Out of the Frying Pan
A/N: The excuses are getting wilder guys. I wish I was making this up. The finger has healed, but then I travelled quite a bit. Consequently I was in Turkey. During a military coup. Need I say more?
There is something of an unsavoury sexual scenario in the chapter, but nothing graphic and one that has a rather satisfactory ending.
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The Gard, Alicante, Early September 1536
Two weeks. Two damn weeks he had sweltered and paced in this damn prison, his constant striding back and forth in the cramped quarters the only active way of whiling away the hours between his frequent 'interviews' with Master Secretary Pangborn and the good Cardinal Enoch. At least if he could keep moving in whatever futile way possible he might alleviate the feeling of helplessness somewhat.
His only moment of respite thus far had been the relief that upon arrival to the Gard he had been permitted to enter via the main gate (albeit at nightfall) rather than the back gates used for criminals, and was not to be housed in the infamous Black Tower after all. Nor had Jace been served an official reading of his arrest, or charged with any solid offence. He could also be grateful that his old friend Al had not shown his hideous face since he'd arrived, but had seemed as close to joy the evil bastard was as likely to get in dumping Jace into the cardinal's custody.
All of that being said, there was no mistaking that he was a prisoner here, every bit as extravagantly and thoroughly caged as the exotic lion the menagerie just across the Princewater held. He could see such buildings out of his slip of window, which faced out onto the river rather than the green, and indeed it often provided the only form of entertainment he had. He also knew he was a prisoner for although he was being kept in the part of the Gard that contained the royal palace he was closely confined to these quarters. Not that he had much of a choice since his only exit was locked, but the Cardinal had cemented the reality of his captivity by recommending with a thin lipped smile that he stay put, "until the extent of the situation was clear".
That situation, Jace too had become aware of, for four days ago the appearance of columns and twirls of smoke just beyond the city walls denoted just how close the King's enemies had gotten. Valentine was effectively under siege in his own city; he had been forced to order the gates of Alicante closed and Jace guessed the lack of movement on the river in recent days implied it too had been blockaded.
None of which helped him sleep any better, or in fact at all, since the more dire Valentine's position grew the more dire his own position was. If the sight of his head on a spike was all that might be required to disband these rebels then he'd wager he would find himself experiencing a sharp pain to the back of the neck soon. In his heart of hearts he could not believe the man he still considered his father would sentence him facetiously or freely. However the same could not be said of his council, dominated as it were by Jonathan, Blackwell, Pangborn and the Cardinal, then filled by those who would not dare challenge them. Whatever the King's reluctance, his Council would happily kill him.
Out of sheer spite they may even hang him, since he had no title and could technically therefore die a common criminal's death. Although that would spare him the brutality of beheading, it was surely no mercy. The thought of his last moments being an agony of flailing limbs kicking uselessly at the air denied to his lungs was not a pleasant one. Not that any death was especially alluring to him, but at least a demise upon the scaffold was quicker than the gallows. And of course there was that boyish part of Jace that for all his wretched memories of war still craved that inkling of a warrior's death;his blood still sang for the fall of the sword or axe to end him as it might in the field.
Yanking now at the ties of the shirt at his throat and wrists, Jace anxiously quelled such thoughts and tried to suck in a breath from this foetid chamber, hoping that the air- stale though it was- might clear the dizziness from his mind. He had to keep his wits about him, having been unwillingly divested of his sword and knives long ago the only weapon he had to hand was his own mind, and he needed to keep it sharp now more than ever.
He had stripped to his shirt and breeches long ago, the dusty coat and doublet he had been wearing on his travels now slung over the end of the narrow bed supplied to him. These days Jace started wondering whether the heat of these rooms was part of a ploy to get him to talk. He was on one of the upper levels of the Gard, it would seem, and the bleakly plain rooms and stuffiness implied that there were no longer used to do aught but house the pieces of furniture, paintings and other bits of tat that had belonged to the Morgensterns' forbearers which no one had the heart or motivation to throw away.
It was difficult not to think of Clary, who would have tormented his mind anyway miles away in Paris, but it was impossible to forget that she was under the same roof as him again. Thoughts of her needled him, initially like an itch, and when he indulged them the scratching proved painful. He doubted she knew he was here or in such peril. He doubted that anyone knew he was here, as his request for writing materials and ink had been denied. That was another reason for keeping him here, rather than in the prison itself under lock and key. For that would require gaolers, more watchmen, and a true rats nest of fellow prisoners all of whom would talk. Keeping and interrogating Jace had to be done as covertly as possible. All of which gave Jace hope.
Although he may have no title he was still a nobleman by blood and that prohibited torture, but the more he spoke to Pangborn, and even the wilier Cardinal the more obvious it was that these men were grasping at straws in their attempt to link him to the rebel cause. Imaginary straws, not that that was of any account. They had no official charges to bring against him since they had no proof of any wrongdoing, other than what appeared to be rumours. So they spent their days in an endless, futile dance with the King's agents prancing around terms like "treason" and hoping Jace might trip himself up. They were relying on him to incriminate himself; to say something out of turn, to slip up and tell them something about the rebels plans they did not know, or acknowledge any contact with the known leaders. Anything at all that could be used to accuse him and conduct a proper examination.
It was exhausting, trying to spy their subtle traps and circumnavigate them, then keep his cool and composure and measure every word. These rooms were uncomfortable, but not unbearably so, Jace reminded himself, prising his hair off his damp forehead.
Yet it was difficult to stay sharp when he was struggling to sleep and when he did slip into his dreams they were full of nightmares.
But he could do it, he could survive this. Above all he had to hold on to the fact that he was innocent. He had no knowledge of any seditious plots other than the scraps Pangborn and Enoch fed to him. He had never planned or encouraged a rising against the King. He had not colluded with but fired on those rebels at Oldcastle, to save the King's daughter no less. He was a loyal and servant of the Morgenstern family. He was a diplomat for Christ's sake! Arguably the most skilled of courtiers. God help him, he was the best in Europe, a nonpareil for his age. There was nothing he could do better than weave a story, the very finest tailor of tales. He would happily weave them the words they wanted to hear. True, he was known for letting his mouth lead him onto trouble, but he could also talk his way out of a monarch's displeasure and calm the storms of his wrath. He had done it before, and for the sake of his sanity he reassured himself he would do it again.
Jace had told himself he had not wanted to die in the dust of Gavinana and he stoked that old spirit of defiance now. If he was destined to die a felons death then he would make damn sure if was for a crime of which he was guilty.
He also draw encouragement from the signs that his interviewers patience was starting to wear thin. Pangborn more so, as he had on the most recent occasions been visibly strained, and not just because the stuffy loft suite was wreaking havoc with his already struggling sinuses. They were under pressure too, the pressure to bring results. Jace knew that Jonathan Morgenstern in particular was chomping at the bit to see him conveyed to a cell in earnest, and from there to a pike that he could wave at those who challenged his father's reign.
