Actions and Words
A/N: Hello again! Not much I think I need to preface this chapter with if I'm being honest. For those who wanted a Clace reunion, I am more than happy to oblige- alongside the admission that things are getting progressively steamier between those two, as the final section will reveal...
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Eyes wide as the pewter plates she now ate her meals on, Clary surveyed the wreckage before her. From where she stood (or rather leaned fearfully) by the doorframe she could clearly see that an undeniably drunk, strange man clad in coarse wool and stained brown leather was tottering around her inner chambers, taking large, swooping swigs from a bejewelled goblet.
The noises of distress had been coming from a horrified Helen Blackthorn, whom another equally simply dressed man had a firm hold of. His dirty, bruised hands stood out garishly against the finely styled spring green satin of the Duke of Lyn's eldest daughter as she tried to push the vagrant away from her. The only saving grace was that Helen was doing a rather admirable job of keeping him at arms-length, aided by his being as equally intoxicated as his companion. What caught Clary's attention next was the obvious fruits of his plunder; the blue satin and fur trimmed cape he had adorned. Her cape.
At the jolting indignation of that observation, Clary forced her eyes to scan the rest of the rooms around her. The chairs were upturned, table pushed ungraciously to the wall and the vase of summer water lilies upon it had been smashed upon the floor- what had once been their sustenance now forming a shallow, watery grave. Chests had been opened thoughtlessly and now the handful of men flitting about her rooms like greedy hornets had even laid hands on her candlesticks. One of them dared haul a costly tapestry off the wall and started to flounder and flail under it as it came down. She swallowed the lump of panicked disgust in her throat as she realised the plunder had not ceased there and her very bedchamber was now open to scrutiny. Another two tipsily giddy intruders, younger than the others -one of them could not have been more than fourteen- were wrestling her bedsheets between them in a vile tug of war. Maia meanwhile was bolting about the rooms and trying to salvage what she could, her arms already clinging to Clary's engraved box of jewels. Some of her youngest maids were weeping where they cowered in the corners.
Clary forced her cramped, anxious hands to loosen on the door handle and stepped into the room, not that anyone had noticed. She advanced inwards, counting five or six intruders in all. She made it no further before her limbs were seized in a wretched trembling, and her heart sped unforgivably. These were the rabble of enraged faces that had haunted her nightmares, it was their sneering hatred that had almost killed her before and this time there would be no Jace to save her.
Where in hell was Jonathan? The men at arms who were charged with the protection of her life? Every scraping laugh, every clink of metalwork grabbed and rip of rich cloth seemed magnified in the closeted space. The sixth suspected vagrant appeared from the doorway to her inner rooms, sweeping the door open with an unholy bang.
Dear God, nothing was sacred. Her beautiful burgundy bed-curtains with their lovely golden brocade fringing had been torn down and were now piled inconsiderately in the arms of a man who could well be a sheep farmer. In addition to that the bared mattress was blatantly sullied with muddy footprints, while her very undergarments were strewn carelessly across the floor. Rebecca appeared then too, having adopted much the same stance as Maia; wobbling after the intruders and grabbing what she could before it was grabbed. In spite of their efforts a small black velvet purse in which Clary had kept a few coins her father had given her was held upward in a ruddy triumphant fist, the gold and silver within jingling cheerfully and traitorously.
A chorus of coarse cheers sounded at the discovery and then astonishingly it was sweet, gentle Rebecca who started to curse in protest, "You villain! Unhand that you devilish-" She made to lunge for it only for her wrist to be caught and her arm twisted. Becky yelped, and her assailant laughed in her face. "Now now, my pretty one! Let me show you that better sport can be had from that dirty mouth..." He grinned and his company goaded him own with more bawdy comments and raucous, ribald laughter. Once again, too late, Rebecca tried to jerk backwards out of reach, but the stale, drunken mouth had already swooped down to hers. By some mercy she did lurch a retreat a moment later, grey faced and aghast. She stared at her still smiling attacker, with her eyes slowly falling to the fingers still locked around her forearm, before she loosed another gasp and crashed to the floor in a dead faint. By no means was her friend a woman of an especially delicate disposition, so it was the sight of her quailing which finally blasted bolts of heated feeling back through Clary's shaking body.
"What, in the name of God and all the saints do you suppose you are doing?" Initially she did not realise that the piping outrage had come from her own lips. The man chortling over Rebecca's slumped form gradually swivelled his attention to her. The distraction was seized by Maia to dart over to her fallen friend's side, Clary told herself that she had at least accomplished something as she herself now became the subject of torment.
Mercifully the hollering and looting of the others continued and it was only one of the men who advanced on her, as opposed to all six. These odds at least she could tackle.
The approaching scoundrel sneered at her horridly, wine stained lips parting to reveal yellowed teeth. "Something the matter sweeting?"
While her heart felt as though it had risen to her throat and was now battering against her vocal chords, somehow Clary managed to shoot out a retort, "The matter would be your presence in my chambers!" Belatedly she considered if the use of that single possessive pronoun "my" might prove detrimental.
It certainly seemed to awaken a gruesome, threatening delight in her foe's face. "Princess!" He cried with crass celebration, loud enough to halt the intrusive revels of his companions, "At last, the Morgenstern welcome we deserve."
Now he was close enough for her to smell his alcohol sullied breath, close enough to see the broken veins and ruddy colours to his cheeks. His voice dropped to a seedy murmur, and Clary swore that every square inch of her was erupting to gooseflesh, "By God do you look like your mother."
She dared not unlatch her eyes from the man before her, but noted that all other sounds of merrymaking had silenced and that no one in the room was not watching this exchange. She could hear the shallow, frightened breaths of her ladies and maids, alongside the anticipatory huffs of the rebels.
"What are you doing here?" Clary demanded again, letting her anger level her tone instead of raising it. She had first-hand experience of the effectiveness of her mother's cold, quiet wrath, so she tried mimicking it now.
He leaned closer still and for the second time that day Clary could feel the slow burn of bile creeping up her throat at the pungent reek of stale sweat that now mixed with the sour tang of wine. "What does it look like I'm doing here? I've come for some damn justice" he spat the final words and spittle showered her face. Between genuine nausea and fear Clary dearly wanted to be left alone in the privy, but she told herself that she would only achieve dry retching and that she had more pressing matters to attend to. If there was one thing she had learnt since leaving the convent in Broceland forest it was that pretence was the bread and butter of any courtier. Master false confidence and you could accomplish just about anything here. Expert falseness brought fortunes in her new world.
So she made her eyes flit around the chamber with an air of unimpressed cynicism, "And you thought to find it amongst my undergarments?" She punctuated the scathing enquiry with a sole raised brow, while Maia audibly had to choke back laughter as she helped a now conscious Rebeca back to her feet and several paces away from her assaulter. The momentary relief Clary felt sizzled out as the man before her reddened further, now from real anger. "We are a force to be reckoned with! The bringers of justice! And with the duke at our head-"
"The duke?" Helen interrupted with harsh anxiety, abandoning her forceful disentanglement attempts. Naturally, in her mind there was only one duke; her father.
"The Duke of Broceland," the rebel crowed, something close to smile splitting his glowering expression.
