"The Mistress I serve quickens what's dead/ and makes my labours pleasures." -(Shakespeare, The Tempest)
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A/N: The apostrophe in the chapter title was deliberate. That is all :')
My Labour's Pleasures
Mind trailing slowly back to consciousness, Clary was firstly aware of the lingering weariness that still weighed down her body. Secondly, she came to terms with how pleasantly warm she was. If anything, that made opening her heavy eyes all the more difficult. The brushing touch that had woken her skimmed down her bare back again and a breathy chuckle sounded by her ear. She made a muffled, half-groaned complaint and burrowed her cheek further into the crook of Jace's neck. Almost painful waves of feeling raced down her previously numbed right arm as she readjusted herself, curling tighter against his side and letting the hand splayed against his chest slip half an inch or so. To her satisfaction, she could feel the measured thudding of his heart quicken at her touch.
He pressed a small kiss to the tip of ear, "Good morning, Lady Herondale."
In spite of how tired she still was, Clary smiled at the morning rasp to his voice and slowly cracked her eyes open. She peered up at her husband- God, it was sublime to call him that, even if only her mind- and slowly, blearily propped herself on one elbow. Jace smiled gently up at her, reaching out and tucking a stray lock back behind her ear before sliding his fingers along her cheekbone.
"How are you?" It was a deep question, lightly though it was posed. She perceived precisely what he was asking and spared a momentary review of herself. Other than feeling less than fully rested, she was not too profoundly discomforted. "I am well," she murmured reassuringly, leaning in to touch her lips briefly to his, whereupon another smile peaked at the new sensation of the stubble she encountered.
Drawing back, Clary rolled over until she lay on her stomach beside Jace, one arm still draped over him. She pressed her chin into the back of her wrist and sighed contentedly. She could quite happily lay like this forever, wound up in the bedsheets and him without any pressing responsibilities or worries. Unfortunately, she was beginning to sense that the price she would have to pay for these pleasures was a great deal more responsibility and worry in the future. Her thoughts must have been upon her face, for Jace's smile turned a little wry.
"Ready to return to the circus?" He gestured with a tilt of his head to the closed bedroom door, beyond which there were already noises of movement and subdued voices. "By the sounds of it they've been waiting impatiently for the best part of an hour." The only response she could muster was another groan, pressing her head into her arms and wriggling further under the blankets. Jace chortled and resumed stroking down her back, "It is a small miracle no one has yet run out of patience and burst in. Namely your father."
Clary gave a small, snide laugh and turned her head to the side to answer. "He will want to know the, ah- deed, is done."
Jace snickered distractedly by way of response. "I expect so. Him and the rest of Idris."
It was nonsensical, for the flush to stain her cheeks the way it did now, yet Clary could not fight the rising heat to her face. She tried to duck away with a nervous, tittering laugh, but Jace caught her by slipping his hands back under her jaw and tilting her head upright again. Given that no servant had dared venture in to resurrect the dead fire from last night, she was grateful for the warmth of his fingertips, still hot from where they had been tucked around her skin. He pulled her back for another lingering kiss, letting one hand tangle in her hair and the other resume tracing its way along the ridges of her spine. When he at last pulled away Clary refrained from opening her eyes, leaning in until her forehead touched his. Simultaneously, she curled her right hand around the nape of his neck and delighted in the tickle of the soft hair there against her knuckles. As if clinging to him would will the rest of the world away, along with whatever consequences for these moments were skulking on the horizon.
Jace uttered another breath of laughter, letting his wandering hand travel over the small of her back and around until it cupped her waist, pulling her body perfectly flush against his once again. "Well, since we are no rush to rise…" Eyes still tight shut, she smiled again, willingly leaning into him and landing a few fleeting, chaste kisses against his lips. "…And the matter at hand happens to be one of state importance…" Jace proceeded with masterfully smooth persuasion, which was far from required.
To her credit as a girl of good birth and holy upbringing, Clary offered no more than a short burst of laughter by way of assent and encouragement as her husband hauled her under the sheets once again.
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Princewater Palace, Alicante, Mid-December 1536
Despite her endless nagging about how a lady ought to behave when she chastised her daughter's lack of propriety, Mayrse Lightwood was not prepared to pay much heed to decency when it inconvenienced her. This much was proved when she burst into her daughter's chambers late one afternoon, midnight blue skirts swirling around her like a stormy night and with a matching thunderous expression.
