A/N: Wow there are now just over 100 followers on this story! :O I have become that shocked emoticon! That is 100 more followers than I expected, honestly! So I have decided to repay you with this... which is dreadful.

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On my Word of Dishonour

Princewater Palace, west of Alicante, Late September 1536

Staring at herself in the looking glass, Clary marvelled that her face did not betray the many years she felt she had aged in the weeks since she had last sat in these rooms. If she was not mistaken much of the childish plumpness had been stripped off her; she knew she had lost some weight and consequently her cheekbones and chin seemed much more defined. Her eyes no longer flickered away from her own reflection out of despair at her own plainness or worry that she would be accused of vanity, she looked herself dead in more solemn eyes now. It was laughable, that she had once crept around these rooms so timidly, resenting and fearing her own women. To think she now strode ahead of them without a second of hesitancy, she spoke and moved among this court without thinking at all.

Fundamentally the girl who stared back was the same, she had not drastically changed even in in appearance: for she was, optimistically, half an inch taller and her chest was at last starting to fill out. Still she could not claim to be beautiful, for freckles still marred her flesh no matter how many various ointments she rubbed on them and her hair still frizzed up upon contact with a brush in spite of the dozens of different soaps she washed it in. But these things were merely irksome her where they had once truly been a source of botheration. Clary had much bigger things to worry about and had seen enough of the world to know that a small troupe of snobbish, aristocratic girls were not worth being afraid of.

"The pearls?" Rebecca enquired behind her, to which Clary nodded. Once they were in place she brushed her forefinger against the garnet locket which hung between her collarbones; trying to draw a final piece of confidence from the bright colour before turning away from the mirror. Then she promptly rolled her shoulders back and pinned in the matching earrings by herself as she marched out of her bedchamber.

"His Highness agreed to meet with you, Princess" Aline chimed as she passed by, "He awaits you in his rooms."

"Good" Clary declared humourlessly, making straight for the doors, "You and Maia can join us."

Once the two girls had fallen into position behind her Clary began the journey to Jonathan's quarters. Ideally, she would have wanted Izzy in attendance, as she had the most court experience and would the most adept at reading between the lines of whatever lies or half-truths Jonathan was about to feed her, not to mention simply reading Jonathan in general. But given recent events she deemed it folly to dangle Isabelle before the Crown Prince like a tasty morsel, instead staying her present course of keeping as much space between him and her friend as was possible.

The court was at long last inching its way out of its shell now that the last of the rebels within the city had been put down or chased out, and there were more occasions now on which the women and men came together. Be it dancing or feasting, Clary never let her eyes stray too far from her brother. So far he had behaved impeccably. That may have more to do with their father than Clary, however.

Having gained insight into how His Majesty treated his heir behind closed doors Clary had fostered the beginnings of a sympathy for her brother. While that made his actions a touch more understandable, it did not even scratch the beginnings of excusing them and overall only served to accentuate how dangerous her brother could be.

She had at first suspected that the King may be the only person on this earth Jonathan feared, but the more Clary had dwelt on it the more she felt she had been initially mistaken. Her brother was most frightened of Jace, or mayhap it would be more accurate to say he were frightened by how Valentine treated him and what he might become. She was still struggling to adjust to seeing Jace at all during the court events, dressed as he was in fine clothes and sipping wine beside his new equal, Andrew Blackthorn. She at least was thrilled to see him rise, watching all of that through Jonathan's lens of bitterness surely had him in a perpetually foul temper.

When she finally came to the Prince's quarters and was ushered inside she was startled to note it was the first time she had ever done so. She could count on one hand the amount of times she and her sibling had willingly and personally sought one another out and on each of them Jonathan had come to her. What she had expected to find in Jonathan's personal rooms she could not have said, but admitted only to herself she had been anticipating something to the effect of a torture chamber: dingy, slimy walls, the echoing, eerie yelp of water dripping onto stone and bits of animal carcasses dangling from the ceilings- that sort of thing. Some kind of holding pen for whatever perversions he could not pursue in the public eye. On the contrary, the Crown Prince's apartments seemed not so very unlike her own, only where hers were full of blues, pinks and creams it was dressed in more masculine colours, reds, browns, silver, and black- a great deal of black. The rather tastefully chosen paintings did not portray gory murders or Dante's layers of hell as she might have expected and she even glimpsed a small oil likeness of a silver haired woman over the mantelpiece. Their grandmother Queen Seraphina, she recognised eventually; who had died before she was born.

The only objection she could make of her surroundings was that they were something of a mess. Cushions were squashed into chairs and not plumped up again, a hat tossed onto the first surface by the door- which so happened to a gilded candlestick- and the table top was scattered with abandoned letters and papers. Not far from them the fallen soldier of a quill lay injured, drying out and withering away in the open air, the bleeding ink blots were also hardening from where they had splashed onto a gap of bare wood between the sheets. It would seem the reluctance to tidy after one's self ran in the family, Clary thought to herself, though she had the benefit of an infinitely patient Rebecca to tidy up after her. The tiny smile she had allowed herself had to be swept away as she approached her brother, lounging in a seat by the window with one long leg folded over the other and a foot resting upon the opposite knee.

He did not stand on ceremony as he did not stand at all, opting to crack a vicious grin up at Clary instead. "Sister, you never cease to intrigue me." She had left her ladies loitering behind her, far enough to not appear obnoxiously intrusive but close enough to remain in hearing distance. Either way, Clary knew she would require witnesses to prevent her doing anything silly and unhelpful, like strangling him. For now his ability to breathe and speak could be beneficial for her.

"I should hate to bore you," she replied mordantly, to which he narrowed his own gaze and reassembled himself on the seat until he were leaning forward, "Never that, Clary" he chimed with mocking reassurance. Clary scoffed a little, but just as she began to frame another sharp retort he pressed on, "Listen, much as I adore sparring with you little sister, I do have better things to do."