Clary ignored that, his haughtiness just as intolerable as his rifling through her most personal belongings, "The bringers of justice?" she scoffed, holding herself still and her back straight. Though the half inch the raised chin added to her height did not bring her even close to her opponent's level or make her intimidating, the movement did make her a tad braver. "So you wage war on women and a wardrobe? How grateful the common folk of Idris must be to know you will champion their rights."
There came a yelp of steel and a vague whistling in the air and the next Clary knew there was nipping sensation at her throat. Confusion mingling with surprise she attempted to look down, only to feel the cold bite of metal in earnest and the answering heat of her own blood starting to slide down her neck. Instinctively she jerked her head upwards and back from the dagger pressed to her throat, her stunned eyes consequently skidding back to her assailant. Mayhap he had not intended to really harm her for he had eased up the pressure on the knife, however still kept it against her vulnerable flesh. At the sight of her new danger one of the girls- she thought Julie- gave a little scream. Even drawing a sword in the Princess's presence was death, the act of drawing her blood was beyond unthinkable.
Astonishingly, the first person to vocally protest was another of the rebels. "Christ Will!" he cried into the gasping quiet- "She's near a child! And a mousy little thing, you dolt." At any other time that would have been insulting, but Clary was too afraid in that moment to care. Her apparent maturity and assessed appearance was the very last of her objections here.
"The mouse squeaks too much" Will snarled, temper unrelenting. "I'll keep her quiet until the duke gets here." Her blood was pounding in her ears louder than ever by now, as though it was aware some had been spilled. The slow ebb of it from her present wound sluggishly trailed down her stiff neck and began to seep into the lace file which peeped above the neckline of her bodice. Clary's stomach kept clenching at every little noise, so she heard with perfect clarity Helen's asking the question she herself wanted answered, "What do you mean by that?"
The more rational of the intruders present, the one who had reprimanded Will, replied. "We came through the gates at dawn and by now Tiller and the duke ought to have come to an agreement. They will come through into the city together in the second wave and take control of Alicante."
He sounded as though he believed it. Second wave... Good God. There were more to come.
The muscles in Clary's neck continued to ache with the effort of holding herself still, and she did not even attempt to face the speaker as she responded, "Clearly you do not know the duke very well. His purpose today is to act as the King's representative and I can assure you that it is our interests he works for today, not yours. The last thing he will do is take your part. He is one of us."
"Shut up," Will snarled, face twisting with growing irascibility. It reminded Clary of the tempestuous tantrums Jonathan used to have as a child, all stamping feet and shrieking. A sullen child being told something he did not want to hear. The sight sent some courage trickling back into her frozen form.
Once she had been afraid. But this was not Oldcastle, and she was not the weak, scared little girl she had been three months ago.
Not so long ago a boy had pushed a legend into her hands and told her she would be comparable to some of the greatest queens in the world, the women she had cherished as her heroines from the history books. He had become a man today, risking his life for her and her family. Well, she had started to grow up too. Now Clarissa Morgenstern relished the sting of battered steel and stared down the man holding it. This was her house, her rooms. No one could stride in here and make her feel small.
The knife dug into her once again, and Clary could feel her quickened pulse at the edges of the blade, as if the power of her own heart rate could push the peril away. "Go ahead" she snapped out, feeling the challenge as ferociously as she said it. "By all means, cut my throat. See how susceptible your duke is to your justice then. See how eager he will be to fight for you. He would not merely kill you for that, he would destroy you." The maniac zeal in her assailant's expression dimmed and Clary welcomed the success with a wide smile. This was not the dainty, sweet smile she painted on when speaking to her father or the court, oh no, this was a wide, savage grin that likely made her look half demented herself. "You are mighty heroes and divine retribution incarnate, so please. Seize an empty castle and murder a sixteen year old girl, after you have pilfered the price of a new book and her petticoats. How joyously your children will remember you then." She let her voice drop again, but the surrounding room was completely devoid of silence, so she knew that even the youngsters grappling with the tapestry over their faces in the corner could hear her. "For that is all you will give them to remember. Your failures. It will be a race between my father and the Duke of Broceland to kill you. Have you not tasted enough of His Majesty's vengeance?"
She knew by this ruffian's accent he had to be from Broceland, that and the reverence with which he spoke of the Herondale duchy. Even should he not be from Oldcastle itself, he had to be from nearby. Clary would not waste her possibly numbered breaths on empty blows, and recent experience had shown her just how well words could be used as weapons. The sound of Jace's admission he would not stay with her still smarted. By now she knew she had struck a tender spot from the loosening grip on the dagger hilt. The two of them kept staring at one another wordlessly, until Clary's fearful impatience flickered once more, "Unhand me you braggart!"
Flinching away from her rough demand, Will stepped backward and shoved his blood-speckled knife back into his belt. The removal of the dagger's press sent another course of hot blood from her nicked skin and Clary, normally so squeamish, felt her right hand drift upwards on instinct. When she peeled her fingers away from the cut they were stained dark red. Despite the grisly nature of the colour Clary found herself recalling her summers at the convent, when she had spent her free evenings picking blackberries for the nuns.
The shaking starting to return, thus Clary grasped at what remained of her composure and frowned at the assembled, wary men once more. Raising her bloodied fingers she spoke slowly, loudly and frostily in her reprimand; "No man is permitted to lay a hand on a princess of the blood without her express permission. And even then, it is frowned upon for anyone save my husband to lay a finger on me. Yet..." she moved her fingers slightly in theatrical disbelief, "I am bleeding." She paused for effect, finding in a perverse way that she was enjoying the sight of these brawny men starting to quail before her. They were like most men, puffed up on a sense of righteousness and too much to drink, but this group had broken in here expecting no resistance from a crowd of hysterical women and thought her belongings being easy pickings. They were here because they wanted to avoid the conflict and the main action. They had made a catastrophic mistake in injuring her, however slightly. It was not social justice any longer, it was treason of the highest order. They could believe her when she told them that even should they triumph, vengeance would be a mild word for what Jace should want should he learn they had harmed her- as it were true. "Now. I would say that you have less than an hour before His Majesty returns here with a host of highly trained soldiers, and I do not expect him to be pleased that his palace has been invaded. Then there is an army loyal to the King less than a day away from the capital who shall gladly rout you all from wherever it is you think you can hide in this city."
She took a step forward and to her delight the closest men stumbled back from her. She must look eerie, her already pale skin bleached altogether with the shock and strain of the encounter and a thin rivulet of blood slowly leaking down the arch of her neck and over the ridge of the collar bone. Still Clary kept speaking with her now mastered light, cheery threats, "That considered, were I you, I would want to make it out of here as quickly as possible. I would hasten from this city while I still could and far away from it in the hope that you outrun my father's wrath. Unless you all have a burning desire to be hung, drawn and quartered, that is. I imagine having one's entrails pulled out while you are still alive is marginally worse than almost having one's throat slit. It certainly takes longer. And of course, with a traitor's death that is arguably not the worst, nor the last thing to be suffered." The graphic, barbaric truth was the final shove needed to propel them toward the exit, little coins still falling free of stolen garments and crammed pockets, thudding noisily onto the now carpet-less floorboards and rolling back toward their mistress. "Oh-" Clary said drily, as if the final blow had just occurred to her- "And I should not imagine that I would want to be caught bearing anything that might connect me to the Princess's person or indeed to her rooms, once the hunt for the man who wounded me begins." It might have been funny had she not been dreadfully lightheaded, the manner in which they flung all their loot from themselves now as if it had just caught fire or the plague.
