A/N: Again beware the time skips. I only wrote it this way because I'm contrary af. :) It leaps between night and the following morning a few times, because why not reflect my perpetual confusion here :/
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Felix Culpa
2nd December 1536, St Mark's Cathedral, Alicante
It had been many years since Idris had a royal wedding. Their King's wedding had been a closeted affair, the recompense for which had come in the mighty revels that accompanied Valentine's coronation several months later. Still, that had been some thirty years ago, out of living memory for many of the kingdom's common folk. A royal wedding was monumental cause for celebration; not only were it a public holiday but it was also a chance to gawp shamelessly at the court parading about in all their finery.
And in their finery each and every one was this day, a King and his companions pinning the most costly broaches they owned to their breast and looping numerous necklaces and bracelets about their wives and daughters. The merry banners flapping in the blue, green and gold of Idris' national Angel clad flag were accompanied by blacks, silvers and more blues in the brightest of each hue that could be found. The gleaming coats of the horses that trotted past and the dazzle of their tack, the never ending stream of boldly dressed nobles and the many, many carriages, petal tossing girls and daringly attired dancers: it was a show of strength, a cry of defiance. This court may have been shaken to its core months ago but now they were a parade of the invincible. It was choreographed to perfection- for that alone Magnus Bane had every reason to smile. And smile he did, showcasing those remarkably pearly teeth of his with the dauntlessly flashing grin amidst the accompanying cascade of coins that clattered to the streets over the tempo of the cheerily gallant music, a welcome respite from the nipping winds and miserly winter drizzle that sparingly fell from the dreary grey of the skies.
Today was a celebration for the commons too. It was an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the many esteemed men and women who had otherwise been more myth than mortal, or in the very least a revered or feared name in lieu of flesh and bone. For the city wives and even the silk and jewel merchants it was a day of high fashion, to speculate as to what colours were in vogue, to measure for themselves whether the French styles were truly becoming the preferred way of dress for the women above some more modest European garments. For the menfolk it was a day of free-flowing wine and respite from their body and soul wearying work. Perhaps it was best of all for the pickpockets of Alicante, for whom the preoccupied crowds were a goldmine. It was easy to jostle through the packed streets cutting purses from those who were too tipsy or busy craning their necks in hope of a sight of the wedding party.
Of course, as was ever the way with any such climactic moment in the lives of their betters, tongues were wagging. It was difficult for them not to- until half a year ago the general populace had all but forgotten a Princess Clarissa existed and when she had been reintroduced as their glorious King's only living daughter there had been much speculation as to who would finally win her coveted hand.
King Valentine had caused something of a stir amongst the court and the commons when he had scorned all foreign beauties in favour of a native Idrisian rose, of who no one at all had ever heard. But this, this match had eclipsed his rebellious union long ago. The haste with which the whole event had been pieced together was one of the foremost of the controversies that had goodwives clucking in scandalised delight. This was not the first time Clarissa Morgenstern had been talked about, she had in the not so distant past incited mobs and dispelled them with equal ease. Word had it she were already a most extraordinary princess. And now this. Already rumours of an illicit affair were rife, talk of her having taken a lover scattered the mass who both huddled together for warmth and shoved ceaselessly at their surroundings for space. According to some, her ladies had been threatened on pain of death to disguise a swelling belly under that wedding gown with total success. Some even claimed knowledge that she were already married. Accounts varied in whether either or both of the previous claims were true, and varied even more fiercely on the bridegroom's involvement with one or the two.
The music and chatter reached a crescendo as the lady of the moment passed by at last on a snowy palfrey. Her face was pale as her mount's coat and if one looked closely enough they could see how her hands trembled on the reins she surrendered to a waiting attendant; her brother, resplendent in the deep green and trimmed gold of Idris' flag. She had smiled a little at the crowd, the expression seeming numbly strained and in truth she hardly seemed aware of the hundreds of people crammed into the streets and squares by the great Cathedral hollering her name, that of her father and in numerous cases, that of her husband to be. Her lips cracked open and a short phrase was uttered to her elder sibling, who was utterly unspeaking. She was divested with ease of the many furs she had been bundled in against the cold December air and the true splendour of the gown specially crafted for this woman on this day was revealed.
As had become popular amongst the ruling families of Christendom she wore cloth of gold to be wed, but it was the vibrancy of this gold that captured minds and caught breaths. It was like molten gold, crafted in exquisite patterns with the almost equally as costly cream fabrics, all embedded with pearls and yet more gold. To many gossip-monger's disappointment it clinched in effortlessly to her tiny waist and billowed out in skirts that must have weighed almost as much as their wearer. She wore no headdress today, the flame bright waves of hair falling free over her shoulders and back, some strands having been braided and drawn back, wound through with more shimmering mother of pearl and gilded thread. Rumour had it seeds of crystal were even woven into her creamy kirtle. With such attire jewellery was not at all necessary, the only piece selected for the occasion was a little necklace of thin golden chain studded with real diamond which hugged her throat, the bridal gift bestowed upon her by her father. A gilded collar, as far as the Princess was concerned. A reminder of whose hound she was, and who held the lead. Her little hand was soon swallowed by her brother's, and after some fussing over the lengthy train of the gown by a dark haired lady who lingered at the entrance, she was ready to proceed within.
The front of the cathedral sported a magnificent porch, a cry back to the centuries when the simplest of wedding pledges were made at the doorway of the church. In some of the most far flung parts of the kingdom it was still a living custom, to be married on the chapel threshold- but it was no longer the case with the nobility or indeed the majority of the people. Certainly not for the Princess, who would be bound in matrimony at the very altar of the cathedral which was packed with the court and gentry, many of whom had travelled far to witness the making of history.
And all eyes would be firmly on her, all ears firmly striving to hear each word of her vows. This was a momentous occasion, people could scarce believe that this were happening and all would want to be able to claim that they had witnessed it. The Princess braced herself as she passed under the shadow of the great church doorway, as though it were to war she strode instead of love.