"Of course. Such as terrorising my women, or do you only pursue that line of amusement after dark?"

"Must we really do this jig again Clary? If so, how many times? Your women are not especially interesting to me-"He shot a jeering glance on Aline's direction- "or any man, for that matter. And if you must have an answer, it just so happens the Council has a spot of anarchy to deal with. Since we only get one life apiece let us not waste any more time pretending interest in one another. Say your piece and go back to your psalms, or charity or... whatever it is you do with yourself here."

Her hands had drifted to her hips and she had to force them to smooth down her sides before she really did adopt the stance of a common housewife about to scold her husband. She could not let him irritate her, not now. She had too much to lose and if this plan of action failed she did not know what else she could do. "I hear there is another suitor on the horizon" she deadpanned, scrutinising the Prince with what she prayed was subtly and a blank face. Jonathan at last lost interest in the fingernails he had been pretending to clean, sweeping his eyes up to hers momentarily, "You heard correctly."

Clary sucked in a breath as best she could past the restraint that was her skin tight stomacher. She had not wanted to believe it when it had first been whispered to her by Maia three days ago, but much as she hated the news she had not doubted for a moment it were true. "The Dauphin is scarcely cold in his grave." She sighed and shrugged sarcastically, "Such is the advantage of an unofficial betrothal I suppose; no expected period of mourning, no reason for another not to be immediately pursued."

Jonathan hummed in agreement, returning to his preening, "Father is most heartened by the values of the situation. Though I daresay that even had you been officially contracted he would not have paused too long in seeking out another match. He is not a man inclined to waver. He knows he wants of you Clary and he will not dally in getting it. The ambassador arrives from Nancy this afternoon."

"I know."

He gave her another artificial smile, taunting her with a gasp, "My, my. Aren't you well informed."

Clary did not deign to respond to that, pressing on her one line of enquiry, "So it is the Duke of Lorraine?"

"I cannot tell you that; all on the Council are bound to secrecy on the matter." He laughed then brashly, "Father seems to think that were you aware you would meddle."

"You already have told me," Clary frowned exasperatedly.

"No I did not. Though I cannot think who did drip that pleasant tidbit of knowledge in your ear, since even our favourite Herondale is still in the dark. His Majesty knows he may as well have Father Jeremiah bellow it from the pulpit as tell Jace. His tongue could hardly move quick enough to tell you."

Though her risen anger was cramming her full to the brim so much so that a headache was beginning to squeeze at her temples, Clary fought to remain focused. She needed an accurate assessment of all possible threats here, and only Jonathan would be well enough informed and easily enough goaded into telling her all of it. "What of the previous bachelors? I know the King of Scotland has since married but the Hapsburg boy-"

"Will not be ready for a wife for nigh on another decade," Her brother finished for her, still refusing to diffuse the blatant mockery in his tone. "As for dear old James, Madeline de Valois broke her father's heart in insisting that he let her marry him. She is a sickly thing and will not last her first Scottish winter. So unless the Duke is as impatient to close the deal as His Majesty then you could well find the King of Scotland back in the game soon."

"Let us be frank with one another then, for a change. I do not wish to marry the Duke of Lorraine."

Jonathan's mouth twisted into a smile in earnest, and for the first time since meeting him he seemed genuinely amused to Clary. "Dear heart, I do not care what you want." Hidden behind the flare of her yellow shirts, Clary's fingers twitched and she was almost consumed by the desire to scratch his eyes out. Seeing her barely curbed infuriation Jonathan had the audacity to dart his hand out and pinch at her cheek, tugging ardently on the entrapped flesh. "Come now! It is not the worst match! Yes- he is old enough to be your father, but there you have the comfort of the possibility that he might be impotent. Even should he find the energy to paw at you he already a widower who has his issue, so there is no pressure on you to present an heir."

Her cheek still ached from where her brother had nipped it and her stomach rolled in riot at the prospect of being wedded to a man near fifty, yet Clary made herself smile. That caught the Prince off guard entirely, just as she had hoped it would. She took several bouncing paces backwards, wrapped her fingers around the smooth back of a nearby chair and hauled it over to where Jonathan sat. Then she dropped merrily into it and clasped her hands before her, prepared to talk proper business at last. "There are many differences between the two of us brother, anyone may see that. But the real distinction? Unlike you, I make it my business to both know and care what you want."

Jonathan had stiffened somewhat, lowering his arms to the armrest and dropping his leg so that his feet crossed at the ankles instead. His brows lifted as he asked with hefty bemusement, "Which is?"

A slow, vulpine smile unfurled on Clary's fine features, "You like the notion of my being married almost less than I do."

"And what makes you say that?"

Clary swallowed and calmed herself. She had at last some insight into the workings of her brother's mind at last and she intended to use it. Was that not how her father operated? Knowing a man meant knowing his fears and desires; so then threaten one and offer the other as the situation may warrant. Now she shook her head slowly, as though she were about to reveal some terrible tragedy, before uttering with sharp melancholy: "Our people do not cheer as you ride past."

"The people do not cheer as any of us ride past," Jonathan snapped, the terseness in the phrase declaring to Clary she had begun to really get under his skin. She continued her lament as though he had not spoken, "The courtiers obey you, but they do not respect you. Perhaps the fear of you and our father silences any objections but there is no enthusiasm to carry out your bidding, no fostering of undying loyalty. None of them would choose to follow you."

"What-"

Clary refused to be stopped, "Now say I do become Duchess of Lorraine. Say that from that union a son is born. Another boy with Morgenstern blood in his veins... What if he becomes the sort of man who men will want to follow? Idrisian men, even..."

Jonathan made a show of snickering at her, "You and your wild imagination. Am I supposed to quiver at the might of this prince who does not yet exist?"