As a parched man lapped at the water of an oasis he'd crawled to Jace tried to savour that. He had held out this far, just a little longer and he would make it. Just another day and the rioters would disband. One more night and somehow Clary would learn of this and intercede on his behalf. She was first lady at this court, she must have the queen's right to beg for mercy. If she got down on her knees and publicly pleaded with her father for his release, Valentine could gladly set him free without losing face.
Currently the creak of a door and the ensuing groan of ancient floorboards under foot warned Jace that the next session of questions was approaching. On cue, the jangle of keys heralded the entrance of the cardinal into the same room as Jace. Alone, save for the weasel of a scribe who scratched down every utterance. That was not for the best. Pangborn was the one who was more ruffled, whose whole position relied on the King's favour and therefore was a thousand times more desperate to provide Valentine's Council with the Herondale scapegoat they needed. Enoch was an esteemed clergyman and a prince of the Catholic Church in his own right. Regardless of what Valentine needed, Enoch had the Vatican behind him. Not that this meant he was any less eager than his comrade to see matters here settled, but it made him less perturbed by the lack of progress and Jace's frustrating verbal evasions.
Enoch could play the long game. Jace strived to reassure himself he could too.
With another of his signature bland smiles the cardinal stationed himself at the table that took up most of the room, his crimson robes spreading out around him. "Please, Monsieur Herondale, sit." Silently, Jace obeyed the invitation, taking up his own position on the opposite side, the table now acting as a thin wooden barrier between them. As he did each and every time he found himself in the positon, Jace began by sizing up his opponent, as he might do before a dual. This was as much a sparring match as anything, with the blades simply being replaced by tongues.
Enoch was not a particularly striking man in his appearance. Keen grey eyes, and equally greying hair though he was not an old man- if Jace were to hazard a guess he would say late forties. There was something of a hook to his nose, so he somehow reminded one of a bird of prey and the bony, talon like fingers that were loosely clasped and laid before him on the table were soft, though laden with bright rings. This was a man who had lived in holy comfort all his life.
Now what he had heard of the man must be considered. Enoch was the sort of spiritual advisor to the King who was far more concerned with the political. He may pray for his soul to reach heaven, but the good cardinal was certainly a man for the present and the body. Not that he was consumed with bodily pleasures, as it happened he was one of the few clerics who was not known to be gluttonous or lecherous, but his vice was unquestionably avarice. He thrived off the tithes the Idrisian faithful poured into his Church and was just as grasping as every other man at the council chamber, and twice as effective. He made a fortune off the King too, since he had a nose for money and an eye for property, and was a canny financial guide for His Majesty too. None of which was useful to Jace, who had no way to bribe him. He knew that the Cardinal had grand hopes for his personal position too. He had come to court as a shrewd bishop a decade ago, had soon become part of the King's inner circle and had been elevated to Cardinal five years later. In recent years he had formed a firm alliance with the King's son, whose ruthless response was just the one Enoch required for tackling the new threat which challenged the church (which all but acted as his own personal mint) from the inside. Jonathan's merciless and ceaseless pursuit of heretics and his cleverness in revealing a way to make money from it had him eternally indebted to the cardinal. Knowing this did not soothe Jace's nerves, which were racked by this interrogations even if his body were not.
In the silence which stretched on a bell chimed somewhere in the city. Jace had long ago given up on trying to calculate what hour of the day it was. Evidently deeming that his clerk had enough time to prepare himself, Enoch began. "How are you, Monsieur?"
Jace pried his chapped lips apart, "Much the same as you found me this morning, Eminence." Discomforted, anxious, utterly innocent...
Although there seemed to be no pattern as to what time of the day his questioning might commence Jace knew there would be at least two and as many as three daily. Given that this one-today's second- was conducted in what appeared to be the late afternoon, Jace wagered he would have another later. The Cardinal smiled again without a hint of warmth, the coolest thing in this cursed room.
"Remind me, what cause brought you to Idris in the first instance?"
Jace blinked, "I was instructed by His Grace the King of France to lead a diplomatic mission." The Cardinal's lips twitched, as though it had not been the answer he had been expecting. Admittedly, in the section of his mind that was semi-hysterical already Jace wanted to blurt out that he had come to rouse the discontented and usurp the King after all.
"Be more precise," Enoch purred in that low yet dulcetly powerful voice, reminding Jace of the grand pieces of oration that were his Masses. He nodded to the clerk and the papers that fanned the table. The scribe reached over and dunked his nib in the nearby inkpot niosily in anticipation, the normally calming and familiar sound now taunting Jace. He made himself hold the cardinal's stare, "I was to negotiate the Dauphin's marriage to the Princess Clarissa."
"And what think you of the Princess?"
Holy Hell. This was new territory. "I am sure a consultation of my letters to King Francois will reveal my opinion of the lady, which is very high indeed." As though you have not scoured every piece of my correspondence. He smiled as sweetly as possible, "I thought her a fit mate for my master's son- God rest his soul- in every way. Your Eminence, no praise would be enough. She is a credit to a mighty House. I would not have expected any less given her lineage."
"You and the Princess grew rather close. Many have remarked upon it. As a matter of interest, one of her ladies mentioned you had rather privy conversations in her rooms. She singled you out on more than one occasion. Why so, monsieur?" Jace was no longer sweating solely due to the heat. It was enough to make him want to open the windows and risk the reek of the city in these summer temperatures, though he knew they were sealed shut. Needlessly, as from this height any escape plan would be botched by Jace's inability to survive the drop.
But what the devil was this devil doing questioning Clary's ladies? Had he Valentine's blessing to inspect her household? Was the Princess herself under scrutiny? Even as all this whirled and clashed in Jace's mind her forced himself to speak rationally, "Her Highness and I grew up together. We had many fond childhood memories to share."
"And that was all you spoke of?"
"Beyond that we spoke only of the Dauphin. She wished to no more of the man she might marry, naturally."
The Cardinal tutted, and the slowly setting sun sent rays slanting through the arrow slit window. The light caught the gold, ruby and pearl crucifix swinging from Enoch's neck. The bolt of brightness hurt Jace's eyes.
"Yet you admit she singled you out. That the two of you grew intimate. Especially so in the wake of your contact with the Oldcastle rabble."
"She was attacked at Oldcastle. I helped her escape. A feat his Majesty himself has recognised and personally expressed gratitude for. Your Eminence if you would but let me speak to the King-"
"That will not be possible," Enoch snapped abruptly, all trace of his plaintive persuasion gone. He then hastened to shroud his speech in the velvety coaxing that urged a confession once more, "Surely, you can see how that looks. As though you were getting ideas above your station. That you somehow miraculously extracted the Princess from a mob of people who are at present armed outside our gates is suspicious. An encounter no one can vouch for since Her Highness was unconscious at the time. That too, Monsieur suggests a different, damning intimacy. It appears to me that you knew these men. That you parleyed with them, perhaps as a friend. That you urged them to spare the lady so that you might personally foster sympathies amongst the royal household."