Mayhap to her it was, for at any rate those slim young shoulders held more than merely the weight of her dress. One final fanfare to herald her, and then a great storm of rumbling feet as the congregation rose for her grand entrance. Outside the swarm of onlookers hummed and buzzed like bees on the winter streets, and there were plenty of comments to be made on the one glance shot behind her, one scan of those gathered, as though in the final moment she had just become aware of how many had turned out for her and her wedding. Whatever the backwards glance had meant, whoever she might have been looking for, one tug upon her sleeve from the Crown Prince and Clarissa Morgenstern was herded onwards.
She made no resistance, meekly making her way through the doors flung wide open, under the resolute stone figure of the evangelist that was the church's namesake and who guarded the arch over the entrance. Then it was onwards through the many prowling and lounging brass and gilt lions that filled the entryway. Focusing on the majesty of the crowned beasts must have given her some courage of her own, for some real conviction began to creep into the greater strides she took through the final set of wooden doors and onto the main aisle, into the eye of the court once more. St Mark may have urged resistance and firm faith in the midst of persecutions when he penned his gospel, but there would be no insurgence from the King's daughter here today. The play had been made and her new position on the grand board of politics and succession had been selected.
For better or worse; her future was sealed.
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October 1536, Princewater Palace, Alicante
Clary had heard of fortunes at court changing overnight, but she had thought that to be a figure of speech, not something that could in fact happen. Even bearing witness to just that happening to Jace, she had remained naive in the belief that fortunes could not fall just as quickly as they rose, deciding that certainly such a collapse would never happen to her. She had been wrong.
It seemed like a lifetime ago she had wished for her mother and her childhood at the convent: all of which had become a distant dream, a life that had belonged to another girl. Her mother had become equally as alien to her. She had begun to think that perhaps she might truly belong here, but just as she felt she had found her footing the terrain had changed completely. The rooms Clary had been occupying until now where no longer hers, a stipulation she had been informed of as she met a steward carrying her belongings out of them. She had been relegated to a smaller and comelier environment. It was a far cry from any sort of austerity, and she was not expected to subsist on solely bread and water exactly, but it was still shocking. Especially when her persistence in barging onwards into the rooms she still considered hers was met with the apparition of none other than Jocelyn Morgenstern within. Her shock must have been palpable, for the face that had grown to truly mirror the one facing her now bore an equally uncanny reflection to her amazement.
"Mother?" The shrill enquiry bounced around the now virtually empty chamber.
"Clary- Lord, you have grown." For some reason the wistful comment fell like a slap on the Princess, her shoulders stiffened and her temper began to stir.
"I have had to."
The two women had stood frozen for a time, mentally circling one another. Unsure of whether a fight was worth it. Unsure of whether or not there was a fight to be had here. Jocelyn kept staring at her expectantly, awaiting an embrace or glad weeping. She was getting neither, Clary thought tartly as the astonishment wore off. She was so very weary of living according to another's expectations or even pretending to, and this woman had flung a lamb into a lion's den with no way of defence or escape. Her daughter had told her as much, at which point it was her mother's turn to allow her mouth to twinge into a bitter smile; "Oh I think you better prepared than you are inclined to give credence to."
The chilly reception had not melted into any warmer acquaintance, and one parent feeding her enigmatic promises was already one too many for Clary. She would not tolerate them from her mother as well. She would love to know what it was Jocelyn thought her so nicely shaped for. Her book learning was scowled upon by most of the men here and theirs were the only thoughts that mattered. None of the lessons her mother had been so zealously instilled in her daughter stood her in any kind of good stead; the workings of politics, history, languages and so forth were not womanly. Here women who could not execute dozens of the dances which were in vogue at the drop of a hat were not in high demand.
Yet Jocelyn had swept in the same side door she must have slipped out with not a word of warning and now sat by the King's side once more. From what Clary could glean no one knew which way was up at this court any longer. No one knew what had transpired behind the closed doors of Valentine's private chapel. Whatever that conversation had entailed Idris had a sovereign lady again. All would appear to be forgiven between the King and his miraculously reappeared wife.
There was no part of this which was not disconcerting; the way Valentine had calmly put the woman back on his arm, ordered crates full of her old dresses be returned to her chambers (they had all apparently been folded away for years with meticulous care). Then to add insult to injury, since Her Majesty had not a maid in attendance Clary was even to supply her entourage for her. Seething silently Clary had crisply ordered Maia and Julie to her mother's side. She had also packaged up those of her jewels which had been Jocelyn's (that is to say most of them) and sent them to her mother's wings in spite without so much as a note. Clary had half hoped they would be returned, but alas her next sighting of her favourite emeralds was of them back at her mother's throat. She ought to have expected that her borrowed clothes came with borrowed time.
The mourning period proved shorter lived than anticipated however, for the following day a diamond and sapphire necklace alongside a matching bracelet was dropped into her lap accompanied by a short curl of paper which read; "Since the fashions of previous decades have grown popular once more." It had been unsigned, but there was only one person who would have been attentive enough to have noticed her struggling to curb a scowl as her eyes refused to be drawn away from her queen's bedecked throat. Then that evening there had been a murmured comment as to how her throat had also been delightful naked, and just like that her bad temper lifted and the Duke of Broceland earned a subtle elbow to the ribs.
All playfulness aside, she had known that for all his cajoling and merriment Jace had grown dangerously serious. Much as she adored her new jewellery and loved how well it marked her fair complexion they came with the knowledge that their former owner had been the last Duchess of Broceland. Her mother had informed Clary with offhanded iciness that he was gifting her with what had been a wedding gift from the late Duke to his second bride.
So this was to be as much a way of keeping his cards pinned to the table as it were a goodwill gesture. Clary had still taken to wearing his promise and his proposal almost constantly since, and done all of it knowingly. This fresh, concrete defiance frightened her as much as it delighted her. The gentle graze of the jewels at her throat was a poignant reminder that she owed him an answer.
If only she could be certain of which to give.
Jace was not one for harrying her on the matter. On the few occasions they had managed to converse in relative privacy he remained reserved on the topic. Nonetheless, she knew without him having to verbalise it that his suggestion had been no hare-brained utterance he had grown to regret. He had meant it then, he meant it now. The perception sent exhilaration alongside trepidation crashing about in Clary's stomach.