"You are supposed to see the mutual benefit in my remaining unmarried." She offered another smile while he tapped at his chin and rolled his eyes at her. Clary tilted herself forward and dropped her voice to a murmur, "Am I supposed to pretend you will require encouragement to remove my potential bridegrooms?"

He threw her a gaze sideways, "Careful now Clary. You have pushed me far enough as it is."

She shrugged again, "I hear that the late Duchess died of negligence. They say that a doctor was not called for her illness until it was too late."

"You hear too many things," her brother chided irritably. Oh, she had him eating out of her palm now, though he was too annoyed and furiously thinking to see it. "Our father has too many eyes on me as it is, sister. I do not wish to antagonise him further by interfering in the matter. Although I suppose I can investigate the Duke somewhat, if only to allay your fears that you would not be well cared for as his bride. That I can promise, on my word of dishonour. " He gave her the beginnings of a smile that was anything but merry.

"I thank you," Clary said, feeling sincerely elated. She had just dislodged a great weight off her own shoulders and was feeling more hopeful than she had in days. Ruthlessness was the one aspect of her brother she could be sure of and she gratefully trusted in it now. She was not utterly heartless, she had suspected that the King had Jonathan all but under lock and key and he had confirmed it, so she need not fear for the life of the new favourite for her hand. There were still many ways to wreck a betrothal; even should Jonathan fail to completely halt the coming one he could at least hamper it. Time was a much greater luxury than costly furs or jewels to her now and one she would not squander. So she nodded happily to her new unlikely ally now, "Shall we have some wine?" she suggested chirpily, "To celebrate our being on the same page at last?"

"Later," Jonathan growled, "I do in fact have another appointment this afternoon."

"A pity," She uttered it the way another girl in another scenario might have said 'a party'. Without even the slightest reluctance Clary bounded up and made for the door but he called after her, voice stridently curious, "Say Lorraine's suit is rejected by His Majesty, for whatever reason- what then? If you truly wish to stay unmarried, you would save us both a great deal of trouble by opting to return to that convent and taking holy orders. God knows, you pride yourself enough on being pious."

Without turning Clary smiled once more to herself, the expression no longer feeling as foreign or false on her face as it had moments ago. She continued on through the doors, Aline and Maia a solid presence at her back. Only when she were sure that she was out of earshot and that her brother was not following her did she answer him in a muttered confession under her breath, "I only said that I wished not to be wed to the Duke of Lorraine, not that I did not intend on marrying at all."

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The weather may have taken a turn for the worse as summer began to surrender to the autumn at last, but it was still fair enough to make a walk in the palace's walled gardens enjoyable. A pastime made all the more pleasing by the frequency with which the Princess could be located amongst the shrubbery and fading roses of late, since she had developed quite a penchant for outdoor pursuits.

To the outside eye, that the new duke happened to find himself stumbling into the company of that lady almost every day appeared entirely innocent- at any rate Jace hoped that were true.

Each time he would bow, she curtsey and invite conversation by enquiring how he was adjusting to his raised status at court. Then she would offer various lines of advice or consolation and he would offer his arm. Once he had her small hand tucked in the warm groove of his bent arm and pressed securely to his doublet they would wander onwards and Clary's accompanying ladies would develop an inexplicable lethargy and find themselves incapable of keeping up.

She had once mentioned in passing that this were the tried and tested method employed to maintain a friendship with Simon, a fact Jace battled to accept in silence. He had crushed the wriggle of jealousy under his skin with the argument that surely it was of no consequence who had been at her side before when he were there now. He comforted himself with the thought that if anyone had cause for envy now it would be Simon, not he. Jace had gently scouted that terrain as best he dared, "And your musician friend does not mind the deposition in favour of me?"

Clary had laughed and shot him a conspiratorial look, "Oh I daresay not. Simon has his own distractions these days."

"Dare I enquire as to the meaning of that?"

She had scrutinised him with some disbelief, then shook her head, "Naught. It means naught."

Jace entertained the possibility of pressing her, then dismissed it. They bickered enough as it were- that saw no signs of changing anytime soon, a continuity he was shocked to find himself glad of. Besides, of all the many people on this earth that Jace found interesting, Simon the lute player was not one of them. Clary did get a tad flustered when he teased her about Simon's commitment, enough for him to garner that he had been a sometime suitor to her. That phrasing was viciously attacked, which Jace laughed off now with some ferocity of his own. "Is this a particular vice of yours Princess? Men beneath you?"

She glared, but lacked the incensed response that would have revealed a grasp of both layers of his lewd jest. She really was too pure for him. "There was nothing of the sort between Simon and I. And you are not so far beneath me anymore, Your Grace." She teased him ceaselessly with the honorific these days, to the point where even before her father when she supposed to be addressing him formally she forgot to allow the words to part with the sarcasm that was their near constant companion. As she taunted him her eyes slid down the tawny doublet, new jewelled dagger, heavy golden chain and boots that were- for the first time in perhaps twenty years- perfectly polished. Not that he had donned rags before but itchy as these trimmed coats and whatnot were, they did make him seem rather handsome.

However good he had felt about himself in the present moment, Clary unwittingly razed his good humour with her next comment, "More to the point, I should think that of the two of us you have a longer line of scorned suitors." She said it lightly but was only half-jesting and did not met his eyes as she spoke. Jace should have anticipated the chiding enquiry sooner, now that they had elected to explore... whatever this was. If they were to engage in this most unconventional courtship (had he been permitted to court her) then they had to be honest with one another. This must have been troubling her for some time, and the tension of her shoulders and quickened pace indicated how deeply so as they strode in the direction of the little labyrinth recently installed in the palace grounds for the King's pleasure.