Jace's horror flared, "That is preposterous! I told you before, there was this infernal contraption of Sebastian Verlac's- he can vouch for me on that!" The moment the words left his mouth Jace recognised, too late, their folly. As though the young Earl, Jonathan's favourite lapdog, would ever back Jace's word over the Prince's.
Enoch knew it too, as he gave Jace a rather triumphantly sympathetic smile, "At any rate, none of the above answers the first question I asked. I enquired as to why you were in Idris in the very first instance, Monsieur. What brought you to Idris the first time, Jonathan Herondale?"
Jace was baffled, "I was born here."
Cardinal nodded with rapid approval, "Why?" He asked, drawing out the syllable interminably.
"Why is anyone born anywhere?" Jace snarled, hating that he failed to see where this was going, "It was, quite literally, an accident of birth."
"An accident of birth" the Cardinal echoed with silky sadness, nodding solemnly, as if they were the words he was reading off Jace's epitaph rather than his lips. Which Jace supposed he could well be.
"You were born in Idris because your father was Idrisian, is that what you are trying to say?"
Jace nodded slowly, beating down the desperate urge to shift his weight in his seat. It would not do for his unease to be that noticeable, since it would only encourage his adversary. So, much as he normally avoided responding so agreeably to these leading questions, Jace reasoned that to have an Idrisian parent was not a crime. So he made himself sit still and keep looking the Cardinal in the eye, even as his upper lip beaded with sweat and his hands began to tremor in a way he could only hide by clasping them tighter together.
"You spoke earlier of the might of the King's House. Would you care to enlighten me as to which House you were born into?"
"Herondale," Jace forced himself to say lightly, and as nonchalantly as one might call out the colour of a horse's coat.
"An old family yours, is it not?"
"I believe so."
This was a new tactic, one Pangborn had adopted earlier, but less effectively; trying to get Jace to acknowledge his bloodline. Trying to press him to say that he had more right to rule than Valentine.
"A very old one indeed. And a much celebrated one, at a time. Not necessarily warranted praise as far as most are concerned. "
Jace nipped involuntarily at the soft flesh on the inside of his mouth, to halt the surfacing retort at the last minute. The ensuing flinch of pain flashed across his face before he could stop it.
The Cardinal seemed elated at this indication of his discomposure, the predatorily eager delight springing to his face now, accentuating the likeness to a bird of prey that Jace had first noticed in his thin talons of hands and hooked nose. The killing blow had yet to come, Jace reminded himself, and forcibly battered down the fresh crest of a wave of panic. He had said nothing that could be held against him.
"Please, Monsieur. You need not hold your tongue. Speak to me I implore you; I am here to listen."
"There is nothing of consequence I could say." Jace snapped back.
"I am also the one here who is fit to deem what is or is not of consequence." His expression darkened, thick grey brows swooping down, "And I am growing rather tired of the sound of my own voice. I am not the one whose words matter at this moment."
Silently, the addressed guided his index finger around the rim of a dip in the wooden table before allowing his finger to slide into it. "Very well. You wish for me to speak of my father? I will do so. First I must ask, Your Eminence, that you will consent to hear my confession."
While the clergyman, to his credit, managed to hold his expression to a semblance of calm, the clerk at his shoulder looked fit to propel himself out of his stool with excitement. Jace peered at the cardinal in what he prayed passed as a convincing facade of the meekly desperate penitent hoping in his naivety that under the pretence of the sought sacrament of reconciliation his professed guilt could not be put before a court. The confessor was supposed to be sworn to silence, after all. This one he knew would only be too glad to pour every phrase of his professed sins into the King's ear. Good.
"The one who bore the name Herondale is just that- a name to me. I have seen no paintings, no writings, nothing of him. As far as I have been concerned, the father who holds my filial love and obedience- besides the heavenly one- is His Majesty himself. For it was he who raised me in his own household, put a roof over my head and a pen and sword in my hands as I grew and saw to it that I could use both adequately." The already pale fingers facing Jace's whitened further as they were clenched tighter. The gold and jewelled rings lining them stood out in stark brightness by comparison. Before his interrogator lost his patience entirely Jace dropped his head in the universally understood demonstration of shame, dropping with it a tantalising titbit of a guilty conscience; "It is there that my true sin lies. For I have broken one of the oldest and most sacred laws. One of the very Commandments: Honour thy father."
Reeled in, hook and all. Enoch leaned forward with haste, the sudden movement sending the crucifix at his neck swaying like a great golden pendulum. Jace amused himself internally with the imagining the cardinal being yanked in on a fishing line, flapping and flailing about helplessly in his bright red robes like the trout that were dragged from the Princewater and served at the King's table each Friday.
"Go on, my son."
Now Jace led the dance. He lifted his head again and drew a countenance of utter misery around him like a cape, "For in my unswerving obedience to King Valentine I have betrayed the memory of the man who gave me life." He dropped the curtain on his little performance, "Yet I cannot help but return the affection of a poor sinner to the man who loves me like a father." He allowed the ending of his final pronouncement to darken with a threat, drawing his tongue over his cracked and dry lips.
The cardinal's patience had run out. "Be thankful that the King may well continue to consider you with such fondness. It could be all that might save you. If I were you, Jonathan Herondale" –his tone was so clipped and chilly that despite the continuing oppressive heat around him Jace half-expected the glass of the slice of window pane to freeze over- "I would think long and hard about all you have heard today. And when you have mulled that over you ought to compile a real confession and fling yourself on His Majesty's mercy." He rose without any further warning, and waved at the clerk to pack away his things. What was to ensue was not to be recorded. "Herondale, you have a way with words, that much is clear. Words mean both nothing and everything, depending who hears them. You paint yourself as the very picture of innocence. Perhaps that visage is convincing because it comes from sincerity, but while I think you many things, a fool is not one of them. You have made some powerful enemies at this court, you must understand." Jace's fists clenched uselessly at his sides with the warning, and he waited with baited breath. This was not a friendly caution, nor was it in the cardinal's interest to waste his breath stating the obvious. So he waited for him to get to the damn point. "It does not matter whether or not you are guilty, since the suspicion is enough. When an army of sorts marches on the King under your family banner it cannot be forgiven and forgotten. The rabble will be put down. That is not where this ends. Someone must be punished, and since you are the only one surviving with the Herondale name; those who seek retribution need not look very far."
With that parting shot Enoch made himself scarce, the dark satin of his slippers peeking from below the hem of his robes and hissing softly as their soft soles slid over the floor with his departure. Clearly he meant for Jace to simmer as he was, to mull over what he had just been told and come to the logical conclusion, that he ought to repent for the sin of his birth and hope Valentine was inclined to be merciful.