She had only to say the word, give the signal- and he would marry her. Consequences be damned. He would spirit her away to France if need be. He could also throw himself on the King's mercy; Jace was a nobody no longer and once the scandal died down the court could be inclined to accept their union. If a few months exile was what she need suffer for a lifetime with Jace then that cross she could bear.
But her father was impossible to read, he had raised his wife up again in a heartbeat so what was to prevent him throwing his daughter down twice as quick? He was as changeable as the seas, more than capable of whipping from calm to a cyclone before anyone was aware that the winds of his mood had blown another direction.
Had her mother not have returned Clary was certain that she would not have found the courage. Once it became clear that the portly ambassador from Lorraine was fighting for a lost cause the Princess had plenty of time to reflect on what aspect of her mother's grand return hurt the most. Her first bouts of homesick tears had been shed for a longing for her mother's comforts- now that she were here Jocelyn offered the very opposite of that. She had not thought to come back when Clary was in danger before, thus she had to deduce the peril was not yet past.
Clary may have faced down rebel hoards in the last few weeks, but she had never once considered herself especially daring. However, pre-emptive strikes ran in the family, although what her family might do when this strike was revealed... Clary wonders if she would be permitted to still call herself family to the King. What she now steeled herself to do ought to have been unthinkable- it were so inconceivable that the Princess found it difficult to believe she had it in her.
However, the last time she had managed to sidle up to Jace at a tennis match she could feel the weight of her mother's stare on the two of them, could have sworn she saw Jocelyn's eyes brighten like a spark shooting from rubbed flints as she brushed her sleeve along Jace's. Her mother knew her better than anyone, always had and always would. It had taken minutes of the two of them being in the same room for the queen to gather the extent of the situation. All that had remained was a few intense days of waiting to see what she might say to Valentine of it.
It would seem that she had very little to say if anything at all. Good fortune was thin on the ground in her world these days and Clary was not prepared to let this rare prospect of luck pass her by.
Nonetheless her steps sounded unforgivably loud as she crept out of the small antechamber she closeted herself in for prayer now. Each fell like a crack of thunder and she winced as the snick of the door she drew shut after her reverberated in the quiet of her outer chamber.
Reliably, Rebecca had seized the opportunity to make herself scarce and pray in her own, hidden fashion, while Isabelle was snoring softly to herself by the fire, chin propped up in her hand and head lolling against the back of the seat. In a time when men were filled with a religious fervour so great they would tear one another apart for the denial of the smallest part of the sacred mysteries, it was strangely relieving to find Isabelle's apathy unchecked. She had no doubt that her friend had some vestige of belief, but Isabelle was the sort of Christian who lived a practical faith. She could see the good in works of charity and striving to be a more Christ-like individual, whereas the ins and outs of theology bored her. She saw no use in it, and was fond of declaring that their saviour had entertained common fishermen and not scholars, so for Him and consequently her faith and compassion were enough. It was just as well Izzy had no lofty sense of understanding the scriptures and no desire to cultivate one, since the last thing a woman ought to do in this world was question anything.
Drawing her cloak around her with as little rustling as possible Clary had to nip at the inside of her lips to quell a giggle as she contemplated what the conclave of cardinals might make of Izzy. She could picture all too clearly her friend whisking amongst them, snatching away their jewels, criticising their robes and telling them in no uncertain terms that their meetings were devoted to sacramental nonsense and they had bigger things to worry about. The Princess felt a sudden flash of certainty that she would be more successful than Martin Luther had in getting the Vatican to listen. Partly to distract herself from the tension and peril that lay in what she was on the cusp of doing, Clary amused herself thoroughly by imagining Isabelle Lightwood as the face of the reformation even as she made for the servants steps.
Trudging tentatively downwards Clary was grateful for her velvet slippers; for all the hushed scuffling against stone at least there were no wooden heels to betray her. To ground herself somewhat she tucked her fingers into the folds and pockets of her cloak, inevitably letting their tip brush against the warm metal circle within. A ring.
It had not been particularly difficult to procure. Most of the jewellers in the city were still recovering from their stores having been sacked by the traitorous rabble, so at the merest hint she a collection to replenish a torrent of silver and goldsmiths were soon requesting an audience to present their wares. This particular one -plain gold with a single opal embedded- had not been difficult to slip amongst her purchases. She liked it best because it was beautiful in its subtlety, the kind of ring it would be easy to pass over at first glance, but when held to the light the stone illuminated a myriad of rainbows and patterns, multiple veins of glimmering colour trailing across the surface. The lover of art and painting that still slumbered within her had not been able to resist.
An unconventional ring to seal an unconventional deal.
Clary was also beginning to feel she had at last mastered the art of navigating the underbelly of this great palace, her nerves spiking as she emerged at the end of the hallway that led to deserted chapel royal. The bronze hinges glinted in the rimmed torchlight, giving the appearance of winking a signal that they shared in her conspiracy. If that fancy was all she had to encourage her Clary may well have halted her feet and the matter there and then, but the distinctly male hooded figure lingering in the doorway provided a far more substantial form of reassurance. She had known without receiving a response Jace would be waiting for her here.
She imagined the joy on his face when she told him yes, yes she would. That she wanted him. It may not be tonight: for starters they would have to find a priest; could any of the King's clerics be persuaded to do it in secret? Then there was the minor matter of witnesses- she would have to convince Simon, possibly Isabelle. Clary could think of no one else she might coerce into it. But all these were matters for the not so distant future. First of all she had to tell the groom.
Her feet skipped and skidded onward, almost in time to the hammering of heart. The force of its beating under the clenched fist that held the corners of her cloak together made Clary imagine it knew damn well that for once it held the reins of power over her. Her other hand closed properly around the ring in her pocket, tightly, as she pulled herself and the entirety of her courage together. There was no point in pausing, no point in allowing a second of hesitation for it was too late to go back now. All of these thoughts whipped around her head like fallen leaves plucked from the ground and tossed around in a sudden gale, as she hurried onward, onward, focusing only on closing that distance.
At the last minute a wriggling doubt thrashed to get to the forefront of her mind, why did Jace not turn? She was making no effort to muffle her approach anymore, he had to be aware of her arrival- She finally slid to stillness by the doorway and reached for him, though all of a sudden every instinct she had bellowed at her to recoil and flee. She felt the colour drain out of her face as her hand closed on his arm and he turned to her at last and Clary found herself staring into her father's face.