Isabelle, startled by the sudden entrance, jerked upright and moved at once to shield her modesty as the doors to her bedchamber where rattled on their hinges. The quick movement sent some of the scalding water surging over the lip of her tin bathtub and slapping to the floorboards. She was still curled in on herself and wide eyed when Maryse finally snapped her body to a halt and carefully lifted her skirts out of the way of the spreading puddle her startled child had created.
"Really Isabelle, there is no need for that. I did bring you into the world. I am perfectly well acquainted with your body."
"What are you doing here?" Izzy demanded, horrified.
"I have already told you. I came for Jace's wedding and the King was gracious enough to extend my invite to the Christmas celebrations."
"Yes," Isabelle began, internally pleased with herself for keeping her voice so even, "I mean here. Now. What possible discussion could not have waited another half hour?"
Her mother raised a haughty brow, "Mayhap you can answer that, daughter. It is the queerest thing- in the weeks I have been here our paths have barely crossed." She leaned forward until her fingertips were skimming the edge of the tub, blanketed by soaked linen to protect the bather from burns. Isabelle was always glad of it, as she insisted upon her bathwater being all but boiling, now she would rather have the sheet plastered to her.
"One might almost think someone was going to pains to ensure I was avoided."
Izzy scowled, partly because she was hugging her knees to her chest so tightly that now her feet were going numb. "Lady Mother, I have been busy. The Princess finds me invaluable- her words and not mine- and can barely be parted from me. That is what you wanted, is it not?"
Her mother smiled sardonically, "Partially, yes. Yet I cannot help but think that the Princess cares little for the company of anyone beyond her husband these days."
Isabelle responded with a shrug, delighted when the manoeuvre slopped another wave overboard and forced Mayrse to leap backward. However, that only prompted her to begin to pace around the bathtub and scrutinise every inch of Isabelle's skin, the entirety of which was on display. At the inspection she became hyperaware of her heat-reddened skin, as well as of how the steam had opened every pore she had and that a strand of clean hair had escaped from where she had messily pinned it up, out the way of the dirty water. Now that strand clung limply to the back of her neck.
"Do you still bathe in rose water? Is that what I smell?"
Isabelle was too taken aback to muster a smart response, "I- I suppose so."
"Hmmm. You are keeping out of the sun, I hope? We cannot have your skin browning like a peasant's."
"Mother!"
"I suppose those hot baths must be purifying. Still, I have my doubts. Have you tried egg whites? They pale the skin and halt wrinkles."
"I have no wrinkles!"
"You look like a prune"
"Only because of the water!" Isabelle shot back, growing pricklier the longer she was needled.
Mayrse kept circling the tub, running her palm along its lip as she moved. Eventually, Isabelle's already sorely tried patience was sapped, "What is the meaning of this?" Foreboding tightened its clawed hold in her guts, "I am hardly hideous Mother, what does my looking perfect account for anyway?"
Having completed her lap, the Countess halted and leaned forward, until she her mouth was level with her daughter's ear, "I hear the Crown Prince is captivated by you."
In spite of the warm water Isabelle felt chills, and her naked skin erupted in gooseflesh while her stomach undertook an acrobatics routine. The physical signs her mother happily misinterpreted. "You always were such a pretty girl. I should have known you would snare a big fish."
Isabelle lurched forward and scrabbled for the dry towel hanging on a nearby stool. She wrapped it around herself as hastily as she could and clutched it to her wet, shaking body tightly, as though the Prince were present in body and leering at her.
"Mother- it is not…" The protests trembled as much as her body, not that it would have mattered for her mother's ears might as well have been stopped with wax. Mayrse chuckled to herself and straightened. "Modesty never suited you Isabelle. Nor could you ever lie to me."
Isabelle tried to compose herself and fix her mother with a serious stare, "I am not bedding him. Nor will I start to. I will not be his whore."
"Good heavens no!" Mayrse made a show of flicking droplets of water off her billowing sleeves, "Although considering your whoring got us into this mess there would be a certain justice to your seducing our way out of it."
The offhand comment knocked the breath out of Isabelle, just as she felt the colour slither off her face. "What do you mean?"
Mayrse shot her daughter a withering look, "You thought your father would not tell me? Isabelle, he was incensed enough I feared you had murdered someone. I rather wished you had, when your betrothed informed us of exactly why he could no longer wed you."