This entire campaign of theirs struck her suddenly as tragically farcical, once she beheld this unfortunate band of moral clowns speeding back onto the streets were they would soon be picked off like a scattered heard of deer there were, pursued by lions.
She almost pitied them their inevitable deaths.
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This new flash flood of alarm in the pit of Alec's stomach did not manifest itself immediately into action. He was frozen in shock and dread, watching the grotesque tableau of their approaching demise unfold. Above, the heron flag was slapped repeatedly by the rising wind and the noise seemed to mock him. Perhaps the Church was correct and he were a monstrous sinner, why else would God curse him with the fate of dying under the banner that had rallied their enemies in the first place?
It seemed that his new bout of panic attacks was not yet finished however.
"Alec I need you to stay here. For the love of God- for whatever love you bear for me as your brother, I need you to not move. Not a single inch, unless you wish to guarantee I die." The words were brisk, each syllable sharp with purpose.
Before Alec's lips dared even start to shape a protest or question- whichever might come first- Jace had dug his heels into Wayfarer's sides.
At least one lesson had been learnt in the past few minutes, the move Alec did dare make was to fling his weight to his stirrups as he stood upright in the saddle and then made a forward lunge for the bridle of Cartwright's mount. His fingers curled urgently around the leather straps, and though he could not look in any way graceful or heroic he succeeded in stalling an attempt to charge after Jace. God help them Cartwright was no longer on the edge; he had toppled off it long ago and was now being buffeted with waves and battered by boulders at the cliff's bottom. Having averted at least one more disaster, Alec allowed his head to snap back in Jace's direction.
His friend was cantering, alone, toward the assembled rebels.
Fearlessness personified, he looked as though he belonged in a tapestry. A one man cavalry charge, his voice booming out not a challenge but a command, a rallying cry. He seemed more than the valiant knight, breaking into a shaft of sunlight that turned his armour to a blistering silver and illuminated the gold curls which shone brighter than any crown. Whether stunned or bemused, it mattered not, for his opponents stayed their hands.
Not one arrow was launched, not a single soldier charged. Where there had once been bays for blood now was silence, and Alec knew that like him every man was holding his breath. They were waiting, waiting for Jace's next move, his next word. He drew up his warhorse just before the first of the enemy lines, still bellowing that sole command: "Hold!"
Remarkably, miraculously, they obeyed.
They were enemies no longer, Alec realised, shaking his head with dizzied disbelief. His friend was riding up and down the rebel frontline, still calling out orders and a promise. He was their leader now. Riding down that road without so much as a drawn sword he had put his fate in their hands and now they would put theirs in his.
The spell was finally broken by the scramble of King's men behind them and their disjointed, confused rumbling. "We need fall back, make for the Gard." Cartwright spluttered out hoarsely.
"Or engage. Attack while they're distracted" an older, scarred city watchmen suggested in a growl, alerting Alec to the fact that much of their own following had drawn level with him. "You heard the duke" he snapped out, swiping his eyes over the uncertain expressions, his low urgent voice making him sound older than he felt.
"But- he is with them now." Cartwright pointed out, face flushed and more beads of sweat popping up on his forehead.
"If he were with them" Alec began, in a low and intense voice which made him sound much older than he was, "Then do you imagine we would still be alive? They would already have attacked and killed us." Thus the tussle for dominance ended as quickly as it had begun, Jon's head dropping in a submissive concession.
"We hold" Alec repeated, loud enough that all the assembled royalists awaiting orders might hear. His voice sounded a weak imitation of Jace's unyielding, daring authority, but for his friend's sake, for all their sakes, he persisted: "We hold."
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Ultimately there was a thin line between the pragmatism of self-preservation and cowardice, no one could argue with that. Jonathan Morgenstern chose to believe that his actions veered more on the side of the former than the latter. After all, upon hearing that some of the useless, pox-ridden commoners that lived and worked in the Gard had opted to admit some of the rampaging peasant force of peasants into the fortress without so much as a protest, he failed to see his... strategic retreat as anything other than the wisest course of action. Engaging them would not have been admirable, it would have been suicide.
As it were, he was far from alone in his preference to continue living rather than dying stupidly, and how could the Crown Prince be expected to make a stand when none of his own men were not inclined to charge into battle? Besides, this had not been battle. A battle took place in open air, on a wide field and with grass/mud underfoot. There honour of a sort could exist as at least one's enemy was attacking openly. There was no honour in ambushing a man in his own home, therefore Jonathan was firmly of the opinion that he had no reason to reciprocate with any kind of honourable death. Surely dying was all that could be achieved. The Gard's corridors were built to render an attack futile; if your enemy should be already within, then there was no sense in charging in after them when suddenly you were the one at a disadvantage.
Instead, Jonathan had opted to retreat to the small soldiers' barracks within the Gard's walls with the group of men who had clustered around him. He did not particularly care if that order had been met by a look of disbelieving disappointment from the man who had brought the word that they had been breached. His primary concern had been getting himself out of the open and as many men as could be found prepared to make a stand where they would be strongest. It was not as though he had been lounging in luxury while the world went to hell, for the barracks had been one of the vilest places he had ever been in his life. It had stank of unwashed bodies, unemptied chamber pots and bad wine, not to mention the damn place had been barely lit. Jonathan was beginning to fear that he would have his eyes stuck in a squint for the rest of his days by the time he had emerged into the harsh afternoon light, having been told that His Majesty had returned from putting the fear of God into the county representatives in the Clave, none too pleased with their failure to restore order in the shires before things had even come this far. Then he had been hoping to harvest that fear and get his own forces to Alicante quicker. Their lack of ability to conjure up the army he needed so hastily had put their sovereign in a foul mood as it were, only for him to soon after discover his apparently impregnable castle had hosted a rebel party in his absence.
If Valentine had been angry before, he had now crossed the line into an unrestrained rage. The sound of his roared reprimands could be heard echoing down the hallways even levels below his rooms. Hence Jonathan's incessant mental repetition of his defensive arguments.
Approaching the King's quarters his son found himself throwing most of his weight forward into his toes, as though he were a child once more attempting to tiptoe past the doors time there could be no flight, not when Valentine had demanded his presence and implicit in that order lay the need for an explanation.
"The Crown Prince" the herald preceding Jonathan mumbled warily before making his own hasty escape. Fastening his clasped hands behind his back and fixing an innocently blank expression upon his face Jonathan marched into the room with solemn purpose, a good soldier reporting for duty.
"Your Majesty" the formality slid from his mouth easily yet softly, there was no need to stoke the already blazing temper by trumpeting his presence. Not even the man paid to do so had done it, for God's sake. Jonathan held himself in a low bow for as long as he could, only daring to glance up questioningly when no snapped order to rise was forthcoming. The bunched muscles in his back where beginning to whine in discomfort and he eventually had to move to alleviate some of the pressure.