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"What I cannot for the life of me understand is why we have to move." Isabelle grumbled, somehow managing to be both sullen and charming at once. Simon at last won his present battle and secured the buckle on the bulging case before him and gratefully rising. While he bounced his weight from one leg to the other and felt the tingling surge of feeling flood back into his lower limbs, he could not help but smile at her pout. "That is the only thing I believe I do understand in all this."
Izzy's frown deepened as she continued to cram yet another load of Clary's books into a similar case with impatient vigour. "It is unjust. Why need we hawk all of our possessions across the palace when we were in residence here first."
Simon moved to assist her as best he could, prising a book of Spanish translations out of her fingers. He had meant to free the book from any further rough handling that would bring down the wrath of their Princess upon his sweetheart. If that was what Isabelle were. Either way, he felt a frown of his own burrow lines across his forehead as he realised the tongue the manuscript advocated. It was not one of Clary's strongest languages, she had only a handle of the most basic phrases and evidently sought to enhance her ability.
Simon wished she would not. It was not the language itself that unnerved him, but the connotations of it. Spain had a great deal to answer for as far as the treatment of his people were concerned, not that they ever would. He was suddenly struck by the irony of the two pieces he now found in his hand, having instinctively relieved Isabelle of another: a prayer book. So here he was- a Jew caught between Spanish and Christian prayers. He need not fear the Inquisition- he were it. Chortling ruefully Simon dropped them back onto the boxed pile as though they had suddenly exhibited symptoms of the sweating sickness and squashed them downwards with all the strength he had. The sound of protesting pages being crumpled together was finer music in that moment than his lute could have produced.
Isabelle raised one of her exquisitely shaped brows but it was her first question Simon chose to respond to; "I think you will find that the queen was indeed here first."
It was not likely to get any less strange in the immediate future, referring to Jocelyn as such. To him she was much a second mother; a much sharper, more demanding and judgemental mother, perhaps. More like a governess, if Simon had been well enough born to have had one. Nonetheless, she had been content to be called "my lady" or simply "madam" in all the years Simon had known her. Isabelle meanwhile was tutting, resuming her ill-tempered flitting about the chamber, sounding and looking a little like a demented chicken in a coop. "Of course. Then why not have her own ladies prepare them for her?" She paused in her snatching up some bottles of rose water and gasped theatrically- "Oh yes- she has none."
"Well, we are members of Clary's household and these are Clary's things..." Simon trailed off his injection of reason, seeing that it would only inflame her further. Isabelle was not about to launch any attempts to resign herself to their afternoon duties.
Technically speaking these were only her allotted tasks. Much as Isabelle might dislike them they had been issued by the queen herself. Clary herself had yet to appear. Simon was more confused than usual; he should think Jocelyn's return was a good thing for his friend, in fact he had assumed it were. He knew how frightened Clary had been when she had first arrived here, and how homesick. Now surely with her mother back she had at last a real ally in the lion's den. He had expected her to welcome her mother's reinstating and to gladly relinquish her role as first lady.
It suddenly struck Simon that the one person who may know Clary's mind on the matter was before him and not himself.
These days she saw far more of Izzy than she did him, he had to admit that there had grown a distance between he and Clary that had never existed before. How could there not? Not only was there a physical distance but were once she had hours free for him and he alone now Clary was lucky to be able to spare a dozen minutes to speak with him. And what they did speak of... when they had just been a small boy and a girl whose common interests were easily found in the form of an expedition to the nearby creek to see if the frogspawn had hatched, currently it was more trying to find even ground between them. Now Clary's mind was full of state dinners and playing one faction against the other and indeed the Duke of Broceland (thoughts Simon was happy for her to keep to herself.) Not that there were any hard feelings betwixt them- the leisure time Clary now gave her Jace Simon spent with Isabelle. Clary lived in a world of women now, and naturally her foremost companion and confidant should be woman. So he opted to quiz Izzy on her now then, though having to admit he needed help in reading and understanding Clary caused more than a little discomfort. At his stilted and envious line of enquiry Isabelle ceased her folding of some furs- a chore to which she leant the most delicacy he'd seen yet. "How would all in her mind be well? There never was any sure constancy at court, but even I am struggling to comprehend what her mother's presence here means, if it bodes well for her or not."
"How could it not? Jocelyn is her mother. She has always wanted the best for Clary, always pushed for Clary to be her very best-"
Isabelle laughed dully and without mirth, "I did get the impression Her Majesty ruled Clary's childhood with more than a little tyranny."
Simon tried to leap to Jocelyn's defence, but Isabelle sliced through his hastily driven charge with ease, "Clary has spoken to me of the strict routines- harsh even from the hour at which Clary was instructed to rise, as each minute of the day was filled. Endless lessons, it seems Clary could never know enough or do enough to impress her Mother into relenting. Even my mother was never so domineering." She appraised Simon now keenly, and was speaking with quiet speculation- "You must have noticed by now that Clary is exceptionally learned for a girl."
Simon shrugged- "I was under the impression that all noble girls were educated thus."
Izzy shook her refusal vehemently, "She had the education of a prince. As it happens, she had an upbringing not altogether dissimilar from our Prince. She and Jonathan were raised in different ways by different people- yet it was very much the same."
Simon mirrored her shaking head with perplexity, "Izzy, I know not what you are trying to say."
Isabelle's fingers skated repetitively over the mound of sables she had gathered, "Nor do I. Not particularly. It has just struck me that Clary and Jonathan are a mirror's image of each other just as much as Jace and Jonathan. Players on opposite sides no doubt- but at the same game. No... not players. Pieces."
Simon was shocked at how troubled she appeared, rubbing the soft fur between her fingertips with such agitation that he felt the need to hasten to where she stood and grasp at the fingers to stop the motion. "Peace, Izzy." She raised her eyes to his slowly, the glimmer of true agitation still there. "Speak to me of you" Simon urged, marvelling that they were close enough for him to feel the warm wisp of her breath across his cheeks, "What has you so distressed?"