Jace swallowed and forcibly slowed their strides. He pulled them to a halt under a wilting apple blossom tree, the pink and white splotched flowers sagging as the summer retreated and the increased downpours and gales plucked them from the branches. The couple were subjected to a drizzle of damp leaves and sodden petals, one of which Clary had to use a free hand to prise off her cheek. Jace loosened his hold on her a touch, gauging the deliberately loud giggles of Aline and Helen at a safe enough distance to pursue the subject he was about to.

Much as Clary seemed to trust them, Jace could not share in her faith. Perhaps she had secrets of their own in her pocket but that did not mean the girls stopped whispering in the ears of whoever it was might bulk up their wages, or assist in the finding of an advantageous husband. Or even, should that ardent listener prove to be the Crown Prince, promise protection from whatever terrible, clandestine knowledge Clary held over them. Jace had lived in this world a little longer than she had and he knew every man and woman had their price. Even those who swore they could not be bought had something they would do anything for, or someone. Aline Penhallow for instance, was a full cousin to Sebastian Verlac and every noble family was its own faction at court. For God's sake, even Jace had his spy in the Princess's chamber: Isabelle. For that reason and many others he still weighed his words when addressing Clary. Unless they happened to be closeted in a bedchamber (which was distressingly unlikely in the immediate future) he assumed someone was listening.

Still, this had to be said now. "Clary, whatever it is you wish to know I will tell you. You know of Kaelie, believe me- that was not something that meant anything. None of my past...affairs...ever meant anything. I am rather ashamed of that, truth be told. Yes, there have been others besides Lady Whitewillow. However-"he stared her straight in the eye, heart pummelling his ribs, trying to impress every piece of sincerity he had upon those openly hopeful eyes, "there has never been one like you Clarissa Morgenstern." He laughed a little as her mouth trembled to a smile, that breath-taking flash of happiness that he would happily tred hot coals to keep there and added, "Neither of us have the words to express what we are to one another, yet I must admit- this love- all of it is as knew to me as it is you."

Clary's eyes batted downwards and Jace felt a dash of distress as she blinked hurriedly. He should have known the pain an admission of his past exploits with women would inflict. She was sickened, despairing. His hands released hers and caught at her face, fingers tucking naturally under her chin as he gently tilted her head upwards again, "I meant not to upset you sweetheart- I only thought-"

"You have not," Clary insisted, one final flutter of her lashes drying the buds of growing tears, "But that is the first time you have told me you loved me in those words."

His thumbs swept as soothingly as they could over her jawline and the panic-taut expression he wore relaxed. "I do."

The edge of her usual humour crept back and she unsheathed the blade was her tongue once again, "Sweetheart? Really."

Jace attempted to swat it aside with another laugh, as she returned to her original place at his side and returned her hand to its perch on his arm.

The endearment had just slipped out. Normally such play names sickened Jace, or were only used sneeringly to rile Isabelle, who threatened to disembowel any man who made to 'patronise her' in that manner. But it had felt right in the moment, despite the obvious torture he was about to endure for it. Instead Clary laughed alongside him and nudged him onwards. They struck up their walk just in time, for her companions turned the latest corner and came within sighting distance once more. The Duke lowered his voice anyway lest they heard, as a precaution. "You dislike it?"

"No." Clary said with quiet satisfaction, "I find I rather like it." The kept walking in a comfortable silence for a short time, before Clary broke it with a sideways glance and a more sober question; "Can we be serious for time?"

Jace flicked her a crooked smile, "If we must."

She pinched at him in reprimand. "We must. There is a new battleship on the horizon, sooner than expected."

Jace frowned, "Is that a metaphor...? If so I am hopeful it is the request to resume the night-time explorations we began some time ago." Careless of what her ladies witnessed, Clary shoved him headlong toward a hedge. Jace staggered and only righted himself in the last moment, which involved the sacrifice of his palm skidding some spiked thorn bushes. "I take that as a no," he muttered once he regained his balance, clapping a hand to his head to right the cap there and stumbling after her.

"It is code, you dolt."

"I am going to separate you from Izzy. She is a bad influence. And a code is something you agree with all parties before-hand Clary, not simply fling at them and then fling them into a wall of greenery when they fail to comprehend!"

"You know that is not why I pushed you. And you agreed to be serious." She snapped, though lessened the hostility by taking hold of him again. "It means," she said in a voice scarce skimming the head of murmur, "That the Duke of Lorraine has approached my father for my hand."

He knew aught like this was coming. It did not prevent the swooping trepidation in his gut, nor the profound feeling this revelation of impending doom was akin to what a condemned man felt when he walked out of his trial with the trailing axeman's blade pointed toward him; the universal symbol of his death sentence.

"Jace," Clary's voice dredged him back to the present, where she was peering up at him with a curious blend of sympathy and impatience. He cleared his throat and played at being calm. Unleashing the full extent of his panic on Clary would not reassure her any. Whatever he felt she must too, only a hundred times more strongly. He must ease her fear as best he could, until he could contrive a way to defeat this scheme.

"That would explain that odd cross-eyed man from Nancy."

"Fear not," Clary announced crisply, "I have it under control."

Just when he thought he could not be any more alarmed, Jace's dismay amplified at the annunciation. "What the devil do you mean by that?" he demanded, more harshly than he had meant to in his disconcerted frame of mind. "Clary you cannot simply dig in your heels and refuse to marry him. Nor can you sweet talk the King out of it-"

Clary's head jerked up defiantly and she interrupted him, "No. I know that."

Jace continued anxiously, "He will not have you prying in the matter either. You know how he felt about your manipulating the French suit. He does not expect you to have a mind in the matter, much less speak it! Have you forgotten the catastrophe that was that damned stupid request you thought to make?"

They were whipping their way through this spiralling maze now, tossing up scattered leaves and strewing stray pebbles about the gravel paths underfoot. Their voices were lifting with their tempers, the now quite honestly hesitant Aline and Helen forgotten long since.

