear my words would make paltry bandages at any rate, and I have no comforting wisdom of experience to share. Sometimes I doubt I have a heart that anyone could break. But... should you need company, I am just outside the door." Clary gave a small nod and sat still, long after the soft snap of the closed door. Eventually she did wriggle out of her soiled vestments and, clad only in her corset and petticoats, crawled back onto the bed and unwrapped the paper on her parting gift. A brand new copy of Malory's Morte d'Arthur revealed itself, stamped with the hallmark of Idris' primary printer in Alicante, meaning that he may have had it commissioned and had most definitely paid a delivery fee; which surely had taken an unreasonable amount of his wages. No, it was not the jewels or fine cloths that her father might have bought for her so flippantly at small fortune, but it was all the more precious to her in its simplicity. Upon flipping over the cover page Clary then located a single line inscribed in familiar, spiked handwriting:

For Lancelot loved Guinevere and Arthur too.

She failed to hold back the tears any longer.

-0000000000000-

The open road used to hold such peace for Jace. In the past it had always been a symbol for moving on, enjoying new beginnings. Until now, every such journey that he had undertaken had denoted the beginning of the next chapter and the previous one tended to close in satisfaction and good cheer. None of these merry thoughts were on his mind as he trod down the main road heading west, his pessimism not helped by the realisation that his journey back to France would take him through Broceland, which besides being the lands of the inheritance he would never have was currently being torn apart by riots. From those who had trekked that way recently he was assured that the lands were now quiet, the real discontent having moved northwards.

By no means was Jace eager to get caught up in another mob, considering he had only narrowly escaped the last one, yet he could not wish the peasants ill. Although they were sure to be put down before they really got anywhere, he fully supported their desire to burn a few estates while they could. Anything that might take the smug smiles off the fat cats that filled Valentine's court and council had his wholehearted support. But his mind was not on their doomed revolution, rather on the girl he left behind. Telling himself that leaving her and her family far behind was for the best was not making the hoof beats that took him further from her fall any easier.

The same words kept ringing around in his head with each of Wayfarer's strides: I love you I love you I love you. Aside from anything else, that primal need to protect her that had first surfaced at Oldcastle was still present, beating frantically at his breast. That long-forgotten, once brotherly determination to shield her from anything that might bring her to harm, was now stronger and more clearly defined. Now it existed as the lover's need to destroy whatever threatened her with unhappiness.

He wished that he could wave a sword and liberate her from the new marriage she didn't want but here he was, meekly making his way back to his master like any obedient hound. No matter it was the master he told himself he chose. The reality of it all was that he had never had much of a choice.

There had always been that integral feeling that chafed against the reality of having to bow to a master at all, whatever part of his blood that remembered it was noble, that recalled it came from a line of kings albeit toppled ones, had always railed at his role of subservience. If Francois had not been dead he might have gone to Valentine and call in that favour to be a duke again. But his friend, the one he had betrayed by loving Clary, he was dead. And though that was not directly Jace's fault, he blamed himself. Perhaps he should have been there to protect Francois, and if he could not shield him in person then he should have at least protected his interests and not fallen in love with his bride.

And he had fallen in love for the very first time, and for he feared the only time. He had known it for some time now, felt that pull mayhap as far back as the moment he had first laid eyes on her as a woman, in Alicante that first night. Yes, he had half been jesting when he had flirted with her, but something about her had intrigued him even then. He had known her, despite his blunders, in some corner of his heart. He may have blundered because he knew her, knew that she had always held that crucial part of his heart and he had wanted to protect himself. For if she fell in love with him it would have drawn him deeper, and it had. Now there was no escape from what he felt, and once he admitted it to himself he wondered if he would carry the knowledge with him throughout the rest of his life.

It hardly mattered that he had admitted it to his own heart anyway, for he had never told her. He cursed himself for not having done so now, with nought but the road and lining ditches to accompany him. What more damage could he have done? She had already told him how she felt and his instinctive, yet unforgivable response had been to brush it off. Yes, without doubt he was unworthy of that affection, but he might have acknowledged he had affections of his own. Since she was already open about what she felt, failing to return the sentiment on his part was less of a protection method and more a final punishment. She would be punished enough for loving him, there had been no need to exacerbate it.

Lost as he was in his own head, and caught up in his own guilt and regrets, Jace failed to take account of the world around him, or that he had acquired a shadow.

Usually he did not mind travelling alone and light as it made for the most efficient speed, and with a wallet full of mere papers he was never disturbed by bandits. On this occasion he had wanted to get away as quickly as he could, for the more he lingered at Valentine's court what strands of resolve he had summoned would soon unravel altogether, and he had not wanted the company of Alec after their quarrel. He knew that he would soon forgive his friend, and Alec him, but he also knew from experience they needed space to cool off first.