"I am not distressed," Isabelle protested, the indignant denial allowing some of her old humour to leak through and seal the cracks- bricks and mortar. "Merely.. irritated. Alec is perpetually in the city these days and he will not tell me why and as for Jace..." Her eyelashes flickered as she blinked and sighed, taking a decisive step backwards and releasing herself from Simon's hold. She massaged at her wrists and stared off into the distance- "The one resounding question I have on the queen's return is why now? Clary was on the cusp of a betrothal before, then we were all under siege by a rebel army and still she made no move. Now all of a sudden she spends over four hours locked in the King's chapel alone with him and when she emerges she is our queen again? She is to return precisely to the way she was, to be treated with every courtesy and honour like she never left? There has only been one great change at this court since then. Jace being given his birthright and father's title." Isabelle's eyes slid back to his with no great hurry, but held the kind of contemplative gravity Simon had never associated with her before- "Clary is the one who came to that epiphany and shared it with me in the hope that I could get it to Alec and he could watch over Jace in the ways only he can. Except- She rolled her eyes and let her voice spike with irritation once more- "it would seem my darling brother has much better, mysterious things to do."
Simon closed the gap once more and took hold of her shoulders. This was not the first time Isabelle had backed away from him of late, or brushed him aside. It was starting to unnerve him. Which was not a good sign at all, since he and Isabelle were strictly to be one another's distractions and nothing more. If the novelty of their dalliance had worn off for her... Truth be told, Simon was not prepared to let that happen just yet. Instead he opted to keep the passion alive. He needed to be more spontaneous, more dangerous, Eric had assured him. So be it. He did not think you could get any more dangerous than an embrace in the Princess's- now the Queen's- bedchamber when the fellow ladies and servants who had left them alone with rolled eyes could walk in at any moment, or worse, one of the noble ladies in question.
"Then we ought to find ourselves some better occupation." He spared the only slightly ajar door one last look then drew her close. After a brief sway of reluctance Isabelle allowed herself to be pulled in until her nose brushed his. She hummed in agreement after a moment's pause, "Fretting means frowning and frowning means premature wrinkles. I should very much like to dwell on something else."
With that, they settled it.
Or at least, attempted to. No sooner had their lips touched than the bang of the door handle colliding with wall plaster interrupted them. The two lurched apart, casting about for who would have opened the door with such force. Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may prove to be, it was not the queen who was darkening the doorway, but Alec Lightwood. Simon had come to appreciate that while Alec usually hid his emotions as well as the Jews had concealed the Ark of Covenant, on the odd occasion he did allow them to come to light it was only so that he might look as if he had just discovered that the apocalypse was upon them. He looked as such now, a panic that not even the present position of his sister was sufficient to distract him from. "Isabelle, Jesus," was all that was said on the topic.
"My name is Simon, actually" the unaddressed party corrected, realising too late that was unforgivably blasphemous. At least he went to the stake with a sense of humour. However, not even in his moment of crisis was he worthy of any attention.
"What is it?" Isabelle enquired irritably of her sibling. Alec swept his cap off his head and allowed his chest to heave several times as he caught his breath, eyes skirting the entire room as if he had misplaced something that may be there. "Tell me you have seen Jace."
"Seen Jace?" Isabelle's annoyance spiralled, then her expression cooled with realisation, "Not of late. Not today, now I think of it. Why? What has he done now?"
Alec laughed, sharply hysterical before he offered a shrug of surrender. "That is what I would know. I just returned from the city, but no one has seen him anywhere today."
"Did you try his chambers?"
Alec shot her the kind of look that can only be exchanged between siblings, expressing unspeakable exasperation. "Yes. Oddly enough that was my first port of call."
The biting sarcasm rather impressed Simon, but he had not very long to appreciate it. "He is not with the Princess?"
"No," Isabelle shook her head, thinking furiously.
Alec swallowed, dropping his voice and stepping close enough to grasp Isabelle by the arms and stare into her face, "Izzy, have you seen Clary at all today?"
Isabelle's mouth hardened into a firm line. She could not answer him, Simon comprehended as the silence stretched on too long. He did it for her. Clearing his throat awkwardly he admitted, "We were waylaid by the queen as we tried to reach Clary's apartments today. She sent us here and gave us tasks that would take all day. Apparently Clary has a cold and taken to bed."
For the first time Alec looked him in the eye and spoke directly to Simon, "Has anyone in her household laid eyes on the Princess this day?"
Simon shuffled uncomfortably and shrugged, appalled that none of this had occurred to him sooner. He was supposed to be Clary's closest friend, her brother, yet he had not taken his banishing from her rooms as suspicious, nor the prohibition from seeing her. He had gone too happily with Isabelle, rather than insisting if Clary were ill she would want his company. Too trusting of Jocelyn, without accepting that he was no longer seven years old and the woman's word no longer ought to or should be taken as gospel.
And if no one had seen Clary today what was to say she was even still in the palace. She was not a stupid or flighty girl by any stretch of the imagination, but that abominable Frenchman, he could well have persuaded her to do something immeasurably stupid.
"You cannot think... not even Jace would be so foolish-"Isabelle began, struggling to articulate her thoughts.
"As to run away with her? Why not. The pair of them are old romantics are they not? And this is their fairy-tale. Of course they would think it fitting." He grew more and more agitated with each passing word, while Isabelle reddened and looked increasingly guilty.
Simon sidled closer to hiss under his breath "You encouraged it?" While Alec may not have truly heard him he could at least guess as to the gist of the conversation, for his stare bored into his sister more intently.
"No" Izzy snapped back in a whisper, "At least not directly. I did fall asleep on duty last night."
"Isabelle!"
Alec set himself to launch into a tirade, but Izzy cut him off, "Before you heap the entirety of the blame on me perhaps you should contemplate wherever it was you were last night." She shucked his hands off her and raced on, "I know not where it is you disappear to Alec, and you do not tell me but that I can manage, trusting in you and loving you as I do. What I will not do is sit back and let you berate me for being distracted as though you are not. If Jace is gone then it is because you have not been here for him. You have not listened, you have not pressed him to speak, not really. "
"I won't ask him questions I myself could not answer were they posed in reverse" Alec shot back, face flooding with colour again, but largely from embarrassment rather than temper. He reined himself in once more almost immediately, tucking away all traces of emotion and the remaining evidence of his outburst.