"What possessed me to tell you of that I will never know," she grumbled angrily, "Perhaps you should reconsider the value of my damned stupid pursuits Jace, since you are one!"

He sighed, the sound rather strangled and not unlike the noise usually made after one was winded. Jace opened his mouth to try and placate her but Clary was not prepared to hear it yet, "Anyway, that I did for you, folly though it was. Moreover, I do learn from my mistakes. I have no intention of being so direct this time. I may be prohibited from meddling- but Jonathan is not."

Jace momentarily had to squeeze his eyes shut and almost had to bite down on his tongue to halt the next tirade. Here he was, trying to counsel her against the extreme unwisdom in baiting Valentine and she was telling him that her solution was to enlist Jonathan, who was unspeakably worse, in her latest idiocy. Jace knew idiocy when he saw it, it being his natural habitat. That did not excuse Clary's ignorant foolhardiness here. He attempted to tell her so, but she did even pretend to listen. "Yes, Jonathan is a dangerous enemy- therefore a useful ally, no? Come, you know how it is: the enemy of my enemy..."

"If you think that you can harness Jonathan for your bidding, exploit him- he is your primary enemy. How many times has tried to bring about your death now? Your downfall is his aim and if you give him a foothold in this, in us... you are aiding his arsenal. Clary, you play with fire with your hands smeared in gunpowder."

"I did what I had to." Clary continued stubbornly, "He knows nothing of us, of what I want- It is too late to retract now. "

Jace looked away in grim despair, but he could sense her ire ebbing away. She was only reacting thus because she knew him to be right. They quarrelled and needled one another but never fought in earnest, never before had they such opposing stances. Yet she had her point, however despondently she voiced it. There was no rewriting the past. It would appear he and Jonathan were now allies.

"I will not grow to like this," he grumbled bluntly, while Clary tucked her fingers firmly back around his arm in a move of reconciliation, the tips of them starting to cool in the outdoor air. Her free hand she also extended to skim over the velvet material of his sleeve, as though she hoped a few strokes would lull him back to a peaceable state like it might a dog or cat. Rather than annoying him yet further, Jace felt the edges of a laugh scratch at his throat.

"It is not that I have enlisted Jonathan's assistance here that vexes you," Clary began knowingly, "But that I did not turn to you."

"And how should it be so terrible if that were so?" Jace demanded with gruff exasperation, "I cannot bear being helpless. What is the point in having a title and a seat on the Council if I cannot use it to aid you? I swore to serve you Clary, yet you will not let me."

He glanced sideways after her when she did not immediately respond and found the slow bloom of a flush spreading across her cheeks, "That is not so. What I need from you I cannot ask from anyone else." She wheeled them around another corner and all but sprinted a few paces, dragging Jace after her. This was utterly absurd, all these ungainly dashes out of earshot. Jace wondered if they were not lost in this little maze by now as Clary spun to face him. His heart gave another jolt as she spied that she was biting her lower lip and the hands she had just detached from him were being rubbed ferociously in a fit of nerves. Jace opened his mouth to urge her to speak, or to remind her that there was nothing she could not say to him but she had already begun to impart her request in a murmur. "I know there is no guarantee that Jonathan will be able to prevent my marrying the Duke of Lorraine. Even were he able to Jonathan is the sort of person who may well sit back and do nothing to spite me. There was something else he spoke of while he was mocking me earlier; he meant to distress me with it and I must confess he rather did."

Wanting to batter the Crown Prince was not a new desire of Jace's but this was perhaps the most keenly he had felt it since the day of Tiller's invasion. "What did he say?" he demanded in an angry rasp.

Clary shook her head and nipped at her own fingertips, her eyes sliding from Jace's and weight swaying a tad as she hastily stated her fears, "He spoke of my marriage bed."

Truthfully, Jace did not know what to say. He could not lie to her; very few women had good words to say of their first experience of marital union. He respected her too much to attempt to fill her ears with shallow reassurances and he could not guarantee that the spouse selected for her would be gentle or that he would care for her pleasure. Husbands tended to look elsewhere for nights of passion, wives were for siring heirs and whores for all other gratification.

Thankfully Clary kept speaking for him, "And I could not help but think of what occurred between us that night by comparison." Jace could not lie to himself either, memories of their brief- embraces- in his bedchamber were not likely to dull anytime soon. He wanted all of it- all of her-again, properly. Admitting to that, however, was likely to do the opposite of remedying anything.

"My wants and needs are never going to matter but that is not enough to quell them, or so I have found. I do not want to lie with a man for the first time and that man be old enough to be my father, or a stranger to me. It seems nonsensical, when there is a man right by me that I love. Who I want."

"Clary-" Jace made to stop her half-heartedly, both alarmed and allured by what may come next.

"I am supposed to be a virgin on my wedding night, I know that. Yet I have heard things, women have their secrets and I know that there are tricks, ways of pretending-"

"Clary!"

"No one would know of it but us. Even were I discovered in my deceit I would already have been married and an alliance already agreed. Let us not pretend that my father's friendship and gold is not all my husband wants from our union. Particularly Duke Antoine, who already has his sons. He could overlook a transgression. Besides, I am a convincing actress who may never be caught. Come Jace- you cannot deny you do not want this too!" She could tell he was uncommitted to a stance of resistance now, if indeed he ever had been committed. "One night" she whispered pleadingly as the sound of her approaching ladies grew ever closer, "That is all I ask of you."

One doubt thrashing about in Jace's brain remained most prominent, so he voiced it while he could much as he did not want to, for the stakes of such a gamble were too high; "And if you conceived?"

Clary shook her head impatiently as a few rays of sunlight gave a darting peek out through a crack in the clouds, "It would be close enough to my wedding- the last possible moment- and a child could be passed off as my husband's."