Again, Jace reflected that as demanding a parent Valentine was, he was not a heartless one. He had loved Jace as a son, and he would be reluctant to persecute him now. Valentine had taken him in, and loved him in a way no one else had or would. Whatever his bitterness about having been treated as the poor relative that was truthfully all he had been at this court, and while Valentine's abandonment of him still stung years later, it had brought him to Alec and Isabelle and for that Jace could only be grateful. Valentine was a cold man and a ruthless ruler, but that part of Jace that had once put every ounce of childish faith in the man still yearned to trust him now. All that Jace endured in these stifling days was but an attempt to appease the Council and his son, to demonstrate that something was being done and to divert attention from the reality of the royal family's helplessness.
However Jace had never been keen to allow logic to get in the way of his own damn stubbornness. He had held out this far. He may be a gambler, but that only extended to the card table and his life was the one gambit he was loath to make.
As the hours passed by and the room darkened from orange to blue to black and the three permitted candles were lit Jace watched the closest flame writhe around on the wick, gasping for air too in the tight, hot surroundings. He tossed it over in his mind again and again, some sort of demented coin flipping in his head, with the consequences of life or death stamped on either side.
Enoch had all but told him that evidence could be fabricated if need be, so it may well transpire that this metaphorical coin had death on either side. He would lie to save himself yes, but a lie here would kill him twice as fast. If he confessed there was no guarantee Valentine could stay the Council's hand. Even his old allies would hesitate to defend him, lest they end up on a scaffold themselves.
There was a reason that his family's arms were covered in their houses. He counted the ten paces it took him from the bed to the window, peering out the narrow slip of glass and straining to find the stars. He was too high up to hear the gentle lapping of the Princewater against the fortress wall, but near enough to admire the shadowy outlines of the boats that bobbed on the current.
So he would keep doing what he was doing, they would not tolerate his holding his tongue so he would lead them on as many infuriating little jigs around the question, reeling them in and flinging them out until his enemies lost their patience. That was dangerous too, of course. But Jace could bide his time. He did have some true friends, he reminded himself. Adamant could not be alienated if Idris' trade routes overland to France were to be maintained, and the Lightwoods would not take kindly to Jace's treatment should it be discovered. Admittedly, they were not the most powerful, but Clary... She might hate him for leaving her, and God knew as he had toiled mentally over that decision too he had been caught between the agony of knowing that it would mean hurting her and the relief that her returned animosity might finally set them free and. That aside, she would never hate him enough to stand by silently and watch him die. She would fight for him, if he could only get word to her. It might put her in danger too, since the Cardinal suggested she was already implicated in these falsehoods.
But she could well be the last hope he had.
Besides, were to be accused alongside him there was safety in numbers. Divided and uncertain they could easily be tricked; no one would dare accuse the King's own daughter directly, but if they could press or trick her into saying aught that might condemn Jace... At least together and as aware of the extent of what was happening as they could be, they might have some chance of standing firm, of his escaping this.
Scowling to himself Jace continued pacing, bouncing on the balls of his feet somewhat to try and lose some of the pent up energy that was rolling off his overactive mind.
He was Jonathan Herondale, and he was not going to die like this.
It was time to stop shying from that name, to cease cringing from all its connotations. He was done with all of that, for oddly now that his worst fears were all culminating to reality Jace was calm. His mind began to clear as the night skies did, the drifting gauzy darkness of cloud shifting to allow the moon to illuminate the city and Jace's on cramped quarters.
He was who he was, and there was no use in apologising for what could not be helped or changed.
Jonathan Herondale, Jonathan Herondale, it echoed as a mantra in his head. If it was to be someone else's war cry then he would make it his too.
Clearly someone out there believed his name should be worn with pride; that it was worth fighting for. And somewhere in the palace below him there was a girl who believed he was worth loving and fighting for too. She had not been begging him merely to stay that day in the stable yard, Jace understood now, but she had been asking him to allow her to fight for him too. Perhaps not with a pitchfork or dagger, but with her words, her heart.
There was nowhere to run any more, and his own name had caught up with him.
Jace was done with praying too, and now he tried to barter with the Almighty. If He could but help him get out of this, help him survive or in the very least give him the strength to fight on then he would keep fighting. If they wanted to kill him for being a Herondale he did not want to hate being one. He would never be a Morgenstern, and he would never know his real father, so why should he be anything like Stephen? He shared the same noble forefathers as the Morgensterns at any rate. They feared him as a lowly ambassador, because he was more than that, or rather he could be. The same horror that had once struck him as a boy in oversized armour gripping someone else's sword chimed in his skull alongside the bells of the many city churches. If he survived this and death tried to come for him again, next time he would have lived before it could take him. If God got him through this, if God granted him the quick wit and steel nerve to get himself out of here then there would be no more flight.
He would fight for his freedom and once that battle was won he would fight on until he had something and was someone. They would never catch him such a vulnerable nobody again. And once that war was won- well, a somebody would dare fight for Clary Morgenstern too.
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Even before she was accosted, Isabelle had not been having a good evening. Not that she imagined anyone trapped in this kind of situation would find it particularly fun. The courtiers were less than their usual effervescent selves: they spent their days melting under the heavy jewelled chains and many layers of their expensive clothing as they hurried to nowhere in the Gard's narrow corridors and turreted rooms in a panicked frenzy of potential plans. Then their nights subsequently passed in a frenzy of quaking worry that the peasants might sneak in and murder them in their four poster beds.
The Gard was designed for two purposes: security and ceremony. It was compact, ornate and old, with centuries' worth of treasure stored within walls that had been buffeted by countless attacks over the many decades it had stood. The layout was so different from the open, airy rooms of the south that Isabelle had become accustomed to over the summer, but she imagined that she had slipped back to the spiralling staircases and winding stone hallways with greater ease than many of the other courtiers. It was not unlike the layout of the castle she had been raised in, meant for withstanding a siege rather than royal comfort. Not that royals ever lived in discomfort, for here Clary did not have the usual assigned wing of rooms but instead had her own tower. The Morgensterns only stayed in the Gard when they were under threat and needed a residence that was easily defended or to be closer to their esteemed ancestors in this, the oldest of their palaces. It did not hurt to remind oneself of the importance of one's family. Yet, sadly, it was the former motive which had brought all of them here.