"We do not have time for this." He stated briskly, snatching away any chance for Isabelle to respond. The possibility of Simon having an input was not to be entertained. "We need to find out what is happening." He paused and rubbed a hand over his face with bewildered dread, "Or what has already occurred."
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Jace had experienced the displeasure of many moments of apparent helplessness in the past, but all of them were dwarfed in comparison to the trifle he found himself in now. Quite literally he had naught to do but twiddle his own thumbs, swiping the pad of one thumb over the joint jutting out at the base of the other and doing his utmost to avoid eye contact with the queen. Simply all sensations of gut wrenching powerlessness in the past now felt prickling of annoyance.
He kept his mind focused on the knee that was not inclined to stop bouncing up and down on the spot. It was supposed to work off some of his agitation, but at the moment it served only to accentuate how chained he was to the spot. Not physically, of which he supposed he ought to be thankful, but the grim expression of Jocelyn Morgenstern opposite him and her firm silence left him in no doubt as to how far his misdemeanours of late had been revealed.
The queen looked unnervingly like her daughter, until now Jace had presupposed that those who swore to Clary being her very picture had merely been saying that politely, to fill an otherwise fraught silence or in the hope of currying some kind of familiarity with the young royal. Now he saw otherwise with his own eyes. He could also tell, in the vague, hasty sweep of the lady's hard expression he chanced, that she was not at all ignorant of what she detained him from tonight. He had so easily mistook her for Clary when he had come upon her in the chapel some hour previous, by the time he had realised the calamity of that error she had laid a light yet firm hand on him and steered him away from the scene. Nothing more than the most basic, "with me, Your Grace" had been exchanged since, and now he found himself, most ironically, back where he had started.
He had taken his seat in the queen's parlour with the same respect for the silence that his companion displayed and uneasy though he was to find himself sat across this table from a lady who wasn't Clary, he had not uttered a word. This was preferable to the cardinal, he urged himself to consider. Despite that, this entire tableau was perhaps more unsettling than the prospect of another interrogation. Jace knew better than to think he would twist his way out of the noose a second time, but he still found his thoughts floundering around uselessly as they tried to pick out what all of this may signify. No guards, no arrest and yet he was far from free to go.
He needed no locked doors to feel keenly that there would be no quick escape from this, even as the queen's frozen figure seemed disinclined to pay attention to anything other than the clasped hands in her lap and the occasional sideways glance to where the closest clock ticked by. Already he had summoned and discarded several lines of excuse making, telling himself that there was no use in it when he knew not what he was about to be charged with. Well, perhaps that was not strictly true, but he was ignorant as to how it was going to be phrased. His fingers twitched toward his pocket, where the crinkle of paper Helen had dropped into his lap at dinner was still buried. There was no way in hell they could possibly know the extent of it. Clary was not about to tell anyone, of that he could be certain. The woman had a will of iron and beyond that, he had grown to appreciate she had thicker skin than may at first be presumed. Jace had watched her bounce back from the several catastrophes now, he prayed this was not one too far.
The rumble of approaching footsteps, a simple, brief order from beyond and then the door creaked open to see Valentine enter. He closed it behind him again with a brisk push and then sauntered to the where a jug of wine awaited, the trickle and splash of falling liquid filled the room as though it were a cascade of a waterfall. Unconcerned as Valentine may appear, Jace was far from fooled, and it was becoming a Herculean labour to hold himself still in his seat and appear equally as nonchalant.
Clearly his consort was out of practice when it came to Valentine's long games, either that or she had long since run out of patience with them, "Where is Clary?" she demanded. Valentine drew a long drink and made no haste to reply. "Where is my daughter?" Jocelyn demanded next, all pretences of calm disinterest shattered as she clenched the arm of her chair- "We agreed-"
"Hush, my love." Jace wondered if there was some hidden sarcasm in that concluding sweet nothing. He decided he did not care, for he wanted the queen's question answered as dearly as she did. The King hardly blinked, however, before continuing, "Our daughter has been safely restored to her chambers." At last his focus fell upon Jace, "We shall return to her when we have finished here."
"Should I not-"
"You shall stay here, Jocelyn. I shall require a witness."
Jace doubted if the King could have said anything less comforting in that moment, as his unease strengthened yet further. What Valentine said next however proved that assumption to be wrong. "Now, Jonathan," The King settled himself into the chair facing opposite Jace's, "I expect it is high time we discussed your relationship with my daughter."
Wildly, he contemplated playing this the way the Jace of a few months ago might have; What relationship sire? But he sensed they were far beyond that. Everyone in this room knew he was in love with Clary, if he guessed correctly then Valentine had known it for even longer than he had himself. Hence all the favours showered on his embassy; not because Valentine had ever been particularly attracted to a French marriage, but because he liked Clary keeping the then ambassador in her company.
The contemplation of past titles in turn made Jace wonder if he was about to go down in history as the man who had held the shortest ever dukedom.
With that thought Jace realised that the only scenario he could not live with, the only crime he could not absolve himself of- which Clary would never forgive- was not staging one final battle. Either way, it would be worth it. Besides, he had not sinned in deed. There was no treasonous act he had committed; in that moment Jace was almost glad that he had stopped where he had that night in his bedchamber. So, he cleared his throat and started to speak. "By all means Your Majesty."
With a soft swish of fine fabric, the King crossed his legs and reclined on the chair beside his wife. Jocelyn was on the edge of her sat more than figuratively, a handful of her skirts still clutched in her right hand. She had frozen just as she had made to rise, now her eyes flickered between the two men and the faraway door. Unbidden her phrasing "my daughter" took centre stage in Jace's mind. Mayhap Jocelyn was the one he needed to sway here- but no. The women would likely be even tougher to melt than Valentine, he could remember her icy scorn and distaste from his childhood well enough. Moreover, he knew that Valentine was the sort of man who, if you sought one of his possessions, would make you prise it from his stiff, dead hands. And Clary was, in the eyes of the law as well as the King's, very much her father's property. Jocelyn could protest it all she wanted, Jace sensed she would, but she could not actively do anything to stop it. Still, Jace had to get 'it' in motion first.