Jace had to chuckle admirably at her pragmatism, even past the prospect of him having Clary at long last only for her to be snatched immediately from him, possibly while carrying his child. "You have thought all this out impeccably."

Clary's gaze had brightened with the day, "You mean you will..?"

"We shall see. Much could change and it may not come to that."

Whatever Clary might tell herself Jonathan did know what was here, at least partially. So too Valentine, unless he had been rendered blind and deaf unbeknown to anyone, must have at least an inkling of why his protégé and daughter seemed to find so many happy coincidences which allowed them to see one another. Still, it was permitted to continue. They had drawn themselves short of entering one another's bedchambers again (the brazen spirit which their near death encounters fostered had, previous to the recent proposal, lapsed away with the warm weather) but they were hardly subtle.

Was this Valentine's way of giving his blessing? The Council by and large would object heatedly to Jace courting the Princess, of that he was certain, and while Valentine had to pander to them as King... his silence and determination to look the other way could be his method of encouragement. If Jace were right and Valentine did want him to keep pursuing Clary, then the plan he had started to form may not be suicide after all. But then why entertain Lorraine? Perhaps simply because it offered so much Jace could not. The best he had was a debt drowned estate, tenants with a rebel streak he had yet to properly lay eyes on and a title which had not beem officially confirmed. Duke Antoine would bring gold, an alliance and a line of defence against the heresy Valentine feared worse than the plague and loathed more than disobedience. Besides, His Majesty was not a sentimental man, he certainly would not waste his only daughter's hand to make Jace feel more included in the closest thing he had to a blood family.

"Clary- there may be another way," he began now, the words that had been weighing on him for so long springing loose with lightening haste, horses or hounds out of a gate: "You could not be packed off to satisfy a foreign treaty were you already married."

-0000000000000-

Canal Street, Alicante, Late September 1536

Not that Alec was exactly focused as it were, but whatever scraps of a plan he had devised on the impulsive barge ride here were scattered to the wind minutes after his arrival. What had finally thrown him off whatever haphazard train of thought he had pieced together was the sight of Magnus Bane answering his own door.

He may have only been to the house once before but already it felt alien to him in the daylight and above all strikingly empty. Last time the darkness had only been interrupted by the rows of illuminated windows and what shadowy outlines of the Bane hacienda his limited eyesight had been able to pick out had made it seem even more colossal than it was. Not that the house transformed into a hovel come sunrise, but it seemed less of a labyrinthine palace. It was large and stately, of that there was no doubt, but the lawns and walled gardens that had once been full of revellers were empty as Alec trekked through them in an effort to locate the main thoroughfare. Not only were they quiet, they were deserted. Not so much as a gardener or an errand boy crossed paths with Alec in all the time he wandered. It was as though the house was one of a fairy story, the magical grandeur of its nights destroyed by the sunlight which rendered it a ghost house.

The gardens themselves seemed a little worse for wear, the huge clods of earth churned up and footprints marked in soil scarred the once neat lawn. The hedges had become a little oppressive, having been left unattended for a while their formerly perfectly cubed forms now more bedraggled, which then saw Alec constantly scratched and clawed at by branches and serrated leaves. For all he knew the servants had abandoned it during that fateful day parts of the city had undergone rebel occupation. This was not one of the districts that had been among the worst pillaged by Tiller's men, Alec knew from having assisted Jace in his readings of some of the reports. They had targeted all of the finer homes, making no distinction in what belonging to the ancient gentry and what the nouveau riche like Magnus possessed.

Despite all of that, coming upon a rather promising door that had been painted a garish red (coloured doors? Whatever next?) Alec was beginning to wonder if the owner of the house had not disappeared with his party guests. His heart hammered in time with the pounding of his fists on the door. After the long minutes trailed by without a response, Alec was preparing to give up hope when he heard at last the dull thunder of approaching feet descending the steps, the clatter and the scrape of an opening bolt and then the door was swinging open to reveal none other than Magnus himself. The owner seemed equally as shocked to see Alec as he was to see him.

"Ma-Magnus?"

"Why who were you expecting? The King of England?" Typical, once he recovered from his surprise, Magnus took the first available route to snarkiness.

Alec, who had already worked himself up and down the rocky mountain path of a real fury found his blood heating quicker than anticipated- "That is what you have to say to me? After all this time, after all that has happened, you think you can address me like that?!"

He flung out his hands and they fisted in the chain dangling around the other man's neck. The cold metal bit into his fingers but failed to level his temper any. Conversely it urged Alec on to twist them around his knuckles and haul Magnus forward until there was scarcely an inch between their eyes.

"Alec- are you going to hit me?" His voice may have spiked with disbelief, but the way in which Magnus presented the question implied that he had no interest in evading the blow should the answer be yes. Admittedly, Alec considered it for a second, before closing the distance between them with a kiss instead. Their lips ground together, hot and demanding and for the first time it was Alec who was the more dominant of the two.

By the time they finally broke apart, panting and hotter than ever, Magnus was the only one who recovered quickly enough to speak, "For if so, might I ask that you leave my face be and strike elsewhere? It is my one redeeming feature."

Alec's grip on him did not loosen even slightly and later he would discover the angry red lines pressed into his skin by the medallions. At that moment, all he could do was blink at Magnus incredulously. The only thing his lips were capable of shaping was his one truly burning question, "Where the devil have you been?"

"Ah..." As best he could while Alec was still in a good position to strangle him, Magnus shifted on the spot and let his gold and green flecked eyes flit away. "We cannot all have your noble bravery, dearest Alexander. So you see... I decided I was much too young to die for Valentine's greed."

"Valentine's greed?" Sadly, it did not look as though Alec's voice was going to lower to a pitch that was not sky high with incredulity any time soon, "What of your own? Think you that this-"he flung his eyes around their surroundings- "is the epitome of clean and modest living?"