She thanked God daily that Jonathan had not looked at her twice since he had arrived, instead charging between the King's quarters and his own with a more placid demeanour than most of the court, but still with an obvious tension to his movements. He only paused his flitting back and forth from Valentine to occasionally collar the cardinal and ask a handful of quiet but demanding questions, about what God only knew. She avoided him as best she could, hoping that in itself would deter him from seeking her out, and tried to reassure herself that with a rebel army camped outside his gates trying to get her into his bed would be the last thing on the Crown Prince's mind. A few months ago, the lack of attention would have offended her, and Isabelle could not say in all honesty that any forthcoming offers from Jonathan would have been rebuked. But things had changed since then. Now she knew the Prince better she had decided she really would rather join a convent than be touched by him. As for Simon-
None of this had anything to do with Simon she reminded herself constantly and sharply. He was kind, and at times funny- though his jests were often amusing only in the sense that they were not amusing- but she owed him nothing. Yet the prospect of his finding out about Jonathan's courtship and being wounded... for some unknown reason the thought of his being hurt put her insides in a tumult of guilt and anxiety that was almost hurtful in itself. She did not dread his noting anything between herself and Jonathan because she felt she belonged to him in any way, or that he might have a right to be upset about it on such grounds. Nonetheless, she did feel that she had no right to harm him.
God have mercy, she did not deserve him at all, not with his inexhaustible compassion and willingness to talk of anything or nothing with her. Alec had taken to calling him "the pup" rather sneeringly because of his growing devotion to Isabelle. He was unwaveringly faithful in a world of faithless people, and while others saw that as pathetic to Izzy it could be admired. Alec had also taken to rolling his eyes the moment Simon's back was turned and muttering things to the effect of "where does she find them?" and "By Christ- a musician!"
Sadly, thanks to his profession Isabelle had not seen her puppy in days. The King was not in the mood for merrymaking, meals were contained to each individual's private quarters, he had not summoned Clary to his presence in weeks and Clary was not exactly keen to visit of her own accord. In effect, there was no more parties or celebration. While he had not been dismissed Simon was keeping out of sight and out of the way, as one had to until the King found a use for him here. Or her.
While the guards around the palace had doubled there was no freedom of movement anyway; no member of the royal household was to step outside of the Gard's walls unless they wanted their wages and pensions to disappear. Being contained even to your tower was trying, especially with Clary remaining listlessly miserable since Jace had left her and Alec beside himself with fretting that Jace had sent no word from the road.
"He could be dead in a ditch for all we know!" Her brother had exclaimed, bursting into her chamber late last night. Isabelle, sitting up in her bed, had been most unimpressed and deeply frowning while Julie had lurched upright gasping in horror. She had calmed her new bedfellow as best she could with the assurance such declarations in the small hours were not unusual in her family as she had slipped out from under the covers and into her robe. She had been cross with Alec too, as had Julie once she had gotten past her mortification.
While the sight of two young ladies in only their night attire would not appeal to Alec in any way the rest of the world was not to know that. However it underpinned his distress that he had been so desperate to see her he had forgotten that she was no longer alone at night. Julie was sombre and nervous even without an unofficial siege scenario- but she was much better than Kaelie.
Still, upon being roused for Mass the next morning Isabelle had not been in fine fettle, having been up for hours trying to persuade Alec that it was not in Jace's nature to die quietly. He would do it theatrically and anyway, he had nothing worth stealing, so there was no reason for his way home to be interrupted. But it was not like Jace to be silent on anything, not even if he and Alec had quarrelled before he left.
So the evening found her tired, worried and above all lonely. The company of her fellow ladies was utterly unbearable these days, the frightened ninnies wearing away at her already limited patience.
Yes, she supposed they had some reason to be uneasy, but for all their apparent determination these rebels were no match for the finely honed, castle forged steel weapons, tight discipline and experience of the King's own men. That Isabelle had to believe. No Idrisian king had ever surrendered the Gard in the history of its existence, and Valentine Morgenstern would not be the first. Her knowledge of Idrisian history was patchy, but Izzy had been told by Clary that although it had been under siege several times during the years of civil war which had won the Morgensterns their crown it had never been surrendered by its holders. And Isabelle was amongst its holders now.
Even if their odds were dire, falling to hysteria was certainly not going to help. And Isabelle Lightwood was nothing if not the mistress of her own emotions. So she would endure the stench of the rank city streets that drifted over the Gard's walls, she would endure the smaller, plainer portion of food served to her at each mealtime and even suffer the wan faced company of the fellow nobles, packed together as they were like fish in a barrel praying they were not shot at. Whatever might come, she just had to endure. Not that this resolution never wavered, and there was enduring the near weeping of her fellow noblewomen in principle and physically having to sit in Clary's outer chamber with them.
Since Clary seemed to find a solace in prayer that Isabelle could not (her own poor grasp of the Latin language rendering the long methodical mumbling mind numbing rather than reverent) she took Clary's recent bout of anxious novenas as the prime opportunity to slip away.
She found wandering the halls of the Gard soothing in a way, it was not a totally foreign construct to her home, and besides that she relished the thrill of exploration, of finding old forgotten routes, of running her hands over fading yet still breath-taking tapestries, and the finely wrought yet ancient golden candlesticks. The royal suites were a clamour of colour; as a result of the curtains, carpets, paintings and so forth which crowded every available surface. Her mother had an insatiable appreciation of these finer things, and back at Adamant she had spent years collecting such items, the favourites being from her native Idris. She had imparted to Isabelle a similar joy of such finds, alongside a knack of sorting the well preserved and valuable from sentimental tat. Her parent's union had been an arranged one of political convenience, but once upon a time it had been a happy one and her father had contentedly indulged in Maryse's hoarding of antiques. There was a kind of homecoming in this magpie's nest of a palace, one that held the kind of peace a return to Adamant never would.
But Isabelle's favourite haunt, as discovered on their previous stay, was not in the endless galleries of finery but beyond the main building; up upon the highest turret. There air was fresher up there, for a start. And the view was spectacular, out over the many walls, battlements and even the moat. She could see the city itself, marvelling in the sight of the little ant figures of its people hurrying amongst the many thatched roofs, and at night the bobbing fires of the city below was also impressive. On a clear day she could see for miles, at times convincing herself the vague iridescent band of silver sometimes caught below the horizon was Lake Lyn all the way to the south. Even once darkness had descended there could be no boredom as it was possible to survey the blanketing darkness shot with threads of silver that was the skies.
Someday she would like to stitch it into a tapestry, that night sky. Its vastness brought with it the realisation that all of mankind was minute in the context of creation and she no longer felt alone in her insignificance. Mayhap Clary could outline the design with her skill at sketching and Isabelle would bring it to life with the keen eye and steady precision with the needle that was her own talent. Of course that would require a hefty purchase of silver thread; and her mind was buzzing as she tried to scramble together the estimated arithmetic and decide which guard might be persuaded through flirtation to venture out in the city and acquire it for them.
She had so thoroughly diverted herself on her climb upwards that she did not see or hear the Crown Prince until he barrelled into her on the narrow winding staircase and ensnared her waist with his arm. These steps were yet more proof of the Gard's military purpose; they were just wide enough for one man or woman to climb up at a time, and the ascendant found their right side grazing stone and barely avoiding the nearby torches upon the walls. That was intended to prevent an attacker from having full use of their sword arm. But when your attacker came from the step below you and did not require a sword, then you were in trouble.