Her wet hair kept splattering onto the floorboards miserably as Isabelle clambered out of the bath in the most ungainly fashion, with every intention of fleeing. "You left me no choice," she began to argue her case hotly, "You refused to believe that I would not marry him. I told you, I swore in fact, that I would do anything to stop the wedding…"
"Well we may have taken that threat seriously, but I am afraid we rather thought too well of you to imagine the lengths to which you would actually go. Christ have mercy, what demon possessed you to take it into your head the escape route was to seduce his father?!"
Try to seduce she contemplated amending, though judging by her parent's face the denial would not be believed. Even as her heart beat fast enough to set her head spinning, Isabelle tried for some of the dry wit that would have served Jace so well in this scenario, yet it fell flat. "Perhaps I thought that would make him want to hasten the wedding?"
Her mother's eyes were blank with disgust, "-For your father to have to sit and hear from your betrothed's lips that since you had known his father in the biblical sense your union would now be incestuous in the eyes of the church…"
Any further words failed her. Perhaps that was for the best, for already the stinging weight of tears were beginning to press behind Isabelle's eyes. She had borne her father's ranting and roaring on the same subject in a white-faced silence, gratified to know that for once his not knowing the half of it worked to her advantage, but a few sharp words on her mother's shame made her want to weep. The two of them were been allies on most things, with her being the only girl in the family. Mayrse had always spoiled her, seeing her own likeness in her daughter. Now she was looking at her as though she could no longer recognise her.
"It is a miracle he did not pack you off to the nunnery. Truly, you are fortunate that the state of affairs dictate that we need you to marry."
"What does that mean?" Isabelle asked, her voice hoarse from suppressed sobs.
The Countess shook her head, lips clamping shut.
More than her pride had been wounded, otherwise the next words to burst from Isabelle Lightwood's mouth would never have done so, "If we are to speak of affairs, surely you must know mine is not the reason father banished me here! I have known about his whore in Paris for years, just as I watched him flirt with the prettiest serving girls for years- but I kept my mouth shut! Then that bitch in Paris went too far! She was wearing the finest of clothes, eating well and making merry while you were trapped in Adamant, re-hemming your best gown from five years ago and scrimping on meals. When will you all get it into your heads that I am not stupid! If we are counting our pennies, Lady Mother, it is because father's harlot is spending them! You deserved to know and I was tired of holding my tongue. That is why father sent me here, that is why he hates me now. For he is hardly in a position to condemn my debauchery."
"Isabelle that is ENOUGH." To her spiralling horror Isabelle noticed her mother was shaking now, her hands clapped to her stomacher as if she did not trust them to be free and her chest heaving as though she had run a race. "I will hear no more of this. No more I say. Ever." She sucked in a series of shallow breaths and then steadied herself. Though her next words shook, Isabelle had no doubt of their sincerity. "Not a single word more is to be said on either subject again. Do you understand?"
Scalded to muteness, Isabelle nodded.
"Should the matter ever come to light…" she swallowed before pressing on with growing momentum, "As far as anyone is concerned, you were taken advantage of by that man. He used and dishonoured you- a young girl too innocent and trusting to withstand him. He had the advantage of years and force. You are the victim, not the villain. We cannot pass you off as pure, therefore you must appeal to the Crown Prince in other ways." She paused at last, to shoot Isabelle a meaningful look, "Regardless, you must never succumb. Not ever. Play the whore but never be her. Lead him on without relenting. Tease him and promise him everything but deny him your bed. Make it clear that if he wants you he will have to marry you. It has worked for other women and so it will work for you. Believe me, if you get his blood hot enough he will flatten anyone who tries to stand between you." Her final afterthought fell disdainfully, "God knows, it was so for his father."
Had Isabelle not felt so bruised, she might have jostled the countess further with a reference to some if the rumours she had heard about her mother's relationship with the young King before he had mounted the steps of his throne. As it were, she was still reeling from the onslaught of blame she had just received and felt she had not the strength to fight her corner here any longer. If her mother was against her, she had no hope whatsoever.
"He will never marry me. He does not care for me that way." He does not care for anything or anyone, the bastard.
Her mother's bitter eyes sliced back to hers, shooting up and down her half naked body before returning the full force of her gaze and will to Isabelle's wan, wretched face. "Then you make him."