By the time the first proper town came into sight Jace was glad to see it. Having dawdled too long at court even the late summer evenings had stretched as far as it was willing to, the banners of smoke rising from the thatched roofs blending in with the darkening steel of another sullen night sky, behind which neither the rising moon nor first peeping stars could be seen.

Though Jace had a certain disregard for his own safety, not even he was willing to risk the roads at night. In spite of his overall miserable state he considered that it had been quite some time since he had last had a tavern cooked meal, and found he was quite looking forward to it. The sturdy warmth of a homely stew would do wonders in lining his stomach for the long journey ahead. Focusing on physical needs, like the snarling hunger in his stomach and the weariness of a long day weighing on his bones provided a comfortable enough distraction from his emotional pains.

Until, upon approaching the town's main thoroughfare he found his way blocked by two breastplate clad soldiers in the familiar maroon and black striped livery of the king of Idris. Had there not been metal strapped to their chests, he knew their breasts would have been embroidered with the Morgenstern star. They must have taken a shorter side road to arrive here before him, clearly they knew the territory better. The sight of them was enough for his empty stomach to clench anxiously, and the tension spread throughout his body as he realised they had no intention of letting him pass. The older of the two, who would soon become apparent as the dominant of the pair, was the first to speak as Jace reluctantly halted Wayfarer before them. "Is there some way I can help you gentlemen?"

"Aye, Herondale, you can help us."

He really was an ugly bastard, with an aging, mashed face, a crooked nose that looked as though it had once been broken and had never properly healed, and a nasty scar that sliced across the right side of his face, from temple to the top of his lip which seemed permanently stuck in a sneer. The scar cannot have been very old, as it formed a twisted rainbow of varying shades of angry red and a bitter purple. It made Jace's scar feel like a paper cut.

"By?" he snapped back in return, as Wayfarer tossed his head and whinnied fretfully, prancing uneasily on the spot. He was, after all a warhorse, and he must have been able to sense the thickening tension in the air, even smelling the metal of the many weapons the sinister duo were carrying. In a way, Jace was flattered, although the dread and growing fear won over.

"Hmm. Bit dangerous don't you think? A pretty little Herondale princeling wandering around Broceland on his own, at a troubled time like this?"

Jace's mouth had dried up, but he made his face stay blank. "I was told that the area had quietened and I have seen no trouble thus far. I should hardly call it wandering either, since I am on the business of the King of France." He knew as he said it his defence was weak, crisply and firmly as he had spoken. He doubted these thugs cared for the authority of a foreign king.

Startlingly, his new enemy donned a twisted smile, which contorted the scar, and proved nastier than his sneer. "Really think old Francy would miss you eh? I don't. I would love to ruin that lovely face, pretty boy, tear out a few of those girly locks. Not much I wouldn't give to knock out a few of those pearly teeth."

Perversely, Jace was glad of the taunts, for they allowed rising anger to quench the rising panic. At least if they were determined to rough him up, the prospect of an arrest warrant seemed less likely. He loosed his shoulders only long enough to pull off a languid shrug, "Life's not fair, is it? A true pity- that we can't all be as ugly as you. Especially since that hideous face must serve as a reminder of the bashing you thoroughly deserved and allows your scintillating personality to shine through." The guard cursed colourfully and his hand shot to the dagger at his side, and Jace reached for the blade at his hip-

"Enough Al!" The other soldier growled.

Al, Jace thought, sliding his knife back into its sheath and revelling in the soothing scrape of metal, Remember that. Presumably short for Albert, or Almighty Pain in the Backside.

Then he was addressed again, though his biting sarcasm had not endeared him any to Morgenstern Crony Number Two. "The King of France is no longer expecting you. Since it is not safe for you to be prowling these areas at this time, we are to escort you to Alicante, Herondale."

"Alicante? To what end?"

"That is for the King to decide," Al spat, "All I know is I am to get you to the Gard quickly." He grinned then, as though he was all too aware that all of Jace's childhood nightmares were clamouring in around him, and not even the checker board of rotting and vaguely white bone that formed the few teeth Al had could distract him for the very real terror of the Black Tower.

"Hand over the weapons. Apparently some very important people have some very important questions to ask you."

-000000000000000-

A/N: GASP. Or not. Maybe you saw that coming. I mean he was never going to be based on a young Elizabeth and not get himself arrested at least once. I think what we can all agree on is that whatever Alec is getting paid it is not enough. I personally hate this entire chapter and apologise profusely (again). I will try to do better next time.