Before the stunned gasp could escape Isabelle's lips his body was against hers, flush. Every crevice of air between them was sealed, and as the force of his pull flattened her skirts against her legs Isabelle's eyes shot down to the slim hand which was now pressed against her stomacher. They were startlingly similar to Clary's, she noted; the same slender digits, eerily identical sloping knuckles and joints under snowy skin. Only distinctly more male: larger for a start, and flecked with little scars instead of freckles.
Her suspicions as to her accoster's identity were all that stopped her elbow crashing into the softer flesh at his stomach that might restore her freedom, and those suspicions were proved by the low seductive voice by her ear; "Hush, don't scream." She felt the edge of his smile against the tip of her ear, "Not yet." The warmth of his wine scented breath sent invisible insects crawling across her skin.
Drunk. Perfect.
Not that she could rely on the Prince to unhand her if she asked nicely or even demanded it. Isabelle's mother had always impressed upon her that the male nobility of any court were often gentlemen in name alone. All the same, she doubted she would be in the current predicament were he sober. He was far from the only one in this keep who found the best method of soothing their fraying nerves was to drown their worries. If the rabble outside their gates did break through they would find this court easy pickings.
Jonathan may have caught her from behind but there was no hope of moving forward. His lover's embrace held her tighter than a vice, the silver and shot black of his sleeves glimmering faintly in the dull lighting of surrounding torches against the ebony licks of her hair and pea green bodice.
Even should she cry out for them the watchmen who normally appreciated the sight of her on their turrets were not about to wrest her from the Crown Prince's grasp. Instead Isabelle kept her breathing as even as possible and let a teasing laugh wring itself from her throat.
Flirtation was her favourite game and she would play it until he loosened his hold. Convince him to continue with the thrilling chase. She would make whatever empty promises for the future she had to so she might walk away tonight.
"Highness, there is no need to creep after me like a cut-purse."
"Every need," he growled, tugging her hair away from her neck where his mouth now hovered, not with care. The strands jerked at her scalp and her dangling earing clattered at the skin below her lobe. "I have tried asking you nicely Isabelle, dozens of times. You will not take my gifts, nor my letters. I can but assume you want to hear, to feel-" His hand crept across her waist- "what I have been saying."
"My lord," she started in protest while she shifted her weight as best she could with her limbs still trapped against his. Her instincts were still howling at her to fight, to flee- to do anything that prey ought to do while caught in the predator's claws. But she was not some bleating doe. "What, pray tell, might my silence suggest to you on the topic?" She kept her voice playful, but gave a tentative tug to see if he might let her go at that. No such luck. She lowered her voice and made it firmer; "Mayhap that Your Highness should not take what he wants before I am willing to give."
His teeth grazed her bared neck, then came the muted hiss of her skirts as they were lifted off the worn stone steps and upwards, then further upwards still. Isabelle jerked uselessly in his hold. "I am the Prince of Idris" he slurred somewhat, but his hands on her never fumbled, "It is a pity you are not eager to entertain me this evening. You would have been delightful that way. But even like this you will be more than satisfactory. I never did care for anyone's permission, and I am sick of not being heard."
To her horror Isabelle felt her throat contract and the beginnings of a sob scrabbled at the back of her throat. She was used to being one step ahead. She was always darting just out of reach, the one every man wanted but could not have and would never touch. She was ever in control. Not like this, not this-
Jonathan spun her round, and she took advantage of the movement to thrash unrestrained, abandoning any pretence at leading him on, or willingness. Regardless, her shoulder bones struck the aged, icy stone and the shock and pain of the contact knocked the breath out of her lungs. Perhaps she could be glad of this sudden cold, if it numbed her to what was happening.
"Now, now Isabelle," seeing his face, the primal lust in his eyes and the sneer on his lips as she heard his voice; it all sent undiluted rage crashing through her and she tried to writhe out of his grasp again. "Why the struggle? There is nothing to save here. I cannot imagine there is any dishonour in this. Nothing you haven't had before."
His right hand went to his waist, to the ties of his breeches and Isabelle's own hand shot free almost under its own compunction until she slapped him across his face as hard as she could.
It must have hurt for the whole side of his face bloomed red, cheek lighting up like the sacred heart lamp while Jonathan cursed ferociously. The emerald stone of her ring had nicked his face just below his left eye and oozed a little steam of blood as Isabelle looked on with grim delight, his blood more black than red in the torchlight.
"Bitch," he hissed, his spit spraying in her face as he shoved her back to the wall with all his might. His hand now closed on her throat, rage visibly mixing with desire. He still had a fistful of her dress, and yanked it up half an inch. Despite the pressure on her throat Isabelle found she could still speak, making her own face mirror his fury, a look that might well slice through cold steel with ease. "Try to touch me like that and I will cut your balls off..." Her eyes flickered down slowly, not from fear but genuine disgust and contempt. She finished sweetly, "Although your snatching at women in dark and empty corners does raise the question as to whether you possess any."
Shock chimed across his horribly handsome features at that, and a harsh little laugh sawed itself free of Isabelle and must have bit into him, for he choked it off with tightened fingers.
"How dare you-"
She finally let her free left hand grab at his wrist. Though strength might be lacking in her weaker hand she still had plenty to sink her nails in deep enough to at the very least to mark him, and certainly as she applied maximum pressure for his fingers to free her throat.
"How dare I? You are about to try and force yourself upon me Jonathan Morgenstern, so I fail to believe that the usual courtly manners apply. I am no longer required to have manners. You certainly don't, and I am very glad to divest myself of mine." She sucked in breath "And I mean it. Do it and my brother will kill you. He will not give a shit who you are, Highness."
"Kill me?" He echoed, scathingly incredulous, "You and I both know Alec is not much of a man. Certainly not in the traditional sense. Besides, I think that these days his perversions keep him thoroughly occupied." The grin he fired at her now made her want to kill him herself.
Sadly the sharpest item on her was an ivory hairpin, so she settled for a sharp knee to the groin.
"It would appear I stand corrected" she spat out upon the contact which had him doubled over gasping, even as she wished to God that she did possess the brute strength or the weaponry to run him through. She let herself pretend she had as he crumpled in on himself, making it easy for her to shove him aside and bolt down the steps breathlessly. She might have feared the consequences of her actions had she not been sure that the humiliation of what he could remember of this night would keep the Prince's tongue still on the matter.
In fact there was nothing much on Isabelle Lightwood's mind except putting one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible as she slid and stumbled over her own hem on the descent. Then she ran for all she was worth.