The King sipped his drink again, waiting. His expression was as clear to read as a line of print, he did not need to sully the atmosphere by being verbally direct. What do you want?
"Sire, I would present another suit for the Princess's hand."
"Please, do so."
"The advantage of a match outside these borders are plain to see. But I urge Your Majesty to consider the convenience of an Idrisian marriage. Foreign rulers can be fickle, and faithless. They are not your subjects- they are not required to do your bidding. There you are reliant on good faith. But-" He allowed the snide edge of a smirk to rise, eyes travelling to the fireplace, seeing in his mind books rather than logs being eaten by the flames- "We no longer live in an age of blind faith. Would it not better to have a lord whose obedience you could be sure of, whose door you could be at in several days? A local nobleman would not require the dowry of an Emperor either, so it would be the economical choice. Beyond that, he would not be dragging you into any conflicts abroad either. There would no risk of Idris getting involved in someone else's wars- the only reward of which would be whatever measly crumbs Spain or France saw fit to throw us. It would conserve lives as well as coin-" He ceased to draw breath before proceeding, only to be curtailed by Valentine.
"I know better than any man you can plead a case. That is not what I need you to prove."
Jace released a shuddering breath, clenching the armrests and feeling a bunching frustration seize his muscles, "Then what proof? Tell me and I will give it, or show it. Or perish in the attempt. I will do anything, Majesty."
"Anything?"
With a quiet scoff Jace accepted his fate. For her he would sell his soul if need be. It was already too blemished to be of use to anyone other than Valentine Morgenstern anyway.
"Anything," he confirmed.
But Valentine should hate to be predictable; "Tell me Jonathan, do you love her?"
Surprisingly it was the queen who answered, "Would it matter if he did not?"
Jace tensed, utterly thrown. Both by the words she had just spoken and their spiteful, bitter tone.
Valentine smiled, humourlessly. He cast his wife a mere sideways glance before swivelling his head back to Jace. "I love her." He set his jaw and lifted his chin- there was no point in being half-damned, now was there? "More than my own life."
Valentine snickered, indifferent to the other parties' inability to grasp the joke. He did turn to the unsmiling Jocelyn, a definite silent 'I told you so' delivered. Then all mirth evaporated, "A valiant effort, my boy. But you always were too soft and sentimental. Too often are you ruled by your heart, no matter how well you think you screen it with pretence at cunning or ambition. That will never do. My daughter needs a husband who will break her in and teach her to bend her will to his, not one who will indulge her out of love."
From the corner of his eye Jace glimpsed Jocelyn's brows sloping to a frown, but paid it no heed. His world was begin to collapse around him. He felt crushing desperation and defeat clenching in his stomach, fighting to keep from surrendering to that despondency. Instead, he swerved into the panic and grabbed for his final, lone straw:
"My lord, you promised me a debt." Breathlessly grave he clenched his hands together and lowered himself to a solemn pleading. "One gift, were it in your power to grant would be mine."
The queen looked to her husband in puzzlement, Valentine did not remove his eyes from Jace. "I ask it now. Please God, grant me your daughter's hand. You know you will not find a more faithful son in marriage." Or one who will start the match indebted to you and not demand twice Clary's weight in gold in the very least as a dowry.
Just like that, Valentine loosed a smile of pure satisfaction. His wife laughed quietly to herself, shaking her head in amused disbelief. Because Jace had done exactly as the King wanted, the understanding resounded somewhere in his spinning head, wasted that wish on something Valentine had been inclined to give him anyway. Valentine took particular delight in experimenting with just how far he could push a man and still have him snap and bounce back to where was convenient for the King. At that time, Jace could not find it in him to care. Not when his transgressions with Clary may actually bear reward.
As Valentine slowly and smugly extended his hand to the dumbfounded young man before him, Jace thought that if this was the price of a fall from grace he should do it more often.
-0000000000000-
Filling the atmosphere as much with disbelief as the dense silence, Clary contemplated the misting of her breath before her and wondered if she was to be left here to freeze to death. An hour ago she might have imagined that her fury was such that her very breath smoked, but whatever reserves of anger she had been using to sustain herself had been swamped by fear and dread long since. If she were to be honest, she were not surprised enough to feel indignant. She had seen all of this coming, perhaps not in this sequence of events- but for every sin there came a reckoning. The dark, quiet chill of the rooms was somehow placating, it was nice in a way to have the time and peace to count her breaths and with them her thoughts. If she wanted, she could have risen from the floor and gone to the fireplace, a few embers still lurked there. She could see the minor reddish glow from here, but much as it may have made a poignant image for her to be crouched over the dying heat she felt immensely weary and could not bear to stir herself. Besides Clary, felt she made a perfectly good image of despondence as she was, slumped against the leg of the chair she had shunned, head skimming the bottom of the table top.
The last thing she wanted was to move. If anything, unbearable though this waiting was it was still preferable to anything the future may hold for her. With what was likely to be on the horizon when the sun rose she found herself happy for this night to go on forever and ever; she could keep this vigil for eternity if need be.
She was so weary. How long had she been here? Her father had simply instructed her to wait. That could have been hours ago. It most definitely felt it. The interior of the room had been dark when she had arrived but as far as she could see beyond the nearest window pane was pure darkness too. No hint of a dawn.
Her eyes were heavy and the feeling had been crushed from her legs by the rest of her weight courtesy of the way she were sitting, but moving seemed too great an effort. She bore it as far as she could, recognising that her father was not returning anytime soon. Perhaps no one was coming, ever. That would not be so terrible, her aching and tired mind proposed, since whatever tomorrow brought was sure to be detrimental. She had felt the doom advancing for some time now, yet as it seemed imminent the real battle proved to be staying alert. Clary could see the merit in trying to form a plan of sorts but it was what she could not see happening that disturbed her more.
There was no way that Jace would get to walk away from this, no matter how clever he was. In fact knowing Jace, he would not be inclined towards a witty evasion, not anymore. Had he not made himself perfectly clear? He was finished with the creeping around and lying. If that were to be the case then she did not want an escape from this either. She would take whatever came, whether that were disgrace or worse...