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A sterner mistress would have lost her temper by now, Clary thought to herself, wincing yet again as another pin pricked her scalp. "Apologies, Madam," Rebecca mumbled, frowning in concentration as she prepared to wield yet another. Clary was beginning to feel her head resembled a pincushion, but refrained from commenting on her discomfort. Wives were supposed to be uncomfortable, she reminded herself ruefully. Eventually she was bound to get used to added weight atop her head- she had grown used to the courtly hood in time. Naturally, as soon she had, the bar was raised. Her days of free-flowing hair were behind her, now it was to be plaited and pinned in a coil out of the way of the veil. From now on, like any respectable married woman, she would be veiled under her hood. Long hair belonged to maidens. Now, like the rest of her body, her hair was for her husband's eyes only.
The past few weeks had been her adjustment period after all, and she was starting to come to terms with a lot more than fashion changes. Now she had new rooms, which she and Jace shared and although formally they had separate bedchambers that too she shared with him. This proved something of a scandal, of course newlyweds were expected to lie together- but a husband who came to his wife every night of the week?! They had appalled at least half the court with such goings on.
The pinnacle of the debacle had come when Clary first started to bleed away the King's first hopes of a grandson a week after the wedding, only for the Duke to later arrive in her bedchamber in his night clothes undeterred. The Marchioness of Edgehunt (re-instated as the head of her household after a bout of ill health) had been rendered a daunting purple at his appearance. She had flapped like a fish out of water, trying to convey as politely as possible that he could not possibly share his wife's bed for a week, and she had sent a message to that effect some hours hence. Jace, cheerfully cavalier as ever, had merely patted Lady Penhallow on the arm and told her that though he was touched by her concern she need not fret. "The Duchess's pillows are more comfortable than mine, that is all I mean by it," he'd informed her jovially and then dismissed her for the evening.
Contrary to what their retinue may say, the two of them were not entirely depraved. On that occasion, the first of its kind, Jace had pleaded to stay as all he wanted was to fall asleep next to her. Mortified as she had been after the Marchioness's ousting, Clary had still not been inclined to look him in the eye and deny him. God knew, Jace had been lonely long enough.
Nonetheless, such things were not to be borne. The next day Clary discovered that the complaint had reached the ears of the queen. Following what was undoubtedly the most unpleasant conversation Clary had ever had with her mother in her life, the young couple had agreed to cease the impropriety. A promise they had not kept, as it transpired. The following week they had returned to Princewater, where the Duke and Duchess's bedchambers happened to have an adjoining passage hidden to the public eye. Thanks to that, Jace could come and go unbeknownst to anyone, and as often as he pleased.
He made just one of those entrances now, albeit through the main doors and fully dressed. The Duke nodded a brief greeting to Rebecca and then passed his new wife a piece of parchment. Clary spared a downward glance at the list of names before raising her head again so Rebecca could adjust her headwear. "What is this?"
Jace sauntered over to the fruit bowl upon the table behind her and began crunching at an apple before answering, "Your petitioners for the day."
Forgetting her handmaiden entirely, Clary whirled to face him, the sudden movement causing the unpinned hood to slide over one ear. It must have looked comical, but Jace chose to be a gentleman and held back his laughter as she impatiently restored it. "I have petitioners?"
Jace nodded and swallowed his mouthful of fruit, "Of course. You are the King's daughter and the Duchess of Broceland," He smiled teasingly and fired her a wink, "Therefore a very powerful lady."
Clary rolled her eyes and scoffed, rubbing her hands together as she started to contemplate it. "But, are you certain…" Jace leaned back against the table and crossed one ankle behind the other, the very picture of nonchalance. Clary tried not to get distracted by how the cobalt blue of his doublet brought out the brightness of his hair.
"Of course you are ready. I daresay you have been for some time, only your father saw no need for you to engage with such things when you were expected to be sent away to marry. Now you are an Idrisian noblewoman through and through, so you need to start concerning yourself with the issues of Idris' people."
"Naturally," Clary hazarded, chewing at the inside of her mouth as her thoughts whirled. "But would it not be best if I waited until we got to Chatton? There I would be dealing with our tenants."
"On the contrary. I should think it good practice. Besides, it will be well into the new year before your father will release us form court. Surely you want something to do with yourself until then." The Duchess shrugged, the knotted anxiety in her stomach showing no signs of abating. Yes, she was desperate for something useful to devote her time to, but her last interaction with Alicante's commons had not exactly been amicable. Noting her silence, Jace moved forward and reached for her hands, "Sweetheart-"Damn him, he knew that would be her undoing- "I am not asking you to judge a murder case. Only a few petty squabbles. Anything you are uncertain of, or feel incapable of judging, can be deferred to me. Or in an extreme case your father. Think of it like a novena- you are offering your intercession."