-000000000000000-
Jace had awoken to hundreds of scenarios in dozens of different ways. He'd been kissed awake by lovers he did not want to remember, or by the proprietor of the establishment after nights he could not remember because his sprawled form was preventing the sweeping of the floors. Of course he had also been shaken out of oblivion by an incensed or excited Alec on more than on occasion and his own personal low had been being lapped awake by a strange dog.
This however was the real rock bottom.
It seemed that although Pangborn had been sent to do the honours it was not for the sake of another of their delightful interviews. After the blunt, nasal command that he dress himself fully and quickly the Master Secretary stood off to the side, leaving a puzzled Jace to reluctantly don his dusty, discarded doublet even though he was already sweltered, and try his best to tidy his hair. He judged from the wan lighting it was sometime around the ninth hour after noon. He had only slept for around an hour.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He now attempted to drawl while Pangborn apathetically watched him lace his boots.
"His Majesty demands your presence." Jace blinked, abandoning the ties mid knot and staring hopefully at his visitor. Had his prayers really been answered? Pangborn continued, "He is in the middle of another meeting of the Privy Council. It would appear we have finally found a use for your silver tongue."
Try as he might Jace could not press him for any more tid-bits of information than that. It would appear all he had gleaned from his previous interrogations would be all he had to go on, walking into the bear pit bare handed, so to speak. That aside, the walk there itself was almost pleasant, for having escaped that stuffy aerie the corridors below (while still being warm) were blissfully cool compared to what he had been living in. Passing a pane of glass that was cracked slightly open Jace could have wept as the faint fingers of a remnant of breeze caressed his flushed cheeks.
Too soon they were at the doors of the King's council room. There were impressive indeed, a mammoth oaken hinged structure with the biblical scene carved into them depicting the feats and failings of King David. Somewhere in that was a warning to the Kings of Idris, that even God's chosen David had his shortcomings and the misfortune of falling low, a cautionary tale that most of the country's sovereigns tended to disregard. As Jace approached it his eyes snagged on the corner of the wood which showed a young David squaring up to the giant Goliath, which to his surprise provided some stirrings of comfort. It offered proof that the most difficult tasks could be accomplished, that even when faced with the impossible those with pluck and faith could triumph. However short he might find himself on faith, Jace had proven time and time again he had courage. He summoned it now- told himself that God favoured the little man over the giant and walked straight backed and head high into Valentine Morgenstern's presence.
It was in fact into an antechamber off the King's main rooms he was steered as far as Jace could gather, having been led this far through the servant's steps. Such a hidden spine of staircase ran through all noble houses, the swiftest way for those who were to be efficiently unseen in their duties. Passageways that were eerily silent as Jace was trailed through them.
The same could be said of the chamber he entered, for a decisive hush fell at the appearance of the two men lingering in the doorway. Jace took stock of the layout of the huge table which dominated the room before him in the single glance he was permitted before he had to sink to the expected bow. Valentine sat at its head, naturally, and it was none other than an irate Jonathan who had pride of place at his father's right hand, then Starkweather. The vacant seat beside him had to belong to Pangborn. The rest of the table's right side was made up of John Carstairs (whose face Jace dared not too closely at) and George Penhallow. More noteworthy was that it was Lucian Graymark who occupied the seat directly to Valentine's left, flanked by the Cardinal, Andrew Blackthorn, Blackwell, a Lord Ravenscar who Jace only knew by face and name and young Sebastian Verlac; the freshest face. Jace knew that he had been promoted to the Privy Council only weeks ago through Jonathan's influence to fill the vacant seat which had appeared upon the death of Kaelie Whitewillow's old husband. A juicy reward from the Prince to his bosom friend for some morally apprehensible thing Jace was surely better off knowing nothing of.
"Jonathan," the King greeted him with an invitation to rise in a smugly affable tone, though Jace could sense the mute horror of the other lords and the Prince's expression had soured from one of irritation to utter loathing, the glare he switched to Pangborn demanding an explanation. It would appear that His Majesty was the only one expecting Jace.
For once Jace found he felt exactly as Jonathan did, more than a little annoyed and completely lost. He had anticipated a private opportunity to beg for his freedom, and a chance to appeal to his father personally. There was no way that could occur in front of the entire Council.
Valentine pinned Jace with a stare and gestured toward the empty chair, the sapphire on his ring of state blinking up at the tense young man on the threshold. "Have a seat."
Jace had not paid much attention to the remaining seat, knowing as he did that the Council only ever consisted of ten of the King's inner circle. Usually they were the greatest of the realm's peers, or in the case of Starkweather, Pangborn and even Graymark who had been a fairly minor lord once, nobodies who had particularly impressed the King and whose services were valued. The eleventh seat was an honorary one, granted to the kingdom's heir on his eighteenth birthday. All in all, an extraordinarily small number of members for such an institution. Jace had encountered Kings who had up to 40 councillors to hand, but Valentine liked to answer to as few men as possible.
So Jace hesitated.
At which dawdling Valentine's gaze hardened, chips of obsidian now boring into the younger man, "Time is not a luxury we have at the moment, Jonathan."
Wordlessly and obediently Jace drew out the chair, its legs scraping unpleasantly in a reluctant yowl into the quiet before he dropped into it and tucked his legs under the table.
"Father, what is the meaning of this?" Jonathan snapped from the far end, not bothering to even pretend he possessed a shred of patience. There was a nasty new mark on his face, what looked like a raw scratch. Jace was certain it was deserved, however it had been gained.
"We need a plan of action." Valentine stated calmly without sparing his heir so much as a glance, but the edges of his voice were roughened from what might be frustration or nerves. Now that Jace's initial trepidation was wearing off he saw that there were red rims to the monarch's eyes which suggested they had been rubbed at a great many times and a wearied slouch to his shoulders. The shocking realisation that for the first time ever the King appeared discountenanced urged Jace to consider the table's other members. Sure enough, Jonathan's normally sleek silvery hair was also rumpled and the rest of the lords seemed similarly dishevelled or tired. Jace realised they had been sitting here all night, and God knew how many hours before that.
"Jonathan here has proven himself a man of swift wit and word as well as one of resource. And he had the most experience with these lowlifes, since he is the only one here to have faced them and prevailed. Therefore I would hear his opinion on the matter."
A muscle in Jonathan Morgenstern's cheek jumped at the explanation, "You do not need any further opinions on the issue. There is only one course of action, the one I have outlined to you." Ah, so that would explain why the young royal's nose was so spectacularly out of joint. This was personal, or at least to Jonathan's petty mind, as any dismissal of his suggestions were an intentional slight by Valentine to make him feel inferior and useless. Not that Jace did not know how frustrating it could be to be swept aside by His Majesty, but he was equally as exasperated by his rival as Valentine seemed. It was the merit of the plan which mattered, not the man who proposed it. Any grown man ought to have seen that.
All stony gazes now weighed on Jace once more, the King's heaviest.
"I would know the matter at hand before I formed an opinion on it."