Valentine was striding back and forth, either oblivious to or ignoring his eldest child as he continued to verbally flog the captain of the guard to within an inch of his life. His younger child was sat before the empty fire grate, her green eyes sharp with the accusation that Valentine had yet to voice. She looked even paler than usual and was capitalising on their father's preoccupation to express the unveiled hatred she levelled at him now, which had him shift an involuntary step backward. It may have been the second time in recent months he had left her to die, but to feel threatened by the little wench, that was utterly ridiculous. The girl was just that- a girl- and one whose head would not even touch his shoulder and limbs were scrawny as twigs at that. He had absolutely nothing to fear from her.
Oh but you do that acidic little voice in his head hissed once again. Every day these little doubts and fear corroded a little more of his confidence, his peace of mind. It had been months since he had first recognised Clary for the threat she was to his inheritance, yet despite all his schemes and one gruelling ride to and fro France he was no more secure than he had been. Yes, he had weeded out the prospect of a union with France, but that was merely a stay of execution. He could not dispose of every suitor in Europe and sooner or later Clary would have a powerful husband at her side and an army to buffer her own claim to Idris' throne if need be.
In fact, for all Jonathan had done and risked, his position was worse than it had been when she had first arrived at court in the spring. Now the realm had a Herondale duke once again and yet another alternative heir to the throne. Valentine could not acknowledge the legitimacy of his title without in effect acknowledging his claim.
With effort, Jonathan looked away from his sister's unspoken promise of vengeance and drew the frantic cogs of his working mind to a halt. Valentine had not acknowledged anyone; for all he knew Herondale had got the sword in the gut he deserved today at long last. Jace was not anything yet. Nor for that matter was Clary. There was a long, unpredictable road between the scratched signature on a betrothal contract and the murmured vows at the wedding alter. Anything could happen, and surely his little sister had used up her supply of good luck for quite some time, having escaped both Oldcastle and now this unscathed in any way that counted.
As Valentine barked a permanent dismissal at the solider before him, who scuttled away having all but soiled his breeches in his distress, caught in a haze of relief that he could walk away and horror that he was now unemployed. Jonathan felt the edge of a smirk teasing the corners of his lips at the observation and the anticipation that one day men who had seen multiple wars would cower before him just like that.
However, now of all times, he had the rare phenomenon of his father's undivided attention. "I would ask where in hell you have been Jonathan, but sadly I know the answer to that question." The great doors behind him shuddered shut while Valentine closed the gap between himself and his only son, "You seem to have grown a tad too fond of making yourself scarce of late."
Jonathan swallowed back whatever pathetic remark he had been about to make as his eyes flickered away from Valentine's at the derisive attack. He realised that the three of them were now unattended, more alone than they had ever been together. The closest they had come before were family meals in private with the King, during which fine food was consumed and nothing of any consequence was discussed. Now there were not even any hovering servants with jugs of wine whose presence might dissuade the King from unleashing the extent of his sickened disdain for his son, only Clary- who watched this all stiff-backed in her chair, likely with hungry delight rather than distaste.
Worse, now Valentine was not inclined to bother with his royal pronouns anymore Jonathan knew that this was personal. Father to son. The first of these moments, or rather the first times that Jonathan had noted the divesting of a royal persona between them, had been on the occasions of any kind of misdemeanour or shortcoming Valentine had become aware of. Then it had been clear that Jonathan was no longer the Crown Prince of Idris, but a boy who had behaved inappropriately. There was no formality for discipline. While Jonathan was no longer a child that could be pulled over the King's knee and punished with the rod or belt, there were still a great many, much worse things that Valentine could do to him.
"I did naught that was wrong, sire." He hazarded a sideways look into his father's eyes with the opening of his vindication only to be viciously interrupted-"Preciously Jonathan: you did nothing!" The vehemence with which Valentine hurled his disgusted accusation at his son chilled his insides and sent his gaze hurtling back to the floor. "While your sister and her women were left defenceless. The enemy were in the heart of our home and you did nothing to stop them. You made no effort to devise a strategy- oh no- instead you cowered and waited until I came back to clean up your mess. I left you here to protect Clarissa, to guard the very centre of our city, our seat of power: and you failed on every count. You beg for the opportunity to prove yourself and for more power- yet when I leave you with the most basic of tasks, to do the very least I would expect from a servant of mine, you disappoint." Each lashing of Valentine's tongue was as potently painful as a whip's, yet the King was not close to done- "Do you know what finally chased the bulk of those scoundrels out our doors? Your sister. She seems to have been the only one with a scrap of courage. Then my men had to round up the remainder of the drunken rabble while they raided the kitchens and stumbled over their own feet. "
Jonathan threw a glance toward Clary, seeing her properly and taking stock of the way her left hand was gripping the armrest of the chair and her right pressing a blood trimmed kerchief to the side of her throat. She had changed her gown from that morning too, now she was clad in a green which only made her skin seem greyer and the trusty yellow kirtle and hood which normally suited her so well. The arch of the gold over her head made her look like she was crowned with a halo, as the saints painted and hung in the chapels were. How appropriate. Saint Clary.
The continuing torrent of rebukes snapped Jonathan's awareness back to Valentine, "Meanwhile you- you maliciously blockheaded, craven fool- choose to conduct yourself in a way that makes me wonder if you are you my son at all?"
He may as well have kicked Jonathan in the stomach, for the jibe knocked the breath out of his lungs and made the edges of everything in his vision blur momentarily as though someone had doused his eyes in water. Then he blinked and it all cleared, though the hollow feeling within and the sting in his veins remained.
The shrill little intake of breath to his left sent another glance in his sister's direction before he could stop it. He had been expecting utter jubilation and triumph, or even dark satisfaction since she could not openly celebrate the opportune repercussions that statement might have for her, what he did find in his sister's face was even more harmful. She was looking up at him with damp eyed pity, their eyes meeting, for once not to taunt or challenge one another, but instead for a brief second of understanding unity.
"Your Majesty-"Clary began quietly but determinedly, her voice causing Valentine to break off his next, undoubtedly more destructive round of ranting.
Whatever dreadful chastisement he was to inflict upon his son had yet to be revealed, and the miracle of the Morgenstern sibling's new accord was eclipsed by the announced arrival of the Duke of Broceland. Whatever hope, whatever concord he had begun to establish was shattered instantaneously, long before it could bloom.
No, he could not be grateful to her, he could not be thankful for anything in that moment. The doors opened at Valentine's enthusiastic gesture to admit a dusty, grim faced Jace Herondale.
Clary had been making to rise with her protest, now she fell back to her seat and Jonathan could imagine how her silly little heart started to patter now she saw her love alive and well. His own heart had sunk to find his nemesis falling to a breathless bow, still half stunned and with a minor scratch on the right cheek but otherwise incredibly untouched. How in the name of God these two did it was beyond him. It was as though they were invincible. Some saint or devil truly smiled on them.
The only grace of the situation was that the King's berating of his son seemed utterly forgotten, yet again not only was Jace Herondale the apple of Valentine's eye; he was the only one in his eyes. A moment ago Jonathan would have thought nothing more painful than his father's words of disownment, now he realised that watching the glittering praise in Valentine's black eyes as he beheld Jace now was much more vexing.