"But-"Magnus raised a long slender finger and held it between their almost-touching chests- "Unlike the Council I do not exploit the destitute. I exploit the very very rich."

"To give to the poor?" Alec questioned ironically.

Magnus smiled ruefully in return, still struggling a little to regain his breath "Alas- there you have me. The proceeds I keep for myself."

"Never would have suspected."

"At risk of being kissed again, are you going to stand on my doorstep all day giving a moral lecture while you contemplate throttling me, or would you not consider coming indoors to do so?"

Alec may still be furious at the man, but with the taste of Magnus still upon his lips there were a great many things he could gladly contemplate doing to him which were more preferable to violence in that moment. So, in spite of knowing that there were a dozen places he should otherwise be and probably hundreds of more sensible things and people to pursue, Alec crossed the threshold.

-000000000000000-

Valentine prayed intensely even these days. Not that Jonathan himself had ever been able to find the peace in prayer that others savoure, but on the many occasions he had found himself on his knees in the royal pew beside his sire, he had yet to be glad of the serenity Valentine found in the service. As a child, Mass had been another of Jonathan's many stresses. For though Valentine was sure to be enraptured for much of the ordeal, he did not lose the keen sight or hearing that his son had once been convinced was supernatural. Should Jonathan stumble over a single syllable of the droning Latin responses, should he make to stand when he ought to kneel or sit, or God have mercy on him- hesitate to lower his head at the consecration of the Host- there would be Hell to pay for his accidental slighting of heaven. After so many years of enduring the services, Jonathan had mastered the art of appearing bodily engrossed in the Mass while allowing his brain the freedom to whittle away at whatever his greatest problems happened to be.

For now, that took the form of Jace Herondale. The past week had been a tumult of wrestling with his own qualms about doing as Clary bid and cutting this new suit off at the legs before it might stand. He feared that should he do so he were playing right into the enemy's hands- Jace's. But it had been difficult to ignore the truth in what his little sister had so irksomely chirped at him. It seemed that the planets of their ambitions had- perhaps for the only time- aligned. He did not want her married, he wanted her so irreparably dishonoured that she would be consigned to a spinsterdom of shame. He had even considered urging Sebastian to seduce her, since his friend hardly needed inspired to pursue debauchery- but even the young Earl had his limits. Sadly, he was not as stupid as Jonathan had hoped and was unwilling to risk his life for a night of carnality with the Princess. There was also the matter of Clary being heavily guarded and watched- how she was managing to continue her present affair was a mystery. Of course then there was the hindrance that the lynchpin of the whole scheme, Clary herself, had a deep rooted dislike and mistrust of her brother's crony. Therefore Jonathan had abandoned that plot less than an hour after hatching it and moved instead to destroy the Duke of Lorraine's chances with his sister. Much as he hated doing what Clary and her doe eyed worshipper Jace Herondale wanted him to, he could not see a better option. There was something to be gained of it for himself, and he liked having some power over his little sister at last, though she lived in the fantasy she was playing the game for herself with a prince as her pawn. He resolved to neutralise the threat of Lorraine as best he could, then once he had his father's ear again he would make good of it and have Clary packed off to an eighty year old with a terrible army and even worse breath. That he could pray for.

However as it had transpired there was no need for such pleading now he knelt in the darkened, empty chapel beside the King. Valentine had been nowhere near as enamoured by the Duke's suit as he had pretended to the embassy and seemed more than happy to drop the prospective betrothal like a hot cake once Jonathan whispered a warning of the eastern heresies into his sovereign's ear.

"The Duke's faith is unquestioned." Valentine had protested half-heartedly, fixing a sceptical look on his son as they had walked to the chapel together. Jonathan had decided that the only time he was likely to get a moment alone with his father was if he requested permission to accompany Valentine to the final Mass of the day, which His Majesty always attended in private. "Antoine of Lorraine is firmly loyal to Rome" Valentine had pressed on, his voice mingling with the echo of their footfalls down the stone corridor, "He has been tireless in his efforts to root out the false Christians in his territories."

"Of course," Jonathan amended, sensing that the words of defence were shallow and the King was looking at him again with silent invitation to continue. "The fact remains that there are so many of these so-called reformists in Lorraine, seeping over the border with ease from the German states and infecting the Western churches. While the Duke himself may be of sound conscience and faith, the same cannot be said of his entire court. There are bound to be rats in the rotting nest and his heir is young and impressionable."

"Is that so?" Valentine enquired, pausing at the doors to survey his son with one of those penetrating stares Jonathan so loathed. Only this one was tinged with the kind of intensely impatient excitement that was usually only donned when Valentine was very close to getting his own way. Or, if the satisfied elation building in his low voice was anything to tell by, as though he had just glimpsed a sign he was very close to getting exactly what he wanted. "So be it. I suppose your sister will not be Duchess of Lorraine either." He sounded teasingly tragic, but Valentine never jested. Especially on such important matters.

Jonathan's breath caught and he swung his shoulder to one side so as to better survey his King. "You are decided? You will not wed Clary to Lorraine?"

"And desert our only daughter in a den of heretics? We cannot have that."

"You are...easily swayed Father."

Valentine chuckled, resuming his stride, "When I wish to be. Rejecting an alliance, however unlikely, immediately out of hand is poor kingship. As is entertaining only one possibility. So I wanted to measure the merits of Duke Antione's suit before I made any rash decisions." Previous to Jace Herondale's instalment as Duke of Broceland Jonathan would have been certain that his father had not the capacity to make a rash decision. Then again, he had married Jocelyn Fairchild before consulting anyone after only having known her a few weeks. Mayhap Valentine had something of an impulsive streak. Or perhaps the haste to the alter had cured him of it, considering how that had ended. Once bitten, twice shy.