Clary's brows slipped to a frown, "Is that blasphemous?"
Jace shrugged and continued soothingly, "The audience will take place right here in your presence chamber, my guards will be just outside the door." He lifted their entwined fingers to his lips and dropped a slow, sweet kiss on her knuckles.
"What of you?" She asked at last, "What will you be doing in the midst of all this?"
A smile with a glimmer of sheepishness surfaced on the young Duke's face, "The King has arranged a hunting trip downriver and begs my company."
"Hmmm. Strapped to that new chestnut hunter of yours against your own will?" She enquired drily.
Jace tutted, "Married a fortnight and already a source of such disapproval to my bride. You know, the invite was extended to both of us."
Clary gasped and shook off his hands melodramatically, "No need for such threats."
Jace spread his arms in play surrender and began to retreat. Clary granted him a smile and pretended to shoo him out, "Away with you then! Leave me be to get ready and put the day to good use."
"I shall bring you back a nice boar!" He called over his shoulder as he left. Clary laughed quietly to herself as she turned back to the looking glass and Rebecca, whom she had almost forgotten was there.
For all her complaints she did not begrudge Jace his manly pursuits. She knew from hearing him speak of it how he loved the thrill of the hunt, and the freedom of travelling at such speed on a good horse. And after the weeks he had been cooped up she was glad to see his joy in the outdoors rekindled. Besides, he was always in the finest fettle when he came back with muddy boots and a face reddened by the winter gales, even if they caught nothing.
Anyway, if this list was to be believed she had a busy day ahead of her even without him. Her first taste of real courtly life at last. A smug little smile rose at the thought. Finally, somewhere her voice and brain would matter. Now she could rule with the Duke's authority, even if only in a debacle over what a suitable price for a chicken was.
People were wrong. Marriage was not simply another form of bondage after all.
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Princewater Palace, Christmas Day 1536
Apparently the general consensus held that this year's festivities to commemorate the Saviour's birth had been a mighty success. Every strata had something to be joyful about; the commons for one were glad of their second holiday in a month and showed no intentions of sobering anytime soon. If among the merchants and traders of the capital there was a dampening memory of how the recent rebellion had proved a commercial setback they hid it well, and among the nobles there was certainly no such annoyance. The celebrations had commenced at dawn Mass and now stretched on late into the evening, with no signs of abating anytime soon.
Where the money for another great feast was coming from was of no one's concern but Magnus Bane's, and anyone who did spare a thought for the co-ordinator would have found no hint of worry in his overt gaiety. Nor did the King seem discountenanced, smiling supremely from his place of honour and nodding only once to his master of the horse, his Crassus, who could conjure the funds from somewhere.
A season of miracles too- meanwhile his wife, the long lost queen, perched on his arm once more with a warm plum coloured gown to consolidate her restored royal status. While that may have been the source of His Majesty's glee no one was looking at the queen, not when her daughter proved so radiant.
The Duchess, as she now penned herself rather than 'Her Highness', was in a dress almost as bright as her face tonight. The holly berry red of her skirts swirled around her merrily as she clapped and spun her way through the court dances she no longer shied from. These days she chatted and laughed with her court as if it she had been years among them rather than months.
Though the matrons smirked to one another and slyly muttered that the delight of marriage's first days would be lost to her soon enough, none of their daughters were listening, enraptured instead by the lithe, jolly form of the Duke beside her. All in vain, for his eyes were not like to stray from his sweet, bonny bride either.
It was rare that Prince Jonathan was at one with the rest of the court, yet he could not wrench his attention from his younger sibling either. She was beautiful, he noticed for the first time with no small amount of unhappiness. Not that she had not been pretty before, but now she seemed older and more comfortable. The awkward, timid girl he had first encountered in that swaying barge had been stripped away. Now there a was a lively young woman in her place, and this Clary. Jonathan reflected, he did not know what to do with, settling for swirling the spiced wine in his goblet around absentmindedly.
He was, it would appear, alone on his unshakable melancholy. He had been hoping that the Yule revelries would bring with them some of the peace of mind that had been eluding him for so long. The plan had been that some good wine and food would in the very least prove a distraction from how spectacularly everything had gone to hell this year. If he was to keep from pitching himself off the roof, Jonathan had to reassure himself that Fortune's tide would change soon.