He had always felt growing up that Valentine wished that his own blood could have a character more like that of the traitor's spawn, a situation that had baffled Jonathan as much as it disturbed him. The Herondale brat had been gifted endless books and toys, then with the same access to scholars and tutors as any true-blooded prince. His childhood had been a mirror image of Jonathan's; down to being given the same birthday presents. Frustrating as it had been for a lesser born boy to be given the same trappings as the future king, to witness how Valentine softened when he spoke to the other child was close to unbearable. That was not the only reason they had not been friends, Jace was hatefully adept at all he turned his hand to; languages, sports, even mastering several musical instruments and receiving training for the high, clear singing voice that was sweet where Jonathan's sole attempt at a ballad had been sour. That might have been overlooked, but any possibility of harmony betwixt the duo in any aspect of their childish lives was destroyed by Jace's own stubbornness. The two would never like one another, that was obvious, but despite Valentine's threats, his beatings and their governess's cajoling as they got older it grew apparent that the boys could not tolerate one another. At least golden boy's many talents made him easy pickings for the bigger group of boys, but where others knew to lie down and take whatever goading or violence the young prince saw fit to inflict, Jace had always fought back. Clearly that insufferable attitude had not paled any with the arrival of adulthood.
"I understand I owe you a great deal of thanks, Jonathan." The Crown Prince had begun to suspect that Valentine only persisted with sticking that name to Herondale to irk his own son. Nothing Valentine had to give could be solely his, not even his Christian name. "As does this city."
"They breached the city." Jace pointed out, the exact kind of useless observation that Jonathan would expect from him.
"They are being chased from Alicante as we speak. A few burning townhouses and looted shops will be left in their wake but the damage was not all it might have been." Valentine corrected, backing to a nearby seat and settling himself there. He propped his chin up on his hand and to Jonathan's horror chuckled softly to himself. "Their leader is dead and with him their desire for conflict I should imagine. You did spectacularly today Jonathan. Spectacularly." The King repeated himself, packing yet more approval into the phrase. The contrast with the flaying Jonathan had received made his chest feel as though there was a great weight laying upon it all of a sudden, squashing his breaths and sending a disconcerting prickling to the backs of his eyes. "You salvaged the situation by your show of tremendous courage. Had you not prevented that army from charging the city would be in greater uproar. And a force far more formidable than some petty jewel thieves might have entered the Gard. Men who would not have been so easily hounded out." He looked to Clary as he reached the end of his appraisal, but unsurprisingly his daughter's eyes were pasted to Jace Herondale and had been during the entirety of her father's speech.
A speech which to Jonathan's ears sounded too full of "might haves" to warrant the praise that saturated it. Jace must have heard the littering conditionals too, for he was fidgeting slightly before His Majesty, something that Valentine would rage at anyone else for and Jace should have known better than to do.
Valentine was ignoring that however, turning now to Jonathan once more "You see, my son? It is as I told you, one man can be worth ten if he be the right man." The tart dryness was not lost upon Jace, who glanced at the prince curiously but only briefly as Valentine continued, "And this one is certainly worth ten. Which is why he will henceforth have a permenant seat on my council, as is his by right anyway as the Duke of Broceland."
Sweet Jesus Christ. Jonathan stared at his father, unabashedly appalled. There was no way Valentine intended to make good on that promise. Broken vows were like broken egg shells to his father, Jonathan knew that having both experienced and inherited his incorrigible dishonesty. Therefore when Valentine had offered the duchy to Herondale his son had not batted an eye, why should he when he would have done the same: said whatever it was he had to so the chips may fall in his favour. The king had said the only thing he could to inspire Jace to face Tiller in the first place. He was not supposed to have meant it.
But Valentine was still smiling, as though he were about to end a long race victoriously and Jace was bowing again and murmuring with relished relief a humble, "As Your Majesty wills it." More than a small part of Jonathan found himself inspecting that small patch of exposed skin between the back of his collar and the bottom of his hair as his enemy lowered before him. He wished he were the axeman surveying that final bump of his spine to mark his target.
Clary meanwhile was all but vibrating from her desperation to speak to or touch the new duke. The King still prattled on, but from the corner of his eye he watched her, watching him. Clary was staring with poorly stifled hunger and disbelief; a starving woman before a feast. Her hands had fallen to her lap now and so her own war wound was on full display. Jace's eyes widened as they fell upon the clotted cut and he blurted out, "You are hurt!"
It seemed the events of the day had shaken him more than had been immediately apparent, for that would be the second blunder he had made in a very short space of time. For a man who had just become a duke, he seemed to have forgotten the court etiquette he had once thrived upon. And Valentine was remarkably forgiving of it, pretending instead that no one at all were speaking asides from him as he barked some orders at a beckoned squire. The shift in attention left Jonathan in a position almost as awkward as he had been while his father had torn him to shreds moments ago. He was unable to escape, as no one left the King's presence without a dismissal. Instead he was unwillingly frozen in place and subjected to the exchange taking place right in his ear. He determinedly turned his cheek as Clary's eyes started to glaze over in a way that warned of tears just held at bay. "It is nothing. Naught compared to what you inflicted," with the reprimand her voice wobbled, joyous relief at the present clashing with past wrongs.
"I can but offer my plea for forgiveness. And beg for a chance to demonstrate my remorse."
"Granted," she replied equally breathlessly, barely a moment later. Apparently only to her brother could a grudge be held.
Jonathan opened his mouth, either to protest at the sickening adoration the two were staring upon each other with (to clamour the unspoken conversation beside him with the harsh truth of how ridiculous they seemed) or even just to relieve his stomach of the grisly meal he had to choke down in that barracks. None of which came to pass, since Valentine interrupted them with a soft suggestion that Clary retire for the day and pursue some rest. Then he gazed pointedly at the two young men still before him, side by side but with a distinct gap between their shoulders. Whatever line of discussion was to he travelled down next was not for a lady's hearing.
Yet he turned away from them once again to issue a summons for the council to meet, which gave the exiting Clary the chance to touch Jace on the upper arm, squeezing as she brushed past. She even strained upwards so she might move her lips in a brief stream of words Jonathan could not hear right by her beau's ear.
It was then only a matter of a few short minutes during which Jace expanded on how he had halted the rebel charge and through appeal to their leaders had offered his own services as their ambassador to the King (at which point Jonathan could not resist a snicker- for it implied his foe had come so far and yet nowhere at all) and promised to personally pursue their demands at court. A bloodless, peaceful victory. The only condition being that they disband immediately and depart from Alicante, with his word that they would not be pursued. Peace for peace. It would seem Jace Herondale had gained the trust of a great many people today, if Valentine's uncharacteristically unbroken silence as he spoke was any indication of his standing here. Had Jonathan been King he might have had the stupid bastard flogged for his insolence in straying from the path of orders the Council had laid down for him, and for having the audacity to presume he could speak for both the whole of Idris and its King. But their own army was not as strong in terms of men and arms as they had hoped- were the most recent, alarming reports to be believed- and still a good two day's ride away at best. So Valentine was content to acknowledge a disaster averted. All that had to be addressed now was limiting the damage caused by those still inside the city walls.