At some point her eyes must have slid shut for the next she knew she were jerking awake again, her already stiff and sore muscles protesting the tension that seized them with her startled awakening. Clary blinked her still tired eyes several times, recollecting piece by piece where she was and why. She clenched and unclenched her numb fingers, rubbing at her neck briefly before tucking them under the mountain of her skirts. Even that slight move sent spasms of icy pain through her cramped limbs. Wincing, Clary wondered how long she had dozed for. Not long, it cannot have been. Then she paused to reconsider that assessment as she heard the unmistakable croak of a cockerel nearby.
She drew in several long breaths to try and chase away her disorientation. She could have foreseen the King leaving her here all night but she had expected her mother to come for her by now. Jocelyn detested the King, besides, she had not betrayed Clary before even knowing of her love for Jace. Or had she? Clary wondered if her mother had not turned traitor after all. Valentine halting her tryst tonight had not been by chance. He knew where would be and why.
In spite of the pain that rippled through her neck with the movement the Princess dejectedly let her head loll back to its resting place. It was clearly to be a long night and she ought to store her strength for the trials to come by getting whatever sleep she could. If only her thoughts could be silenced. The cockerel outside crowed again and Clary found she had been straining to hear it.
What was taking them so long? There was not so much to their relationship that it would take all night for Jace to divulge. Her solitude at the present moment assured her that he was being grilled first instead. She had been wrong, Clary feared, scrunching up her stinging eyes. Jace must have denied her after all.
Stubbornly she resisted sleep as best she could. She had to think- keep alert. It was growing impossible. Unbidden, her mind leapt back to the ring she had concealed. Remembering it she was suddenly overpowered by the urge to laugh. To think she had ever believed she might steer the course of her fate. Evade the inevitable. Clary would be here for as long as her father willed it; he could starve her to death if he wanted, the yowling hunger in the pit of her stomach declared. Not even her mother could stop him, for Jocelyn had yielded her claim to Clary the second she had let her follow Luke out of the convent gates. If she had ever truly had possession of her daughter.
Clary had been born for a purpose, a purpose for her father alone to decide. Her great misfortune was being his only daughter; there was no chance he might forget or forgive her for resisting his control. The poison chalice was solely hers to drain. All that was required of Clary was for her to play the meek lamb and do as her lord directed. Well, she had rather failed at that.
The hysteria in her barely suppressed laughter built, but Clary dared not release any of it for she knew if she did it would too soon splinter to tears. Contemplation was too painful and the possibility of resistance too futile so instead, she let her traitorous eyes shut...
"Clarissa," The stern disapproval bolted her awake so quickly that Clary's entire body jerked upwards and her head collided with the corner of the table top. As the sharp, pounding pain of that subsided she struggled to come to terms with the ashy blue-grey light of the chamber now.
For the second occasion in a too short space of time Clary found herself confusedly blinking up at her father. He was annoyed, she noticed, likely that she had missed his grand entrance. Or that she had not spent the entirety of the night writhing about in trepidation, shirking from the thought of what was to come. Well, she had resigned herself to resignation. A small smile dance along her lips at the curious turn of phrase she had just conjured to herself, and Clary realised too late if anything that put Valentine's nose a little further out of joint. She sincerely hoped her debauchery had kept him out of bed all night, though she could tell his hair had been recently combed and his beard just trimmed. No, he had decided what to do with her hours ago.
That observation quenched any amusement she harboured and saw her force an unsteady rise. Her legs barked irritably as she bade then hold her and she came to terms with her back having quite fallen out with her as she met her father's gaze. "Majesty?" Her mouth was dreadfully dry and her voice subsequently hoarse.
"Clarissa," he repeated, gaze sliding up and down her with distaste.
"Forgive my appearance. Had I known when to expect you I would have readied myself."
Rather than sparking his temper that remark caught the King's amusement. She would not easily rile him today. No, the shine in those black eyes now was not soon to be dulled. Valentine was very, very pleased with himself at the moment.
"We shall see how long that spirit lasts in marriage. We have found the ideal husband for you at last."
Stunned, Clary had no reply, at which the smile grew. "You see? You are learning. I have realised that a disobedient girl like yourself could be sent to no foreign court. You would only disgrace me." He declared it all with snide pleasure. Reaching for her elbow and seizing it up, the King turned her none too gently around until she was at his side. Then he began to march her toward the door. Still, Clary would not satisfy him to voice as much as a squeak of protest.
"We will keep you here, we think. Where an eye can be kept on you."
Clary stayed stonily mute, though dragged her heels as much as she could. None of this made sense. Her father kept yanking on her arm, "Come now, Clarissa, your betrothed awaits." He pushed the door to her outer chamber, the ease with which it swung outwards mocking her earlier plight. Despite what she had anticipated, the chamber beyond was far from empty.
She took account of her rather wan mother and the reliably congested Pangborn, but then quite forgot their presence as she recognised the third person waiting. Jace glanced up with alarm as she entered, dragged along limply by her arm like a doll. The three were crowded around a document, she noticed as Valentine continued hauling her over to the group. At last he released his hold, the return of blood flow down her arm just as pinching as his fingers had been. Jace kept staring, saying nothing of course, but there was an immense pleading in his face. To do what?
Her attention snapped back to Pangborn, who cleared his throat and stirred the quill in the inkpot before him noisily, eventually extending it to Clary. Simultaneously with his left hand he rotated the sheet of precise, concise legal print.
A betrothal contract. With the first spiked signature still damp upon it. Jonathan Herondale.
Again, on instinct Clary's eyes skidded back to Jace. What did he want of her? To concede and sign it? To resist? Was this some kind of trap?
The latter suspicion was answered by Valentine, who leaned forward until his breath brushed her ear. "Not your will but mine, my daughter." To accentuate his hands fell on the small of her back and gave a little shove. On the stumbling step forward she reached for the quill.
She looked to Jace one more time, long enough to spy the smallest of nods he dared.
Clary pressed the nib to paper.
-0000000000000-
A/N: We got there at last. Let's never consider how long it took.
Also, I chuckled so much to myself at the reworking of one of my favourite Simon quips from City if Bones. I amused myself, if no one else.
Finally, speaking of Jesus, if anyone picked up on my rather pathetic rendering of a certain biblical scene at the end there pat yourself of the back. :')
Until whenever the next time is x