Valentine waved at Graymark to speak, and the chosen lord chimed dully, "There is a rebel army, hundreds strong, surrounding each of the city's main gates as we speak." He gestured to the map of Alicante which was sprawled before them, five main points marked. "Yet we understand that the bulk of their force is camped by River Gate and Merchant's Gate," He pointed to each of the thoroughfares on the map. Jace snatched back a curse at the first revelation, the River Gate was the closest to the Gard- indicating that these men knew exactly where to find their King. As for the Merchant's gate, it was easily the widest of the gates in the city's walls, designed to allow the bulky carts of farmers and lines of livestock access to the city markets, which then suggested they knew where to strike to get the most men possible through. This was no amateur rabble.
Lucian pressed on tonelessly, "It goes without saying that it is at those points our defence is centred. The one who has emerged as their leader is some Jacque Tiller, an Oldcastle native and a complete non-entity until recently. He is with the group by the River Gate."
Jace knew better to ask where all this information had come from.
"Those by Merchant's Gate are headed by a Sir Thomas Highsmith, also a nobody and one of dozens of country knights who rallied to the cause. He is not in the first flush of youth either, unlike Tiller, but a veteran fighter who has the experience of a successful military career in His Majesty's own army to boast of. He is well into his fifties now- but as I say- is well accustomed to the waging of war."
Jace swallowed, chancing a flickering look up at motionless Valentine who stared back intensely, waiting still. "How are our numbers?"
"Cut off in Alicante? We would be lucky to patch together two hundred, relying heavily on the city watch. His Majesty's personal guard will not engage unless it is absolutely necessary. They are needed here to protect the royal family. Aid is on its way, every lord that has men to raise has sent promise of them on pain of death, but we have another two days at best until they arrive. This Tiller and Highsmith will know from their own scouts."
"So they will strike before that" Jace mused gravely, meeting Luke's uncharacteristically dismal expression. Luke sighed and shrugged, falling back in his seat, the lack of reply speaking volumes.
"There is no need for us to engage anyone!" Blackwell spluttered at the lapse in conversation, "His Majesty and his family are perfectly safe here in the Gard. We ought to pour our energies into the defence of these walls and wait until our supporting army arrives and chases them back to whatever hovels they came from!"
Spoken like a true aristocrat, Jace thought with burning bitterness, "They are going to breach the city walls!" He flung back twice as ferociously, appalled at the attitude he could see nestling into the minds of several of the lords present and the growing resolution tightening on the faces of Starkweather and Verlac strongest. They would move to save their own hides and let the rest of the world go to hell. Although he was not precisely astounded, Jace remained sickened. "You think they will book rooms in Alicante's inns and wait patiently for a rival force to arrive? They will sack Alicante in the meantime, burning, plundering and raping their way through our city! There are thousands of innocents out there, who it is our duty to protect!"
"We cannot slam and bolt the Gard's gates, then raise the drawbridge and leave them to their fate. It is un-Christian and cowardly," Luke rumbled in agreement.
"Thus we strike first," Jonathan hissed emphatically, leaning into Valentine as though closer proximity would make what he had to say more appealing, "We send our men out under the cover of night to slit every one of their commanders' damn throats before they even know we've opened the gates." He flung an upturned palm toward the King as though it were obvious, then slammed it back to the table with such force the whole structure shook, accentuating his following sentiment. "We treat them as you would any dog who forgets who his master is. You put it down!"
Jace's already rapidly waning store of patience ran bone dry, "Have you learned a single thing from Oldcastle? There are only so many times you can beat a dog down before it turns on you and tears your throat out!"
"What then would you have me do?" Valentine demanded, before Jonathan could flip that great table with his temper and charge for Jace with the intention of planting his fist in his face. Jace longed for him to try, but he forced his attention back entirely to Valentine, "What you need is time," he said slowly, looking to Luke for reassurance, "You believe two days would suffice?"
Cautiously Graymark nodded, "I pray so."
"Do more than pray," Jace fired back before he could stop himself, gaze shooting back to Valentine as his plan began to properly take form, "If you need time then you buy it. Parley with them. Send word to the leaders that they will be met with at a time and place of your choosing, I would recommend Tiller by River Gate since it is closest to here should the need for a hasty retreat arise. Then you make a show of listening to what they have to say and once they have an army at their backs they will no longer be so willing to attack, I daresay. They shall disband and disappear, while your act of mercy and obvious concern for their concerns will mitigate claims the commons are mistreated and that any pleas for justice in Idris will fall on deaf ears."
Valentine pondered it all in a frightening silence for what seemed an age before he loosed a slow, serpentine smile. "And should our spokesman's merciful offer of peace on our behalf be ignored and this mass fail to disband, then we show our wrath instead," he inclined his head slightly to the right and Jonathan as he added, "Under cover of darkness."
Jace's blood and adrenaline was still pounding through him, but he did register further disappointment at word of a spokesman. He had expected Valentine to speak to Tiller himself, leader to leader.
Yet his elation, childlike though it was at Valentine's recognition and pleasure that his plan be chosen, chewed rapidly away at his wariness and he failed to see that he had made a comfortable seat for himself: right where Valentine wanted him.
"We are glad you think parlaying with them prudent, very glad indeed. As we mentioned earlier you have obvious skill with that tongue, all controlled by that perfect kind of pragmatic and persuasive mind we require." His Majesty pressed a forefinger to his chin and smiled in earnest while Jace's formerly relieved heartrate began to quicken with dread at what he had helped unfold for himself. "God has shown His will, I believe. It is most excellent that you wish to talk to these men for it is to you they wish to speak, Jonathan Herondale."
-00000000000000-
A/N: Classic Valentine. As for Jonathan, I don't think Izzy hit him hard enough. You might be the future King of Idris Jonathan, but Isabelle is the queen of the bitch slap. If that encounter reminded anyone of a twisted recreation of Clary and Jace's first interaction and some other moments, then good. I am trying to present their relationship as the nasty flip-version of Clace's- all self serving lust.
But Jonathan whyyyy?! Because just like Jace he thinks himself unworthy of any kind of love- that would be your fault Valentine, of course. But unlike Jace, Jonathan believes no one would willingly want to be with him to the degree that he resorts to force, underpinning that having never had any sort of loving, meaningful relationship he can't comprehend how one would work, not really grasping anything other than his own loneliness and lust (same with the Jonathan of TMI and his Clary sister/queen obsession, though I did NOT want to go down that route with this fic). So in summation: Jace acts on his lack of self worth by trying to become someone of worth- which he wrongly believes he is not already. Jonathan has no appreciation self worth either, not in the ways that matter (ie. beyond his sense of entitlement as the Crown Prince) and takes the view 'well fine, I will behave in the vilest ways possible because why the hell not y'all already hate me/look down on me.'
No worries. I am not leaving you on that cliffhanger...