Just as the lords of the Council were filing into the chamber meekly, Jonathan felt a feathery touch upon his shoulder and turned to find that he and his old ally the cardinal were the only two lingering at the doorway. Jonathan had been reluctant to enter as a result of his father's steering Jace into the great chamber with a hand pressed proprietarily to his upper back, while the Cardinal had tarried out his desire to speak to the Prince. At this point in the day which had arisen as one of the worst in Jonathan's miserable life, he could not even be bothered to vent his irritation at the interrogations Enoch had botched. He had anticipated Pangborn's uselessness, but when Valentine had told Jonathan he was to have Herondale assessed for any seditious involvements the Prince had entrusted the duty happily to the cardinal with every expectation of success.
That was not what the clergyman wished to speak of however. "My Lord, I feel duty bound to comment on how you were outdone-"
Cheek twitching with the falling of yet another verbal slap, Jonathan bit off the end of the sentence before the cardinal could complete it; "You know of all the courtiers my father tolerates, I used to find you the one least prone to inanely echoing all he said. I daresay there is not much you can have to add, Your Eminence. The King has already emphasised that I was gloriously outshone by that bland slip of a girl today."
"Oh Highness," the cardinal began, the corners of his bottom lip slumping with faux sympathy while he embellished his silkily scathing remark, "That is the very least of your concerns." He blinked up at Jonathan bluntly and gently shook his head, dislodging his already crooked crimson skull cap somewhat- "You are not the one who seemed a prince today."
He swept away to re-join His Majesty then, swiping a hand over Jonathan's shoulder as he passed, either to console or caution further the Prince knew not, but the touch combined with his final comment sent blazes of painful anger through him once more and had him grinding at his teeth in frustration.
True, it did not bode well for Enoch that Jace was so firmly in Valentine's favour, since he had most certainly made an enemy of the new duke and this would be something the Prince could chew on in private. It might strengthen his alliance with the Church for now, but this court was ever changing- and no one stayed in Valentine's good graces forever. What bothered him most along with that cutting comment was still the image of his sister's blushing cheeks and dainty smile as she leaned in to whisper whatever secret she had to share with Herondale. Today had made her bold, in the way only dancing so close to death and triumphing could.
Separately they were keeping him awake at night, and now when he pressed his eyes shut he had a new freshly revolting, worrying sight of the pair to dwell upon, alongside their easy elegance on the dancefloor. Together...
Jonathan wanted to grasp his sister's shoulders hard enough to leave a bruise and then shake her with sufficient vigour to rattle some sense into her. Anything to make her see that while she may be looking upon Jace through some hazy heartsickness, his sight was far from hampered by such rose tinted silliness. Oh no, Jace Herondale had a clear cut goal, or at least he soon would have. He would not be content with being third in line for very long. No, he would soon be reaching out that hand in a lover's caress for second. He only had to deflower Jonathan's foppish chit of a sister to back Valentine into a corner. If she were no longer a virgin Clary would no longer be of any worth at all in the marriage market. No prince or lord would want her, an impure woman, for a bride. Jonathan wondered if he ought to just sit back and let it happen, since it was entirely possible that once she'd whored herself out the King may banish Clary back to a convent and remove Jace's head. It was in that hope Jonathan had allowed their dalliance to continue, even employing some rough persuasion for have the Blackthorn and Penhallow girls encourage it. But now...if Valentine would elevate Jace to a dukedom then where might he stop? If Clary let Herondale in her bed now would their father insist he put a ring on her finger and stay there?
The first of many questions Jonathan had to answer for himself was whether or not he was prepared to risk it.
-0000000000000-
The evening took its time in coming. Despite the many things that had occurred during the morning, they already felt like they had taken place years ago rather than hours. Once her ruffled but rapidly recovering ladies had been reassembled in her chambers Clary had them set about repairing the damage as best she could and instilling as much of a sense of normalcy as possible. The hours of the later part of the day dragged nonetheless.
It was not over yet, whatever her servants were determined to tell her. Somewhere in the city the remainder of the offensive rebel forces (such as they were) lingered and the still assembled army beyond had yet to fully disintegrate. Even from behind the restored safety of the Gard's mighty walls Clary could see the dancing red lights of burning townhouses and she had heard that priceless heirlooms of many of Idris' great families were currently scattered in the river.
But she believed Jace when he said that they would disband. That he was taking his role as their chosen champion seriously was obvious, but it would still take days for the dust of the whole disturbance to settle. Once it had, Clary had the feeling that the world revealed would not be the same as it had been, which need not be a bad thing.
Much as it almost physically pained her, she told herself that after the weeks of turmoil she had spent without Jace she could survive another few hours. It still took an immense amount of self-control to stop herself staring out the window every five minutes as the sun simmered from white to red and sluggishly slipped toward the horizon. Thankfully, the upheaval supplied Clary with the perfect excuse to disappear early to her mended quarters.
After bidding herself lie still for what might be deemed a reasonable time, she nudged Isabelle beside her, who was starting to doze off. Her cold, bare toes nipping at her friend's calf soon remedied that.
"What?" Izzy mumbled, trying to thrash her off huffily.
"Get up and dressed," Clary hissed.
"What for?" A pause and then- "Clary I swear to God if you are about to say Mass-"
The Princess fumbled about in the violet darkness of the dawdling summer evening through her still curtain-less bedposts for a candle and flint. She paused only to thump her friend's shoulder as she tried to turn over and huddle back under the blankets, "Isabelle!"
The other girl whined like a scolded hound- "But the danger has passed! You can thank the Virgin Mary in the morning!"
Clary was grateful for the darkness she had not yet lifted and her friend's turned back, for a dreadful heat crept to her cheeks at mention of the Virgin. She did not think that the Holy Mother would approve of the exploits she had in mind. Fortunately, that meant Isabelle certainly would. "I want to see Jace." She wondered if she would have to repeat herself just as a small flame finally fizzled to life, hissing alongside her whisper.
"Now?"
"He will be waiting." The sheets rustled and Izzy sprang upright, no trace of fatigue dulling the candidly questioning look she gave her young mistress in the spreading light. "We need to talk" Clary stated her defence, swinging her legs over the end of the bed and grappling about for her slippers, looking everywhere but her friend whose rapidly churning mind Clary could almost hear. "People do not seek out members of the opposite sex at this hour to talk, Clary. Not even a convent upbringing could excuse that ignorance."
Clary did not reply but set about wresting free the first gown that came to hand and shaking it out. Izzy's hands joined hers on the dark velvet, once her unwavering determination became clear, "Very well then, but why do I need to come?"
"To assist me in my crossing the castle to his rooms, since you seem to have no trouble creeping around with Simon and maintaining your covert relationship. I will also require a lookout once we arrive. There is no one else I trust to do so."
Isabelle scoffed, pretty nose wrinkling. "Combat has changed you," she then concluded chirpily. Another pause ensued before she added more gravely, "I am sorry I was not there to help you fight your battle, by the way."
"You said. Several times." Clary obediently held out her arms while her lady laced her into the dress with expert swiftness.
"I mean it. I should have been with you when you needed me."
"You were doing what I bid you. Anyway, I managed." She waved away the proffered headdress, deeming it unnecessary and opting to leave her hair loose. She at least had the decency to look indecent while she behaved as such.
"Still, you really are so small Clary. You seem so breakable. I have to keep reminding myself how strong you really are." The flat, plain praise sent another flush to Clary's cheeks. Getting a good word out of Isabelle was so rare that she felt strangely honoured to be held in such esteem.