Since Jocelyn had abandoned both of them, one would assume that the bitterness might have nurtured a solidarity between the Morgenstern men, yet as past events had illustrated Valentine would not hear the woman spoken ill of. As though Jonathan did not have a right to feel aggrieved that his mother had disappeared from his life, or that she saw fit to take his sister with her and leave him behind? Logical and conniving as His Majesty may be, there was still some delusional part of him that harboured the hope that he could mend things with his long estranged wife. Jonathan hastily snapped himself out of thoughts of his mother, as they always did more harm than good anyway and Valentine was speaking again.

"Truth be told I never considered it a fortuitous match." Distanced from their conversation as he was it took Jonathan a moment to recollect himself and realise it was not of his own marriage Valentine spoke.

"No?" Jonathan was inching toward joy himself, albeit most cautiously. On one hand, some success at long last tasted sweet, on the other: that had been much too easy. Valentine shook his head, not managing to shake the half smile still crested upon his lips. "There is too much at stake to squander Clarissa's hand." That stoked Jonathan's curiosity again, and he felt himself tense as though anticipating some blow. Before he could articulate this inexplicable alarm or even voice his incomprehension they had arrived at the chapel. "Now, Jonathan. Let us give thanks to the Lord for showing us the weakness in Duke Antoine's suit, and for continuing to watch over our family." Jonathan was watched, that was certain, but not by God. As though Valentine did not keep one eye firmly pasted to his heir at all times, especially since the Dauphin episode. He did, however, have shockingly little to say of it. Unease crackled through Jonathan's veins yet again and he could not dislodge the sense of dread weighing on his chest. It was disconcerting how quickly he had veered from relief to this. Yet the more he thought on it, the more alarmed he grew. Not even Father Jeremiah's never ending stream of gratitude for their recent evasion of disaster could tame Jonathan's rising dismay. He could not escape the feeling that some fresh, worse calamity was on the horizon. Although the shadowy chapel was eternally chilly and nightfall saw the coloured glass windows doused in black Jonathan found himself starting to sweat. He heard rather than saw the rain beginning to pour, droplets splattering and shuddering the inky glass, the latest of many reminders that the summer was over.

As the parting blessing was called down Jonathan was more conflicted than ever. First and foremost he wanted to retreat back to his quarters, flush out any servants he encountered within and then spend what remained of the evening getting progressively drunker and coming up with a plan. Next he needed to pick apart any possible way this turn in Clary's fortunes could prove destructive, extract what their father meant when he spoke of stakes and then arm himself against all of it. Much as he hated it, going on the offensive had not helped him thus far; he had to mount a self-defence. If only he knew what the devil he needed to guard against. He even contemplated finding Clary first and imparting all that had just occurred in a bid to see her reaction first-hand and see if that provided an opportunity to deduce what she meant to do next.

Jonathan had never been unnerved by the dark, not even when he were very small but now he found himself moving as fast as he could while maintaining an appropriate gait toward the exit. The sedately twitching candles made him jumpy and the many icons now caped in darkness seemed more ghostly than ever, their smiles or downcast expressions suddenly grotesque and depressing in equal measures. His restless agitation spiralled at the sight of a hooded figure blocking the aisle near the exit. It was a woman, he noted, and a petite one. With a swooping breath to calm himself, Jonathan began to relax at the recognition of his sister.

Valentine however, had stopped dead beside him. The King took one, faltering step toward her and then halted once more, pressing his lips shut on whatever he had been about to say. A pace behind him, Jonathan felt his muscles spring back into a brace position, his shoulders squaring and tension coiling once more. Two hands that seemed grey in the gloom, devoid of jewellery entirely, flittered upwards and drew down the hood amidst a cascade of displaced raindrops.

He had not laid eyes on the woman in nigh on ten years, but Jonathan knew her instantly- and not merely because she was arrestingly similar to Clary. Mothers were supposed to know there children anywhere, were they not? Why then, it made perfect sense the child should identify his mother even after such a long parting. There had been many times as he grew that Jonathan wished he had been able to forget how she looked, yet she remained etched permanently into his mind. The dim lighting made her hair seem darker, flickering torches and great pillars sending the light across her in stripes which amplified the new lines on her face and made her hair- one long braid that had been looped to a ball at the nape of her neck- seem half fire half embers. She was slimmer than he recalled too, the bones jutting out at her cheeks and under the flesh of her hands. It may have suited her, but the charcoal dress she wore could not have flattered anyone, draped lankly as it were over her frame. Jonathan longed to wrench his eyes off her but was unable to. Jocelyn Morgenstern was not looking at him anyway, her attention was now devoted to her husband in a way the woman herself had not been for years.

"Jocelyn," the King uttered her name with dull awe. He paused just a moment more before extending a hand to her, despite his effort failing to convince Jonathan or any of his stunned attendants that he was bit every bit as shocked as they.

His mother drew closer, gaze glittering wariness and not moving from the King, as though he were some kind of wild animal she feared might flee or attack if provoked. Still, she took the proffered hand.

-000000000000000-

A/N: Ooh Jocelyn. Like Backstreet is back, but with a vengeance. Thank you so much for reading once again!

My apologies gave to be extended to Antoine of Lorraine, who I launched something of a smear campaign against in this chapter. Still, I think any teenaged girl would struggle to find the guy attractive. Most of all though I have to apologise to his wife, Renee du Bourbon, who was very much still alive in 1536. Not for very much longer, but still- there was no need to go all Game of Thrones on the woman. Well there was, I needed a possible bridegroom that would not be even slightly tempting for Clary. And you have started to pick up on the potential of a Herondale/Morgenstern nuptial for which I credit you ;) More on that next chapter- whenever it may be I finish and upload that one.

I will apologise in advance for what is sure to be an even more erratic schedule than usual. However I am coming to a pretty hectic few weeks I'd imagine- I am going to university! (Whoop! *nervous shaking*) Yay education!