Sooner than anticipated, it would transpire. A soft hand upon his shoulder and the Prince pivoted in his seat, coming face to face with his father.
Valentine offered a thin lipped smile that was no warmer than a Baltic winter, and one which Jonathan was all too well accustomed with. "Yes, Sire?"
The King lifted his hand off his son (with some gladness Jonathan was sure) and gestured in the direction of the side exit, which was close to the high table. It had been designed that way in case the royal family should ever require a swift exit, given that the great hall's gallery was designed for the wider public of Alicante to come and view the spectacle that were mealtimes here. Tonight however, it was his own nobles and lackeys Valentine wanted to flee. "Come. Quickly, when we shall not be missed." Granted, a brief scan of the hall confirmed that their departure would cause no ruckus. The unquestioned centrepiece of the party remained the glowing newlyweds.
Silently, Jonathan slipped out after his father and followed him into the nearest antechamber. Someone had lit the fire and the Prince made straight for it, chafing his bone white hands together over the low, wavering amber flames. Having departed the stuffy hall the cold of the empty room came as a shock. Sadly, he suspected this fire not been long lit, as there was no great heat emanating from it and flames rimmed only the edges of the haphazardly piled logs. Mind over matter, Jonathan told himself sternly and he stretched out his fingers anyway. Rather than taking a seat, Valentine came to stand opposite his son. Languidly, he propped his elbow upon the mantelpiece and pressed his free hand to his hip. It may have been a carefully chosen stance, but Jonathan was not fooled. He had noticed the tension in his father all day. Valentine seemed more tightly wound than usual, however cheerfully he might present himself. For a moment the King peered into the fire, watching it gain momentum and the flames darken to burning oranges and reds. Jonathan found himself waiting with baited breath. They were at a crucial crossroads here, a change in the current. He could feel it.
At long last, he sensed the change had met its consequences.
"You are aware, I am sure, of the many unsettling rumours that are flooding into the city with every passing day."
Which ones? Jonathan longed to enquire. Instead he flicked his tongue along the roof of his mouth and drew it back and forth across his front teeth until he could bear the pregnant silence no more. "Appertaining to?"
"Our newest family member."
Again, Jonathan waited. For all he knew his father was attempting to entice him into saying something untoward about the brother he would rather gouge his own eyes out than have to acknowledge. Thankfully, Valentine spoke again before his son could, "He has made quite the glowing reputation for himself. All of which circumstance and we ourselves have allowed."
Jonathan shrugged. "The hero of the peasantry. I cannot fathom why. Their leader died suspiciously during that little parley."
"And now they have a new one. One which I have welcomed into the bosom of my own family and risen very high indeed. And you know well what is being said of that. That he seduced my daughter under my nose and I had to construct that wedding in hasty reparation. He seems impetuous. Worse, he seems to have the upper hand."
So why do it? Jonathan had to literally bite back the words by sinking his teeth into his tongue. Still anger and confusion clashed and broiled within. If giving Jace a dukedom and Clary's hand made them look like helpless fops then why had Valentine been so insistent? He was a man obsessed with image and perception- how could it not have occurred to him how all of this would look?
Valentine leaned in closer, dipping his voice to a pitch just loud enough for Jonathan to detect the following growl, "They are singing his praises in every county. From Broceland, to Edom, to Lyn. The final Herondale, the champion of the common man- the people's king." That final, deadly word clanged into the quiet, setting Jonathan's teeth grinding and fingers curling to fists.
Finally releasing his tongue when he deemed it safe, the Prince did venture a question, "Then surely the time has come to remind them who is their king?"
Valentine nodded, apparently deep in thought. Again, Jonathan was not entirely convinced his father was not already several steps ahead in this conversation and steering it accordingly.
"What do you suggest we do, Jonathan?"
Jonathan pressed his palms to the stone fireplace, feeling it at last begin to thrum with heat under his fingers. "What we should have done weeks ago." Instead of wedding planning, he added, only to himself. "We know the names of the main men among Tiller's allies and followers, as well exactly which farms we let them scurry back to. They should be hunted down: reminded that disobeying their King comes at a price and that the punishment for treason is death." He started to tap at the stonework now, the coming tempo of his thoughts providing a far merrier tune than any of those he had danced to earlier.