The good feeling did not last though, and sneaking across the castle entailed several palpitations, a stubbed toe that had to be suffered in utter silence and one hastily donned pretence of two serving girls trying to locate the kitchen. By the time she did arrive at the necessary doors Clary felt more than a little faint.
"Clean towels for the duke" Isabelle declared sunnily to the grim faced guard at the door. Clary wondered why he was stationed at the entrance to Jace's apartments. To keep anyone from breaking in? To prevent the new duke from walking out? Isabelle exhibited the one prop to their hurriedly concocted performance: a basket of linen, while Clary kept her head down and chin pressed against the base of her throat, where it felt as though her heart was pounding.
The only thing the girls had to hand that even resembled a towel in Clary's bedchamber were the clouts used for her monthly bleeds (of all things!) which she prayed might suffice. The man at the door heaved a sigh and did not spare them a second glance, having clearly never laid eyes on such items since he waved them through. Izzy halted on the threshold, giggling to herself mildly and twirling a lock of raven hair around a finger as she peeked up at the guard from under her lengthy, sooty lashes. Distraction underway Clary scurried onward, knowing her time was limited.
She paused only a second, steeling herself and patting down her skirts nervously. It had been so long- and he had not agreed to meet her exactly, as she had not given him the chance to reply...
Then the bedchamber door fell open and there he was, letting the book to hand flop shut with a muted thud as she found herself crossing the room to him. His eyes shone with disbelieving admiration- "How-?"
She pressed a finger to his lips to hush him, marvelling that they were as warm and soft as she remembered. "You are still awake."
He smiled under her fingertips and she dropped them so he might reply, "You told me to be." She recalled a similar conversation by a water gate, not long ago. It still stunned her; that to his mind there need be no explanation. What she asked he would give, no questions asked. Without warning he fell to both his knees before her, tossing the book aside with an abandon she felt she ought to scold him for- but later- for now he was encasing her fingers in his. "Forgive me."
"There is naught-"
He bowed his head, like a man about to knighted or a penitent pilgrim before her. "Yes, yes there is. I was a coward Clary. I walked away from you without a trace of a fight."
"You were no coward today," she highlighted quietly.
"I was then. And I broke your heart, craven fool that I was." He lifted his eyes to her at last, brighter than any candle or star, "But I will never forswear you again Clarissa Morgenstern. I will stay by your side, come what may, for as long as you will allow it."
A remarkable new warmth began uncoiling in her stomach and swelling in her chest. Clary had thought she loved him before, now she was sure of it. The strength of that emotion might have scared her, likely should have, but she truly felt she was stood at the birth of a new beginning. All could change in a second and she saw now that each moment ought to be seized. "Why?" She murmured now, needing to hear it from his lips.
"I am yours, heart and soul, and ever will be."
Kissing the hand she clasped first, she drew him upwards until he stood over her once more. They stood still, holding the other's hands and locking gazes. There was not enough time to say all they wanted to. In faith, Clary could not be sure she had the capacity to verbalise what she needed him to know, all she felt. Sensing how limited this moment was, Jace attempted to be the voice of reason, "It is very late. I have said all I need to for now, surely you had better-"
That was enough for Clary, who promptly leaned forward and sealed his protestations shut with a blistering kiss, trepidation and restraint splintering apart. Automatically Jace's arms slipped around her, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss.
This time there was only so long the slide of her lips and the sweep of tongues would suffice, and tonight things heated up more swiftly than before. Mayhap the stress of the past few days had taken its toll-or indeed the realisation that she was completely alone with Jace, Jace for the first time in weeks had at long last sunk in. Regardless of what it was that emboldened her, Clary found herself spreading her hands on his firm chest and giving him an encouraging shove backwards.
Jace stumbled somewhat and broke off the kiss, his left hand rising to her cheek as he peered down at her curiously. He opened his mouth, to question or complain Clary could not be sure, for she cut him off nonetheless with another hush and another shove in the right direction. Mayhap she could show what she could not say.
Mutely Jace allowed her to steer him backwards towards the bed. Once there, he half sat and half collapsed back on the mattress as their lips met once again, Clary twining her arms around his neck and pulling herself into his lap on an impulse.
Even through their desperate kisses Clary was aware of how dangerous this position was, she heard the poorly stifled moan he emitted when she shifted her weight and could feel the growing desire between them. He moved underneath her, adjusting their new position and pulling them both down the bed until that his back was against the pillows, leaving her with knees planted on either side of his legs and his face perfectly level with her chest. Jace glanced up at her face just long enough to flash a wicked grin before his hands were back on her in earnest.
This was different from any of their trysts thus far, for this time there was absolutely no reason for interruption. They were alone together behind closed doors. Subsequently their kisses grew wilder and soon he was seeking some other occupation, detaching his lips from hers and using one hand to brush her long hair over one shoulder, baring her injured neck for his kisses while his spare arm remained looped protectively around her waist. The touch of his fingers and then his lips against her skin there was delicious, and soon he moved to the unmarked side of her throat to nip at her too; swift sharp little bites that sent her head spinning faster still. Though never hard enough to leave a mark, each graze of his teeth had Clary shuddering under his ministrations.
Her eager response must have urged him on, before she knew it Jace's fingers were slipping to the square-cut neckline of her gown and gently teasing the bare skin there. Clary felt her whole figure hiccup with her hitched breath, curling her body in around his in a silent plea. One he heard; after raising his face to hers long enough to gain her permission Jace carefully slid his hands under her bodice. This time there could be no stifling the desperate little squeal she made as his hands shifted upwards to her breasts. "Jace" she uttered his name with a sound trapped somewhere between a gasp and a moan, her cheeks now a steaming red and her fingers gripping his hair in a manner that must have been at least borderline painful, yet Jace uttered no complaint as he brushed around and over her breasts, eliciting moan after sweet moan from Clary with each darting touch.
The next thing she knew his hands were gone, just as Clary jolted upright in surprised complaint his fingers were back at the neckline of her dress, pulling her bodice down so that the skin it concealed was pressed upwards, fabric somewhere ripping in protest. Neither of them acknowledged it with as much as a breath, as Clary was now on the verge of falling out of her dress.
Jace took the opportunity and lowered his head to kiss the now exposed skin. Clary forced herself to suck in another breath which scraped roughly down her throat in the hopes of restoring clarity to her dizzy head, only to have to harshly suppress the thrilled gasp that had risen at the sensation of Jace's mouth on her more intimate flesh. She ought to feel embarrassed or vulnerable at her growing exposure and most unladylike position. With Jace however, she felt anything but shame. She doubted any coherent feeling other than want was likely to register anytime soon. Therefore the situation was only intensified by her whimpered plea for more.
Realising the acute injustice of only her body receiving any attention, Clary dropped her right hand from Jace's hair and trailed it down to his own chest, easing her own fingers beneath the simple undershirt he wore, allowing herself to explore the hot, hard skin and firm muscle. Then her left hand wandered down to join the right and she began to scale his body in earnest, feeling the smooth skin slide under her palms, dipping downwards to where the rough scar that had almost claimed his life sliced along the bottom of his ribcage towards his right hip. Now it was Jace's turn to moan as she pulled the shirt off his shoulders entirely and pressed her bare flesh to his.
It seemed as though with her life so full of uncertainty Jace was just what she needed; solid, warm and constant. Clary endeavoured to act upon her daring before it drained away entirely and let her hands dip a little lower, to the waistband of his breeches. She may have went lower again, but Jace- who had previously only let his hands smooth over the material of her skirts- had allowed the development spur him on too, stealing his hands under her hem. Then there was only the whisper of palms past petticoats onto her legs, then up over her knees until he was tracing patterns on her bare thighs. His hands were calloused from years of sword wielding and horse riding but they were tender when they touched her, and Clary could not ignore the genuine affection mingling with her desire.
She leaned down and placed a perfectly loving, chaste kiss on his bare chest, where she could feel the steady pound of his heartbeat thudding against her puckered lips.
"Clary" he uttered her name in an attempt to rein her in, but instead of soothing her lust his hoarse rasp spurred her on. Still he wasn't were she needed him most, and now that the lower half of her dress had been bunched out of the way she could feel for herself how aroused he was. All rational thoughts were quickly dissolving with the boiling heat of her desire and she did not even murmur a protest when he withdrew his hands to her waist and flipped them, laying her on her back upon the bed. She stiffened slightly upon making impact with the mattress, which was harder than the one she was accustomed to and sparser with regard to blankets, but any thought on discomfort was banished as Jace kissed her ferociously, his mouth now feverish on hers as they searched for some relief. Her hands twisted in his fair curls once again and she now savoured the press of his body on hers.
Clary finally let her eyes flutter shut and lose herself to the clash of lips and tongues and sweet caresses, until their breathing grew even heavier and hands scrabbled against one other with rising desperation.
"We should not- We must-"
"But-"
"This...we cannot..."
"I-I know."
"We need to…"
Then he did draw back, until she had a clear view of his flushed face and the gold eyes now dusky with desire. "Stop. I.. have… to stop. While I still can." He stuttered out past his heaving chest. Clary groaned in mutual frustration, reluctant to loosen her grip on him even slightly. Her body was so heavy with longing for him and for what was likely the thousandth time she yearned to be an ordinary sixteen year old girl who was free to want the boy who wanted her.
With a flash of ire she tugged him down to her once again, tightening her thighs around his slim hips. He kissed her back, more than willingly but it was not long before their lust sparked up once more, until it was just as searing hot as before and they were back on the precipice of their self-control.
"Clary!" Jace choked out, rearing back, "That is enough. You know I dare not."
Clary could feel broiling tears of frustration bead in the corners of her eyes which she hurriedly blinked away as she glanced up at Jace, forcing herself to sit up and face him properly, carefully drawing her hands up his back to curl defiantly at the nape of his neck."I know. I have to be untouched on my wedding night. Yet I still want-"
"I know." Jace echoed, his voice surprisingly tender given the heat of the moment, "You may not have a betrothed now but your father plots for one still." His gaze darkened then, bitterly thoughtful, "You are not mine to take."
"I do not feel untouched."
Some of his old wry mirth flickered back, "In this position, I think it would be hard for anyone to."
Clary spared a moment to consider herself, sitting as she did with her legs spread around Jace's waist where she could still feel his arousal pressed against her. With the torn bodice and barely covered breasts she must indeed look thoroughly ravished. She had to concede he had a point. She may have laughed but their sobering conversation was doing nothing to ease the pressure in her stomach or her growing need for him, all of him.
Defiance rising, Clary decided to rail against fate some more, falling backwards and yanking Jace against her once again, so fiercely that they both moaned wantonly at the sudden contact. "Then leave me with my virtue" she pleaded between pants and moans as his lips returned to her neck and his hands to her body, "But do something- anything- please- Jace."
Jace obediently and promptly gave up any half-hearted attempts to struggle free. He shoved her skirts none too gently up and out of the way and she almost screamed her triumph as he finally, finally moved towards pleasing her with a surge of his hips against hers. Her hands loosened from his hair and fell down his back, her fingernails scraping at the exposed flesh, causing Jace to tremble and press his head against her shoulder to muffle a groan. He moved against her again and Clary closed her eyes, determined to lose herself utterly to the glorious slide of their bodies together.
The new experience, however, was destined to be short lived. Long before she could truly appreciate any of it they were interrupted by the rapid clatter of knuckles on the door.
With some difficulty Jace stilled himself and exhaled, his breath a teasing warmth on Clary's already too hot skin. He lifted his neck slowly from her shoulder and smiled at her ruefully, "It would appear our time is up." His words were only accentuated by another rap, this one more impatient. In response, Jace compliantly rolled off her and Clary pushed herself upright once more with a sigh, rubbing her hands across her reddened face in an attempt to pull her composure back together.
"Coming!" she called out before Isabelle could knock again, wincing inwardly at how unsteady her voice sounded. She then forced herself to swing her legs off the bed and commanded the unsteady limbs to hold her as she tried to right her askew clothing. Upon encountering the unsightly rip down the back of her bodice she gave up that task entirely and decide to huddle in the cloak she rescued from the floor. She would have to rely on it to hide the damage.
She glanced back at Jace on the bed, where he had propped himself up on his elbows and was trying to use the scattered pillow in his lap to disguise the evidence of how unsatisfied their interrupted rendezvous would leave him. She tread softly back to the bed and placed a sweet, innocent kiss on his lips. He smiled up at her again, adding another fleeting kiss on her cheek and lifting a hand to smooth some of her now messy curls back from her face. "We still have much to discuss" he acknowledged with the half-smile she had missed so badly, "Goodnight Clary," He murmured fondly in conclusion as Isabelle flung upon the door and strode in.
"I no longer care what I see as long as I get a certain princess back in the correct bedchamber in the next ten minutes!" she announced shrilly, her hands raised up to her face in attempt to screen her oh-so delicate innocence from whatever torrid atrocity may await her. "I have martyred myself enough for her. I needs must take my leave of that fellow now or the next I know he will have designs on me."
Fighting an eye roll Clary obediently surrendered, backing away and seizing her friend's hand down from her eyes with her own free hand, the other clutching the folds of her cloak shut on her dishevelled state. "Well now, I will not inflict yet another doting suitor on you." Clary wondered how much of Isabelle's performance had been forced and what it had cost her to bat her eyes at a man after what had almost happened with Jonathan... The Princess mentally committed herself to coming up with some special way to thank her friend, pulling up the hood of her cloak to disguise the distinctive hair colour and shooting Jace one parting regretful smile.
Having taken enough risks for one day the two girls hastened out into the darkened corridors, Clary's feet surprisingly heavy as she began the reluctant journey back to her bigger, more comfortable and infinitely lonelier bed.
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A/N: If what you just read over the past two chapters seemed similar to the peasants revolt, that is because that's what it was.
It was so satisfying to let Clary save herself for once, dealing with the room service she didn't order :) and Jace finally starting to rise in the world and pissing Jonathan off astronomically, as only he can :) That's my boy. Anyone want to guess where Valentine is going with this?
Finally thank you so so so much for those reviews :') They actually made me giddy AND tear up a little, and I pride myself on being dead inside... Hope you enjoyed the chapter and keep on reading.