"Yet that alone would not be enough. If we truly want to show all of Idris who holds the power, we need to carefully select our instrument for exercising that power." For the first time in weeks, months even, Jonathan found himself growing excited, optimistic. He lifted his head and let a smile inch its way slowly across his lips. "But by the same token we cannot tolerate a peasantry who have proven they will rise against us worshipping a Herondale. So, we make it undeniably clear that the King's hand is behind all our Herondale does. We send him to dispatch the rebel leaders. The same men to whom he promised clemency and an intercession. They will feel betrayed, in the least. At best they will never forgive him. Either way, it shall be clear that he is only a Morgenstern puppet." His exhilaration flared further still as he caught a glimpse of similar fiendish satisfaction on his father's face. Just to sugar coat the best Christmas present he could have offered His Majesty, Jonathan lowered his head again, "Alas, you know I am more than happy to do your bidding Father. I would gladly be your servant in this and all else, but I think when one considers the climate… do you suppose we could spare our Duke?"
Valentine skimmed the back of his knuckles along his chin in silence. Jonathan wondered how deeply he were thinking, if he was only pretending to think- but no. He knew his father well enough by now to differentiate with reasonable success what was affected and what was genuine. Whatever was spinning through that silver head, he was certainly balancing his options. Eventually he nodded slowly. "Ideally he would stay here, with Clarissa. But as you say, given the situation… Aye." For the second time that evening he laid his hand upon his son, clapping him several times on the back.
"You have always told me the art of kingship is knowing when to exercise mercy and when to be ruthless. I do not feel that this is an occasion for the former."
Valentine had already moved on, both in mind and body as he made back for the door and the continuing revels. "All the same Jonathan, I think the lesson eludes you still."
Jonathan felt his mouth pop open, either to demand what that meant or deny its implication but by the time the first syllable formed, Valentine interrupted him, brisk and business-like once more, "Say nothing to anyone of this. I will be the one to tell your brother."
Somehow, even denying him that pleasure could not dull the moment.
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The messenger arrived around noon on St Stephen's day, startling Alec out of his reverie by the window. He had been hiding from his parents and trying to kill the hours until Magnus came back from the city bank, so he had opted to spend some quality time with his old foe Plato. Subsequently, he had been peering out over the courtyard and wrapped up in a rather pleasant daydream when the knock on the door came. He found himself leaping up and raising the book to his chest in a flimsy, papery shield, mayhap in anticipation of a similar intrusion to the one Isabelle had suffered.
His sister was still reeling from it, though the entirety of what their mother had said to her had yet to be imparted. But they had obviously not exchanged pleasantries. Mercifully, when Alec did open the door it was not his rampaging mother, only a lone man in blue and gold livery which sported a familiar beech tree badge. Alec sighed and ran his fingers through his ruffled hair, "Yes?"
"The Duke begs your presence, milord" the lad sniffled.
Nodding vaguely, Alec set about righting his appearance and dragging his boots out from under the bed.
A few minutes later he was at the doorway to the Broceland apartments. Before the herald could make it to the second syllable of Alec's name Jace had emerged to wave him away, looking particularly distracted.
"You know," Alec tried for a stab of amusement, "If you are to really to live up to the address, Your Grace needs to start putting on some airs and graces." His friend failed to crack a smile, draining what was left of Alec's good humour. Jace made for the door to his bedchamber, bypassing a still mumbling clerk on the way, leaving Alec to trail after him nervously. "Oh no. What ails you?"
"Close the door." Once he had done as instructed Alec took proper stock of the room, attention latching on the freshly polished breastplate and gauntlets hanging in the corner. Though there were the usual feminine accoutrements he was growing slowly used to finding in Jace's room-a scrap of lace here, a scent bottle or earring there- the lady herself was nowhere to be seen. "Where is the Princess?" Try as he might, Alec could not shake the habit of using her old title.
Rather than brightening as he usually would at the mention of his wife, Jace's expression grew grimmer. "She has taken a walk to clear her head." He raised his hands to screen and wipe at his tired eyes despondently. Now they were face to face Alec appreciated that the Duke looked ill. His skin was pale and his mouth trembled as though he were fighting bouts of nausea.
"Clear it of what?" Alec questioned warily as he edged over to a vacant seat.
Briefly Jace fidgeted on the spot, mouth twitching soundlessly before he finally took a seat too and dropped his head into his hands, the manoeuvre setting the gold chain around his neck rubbing the tops of his calves. When he raised it again he continued to rub at his temples before speaking, "I have just told Clary and decided it would be easiest to do all the necessary declarations in one go, so then I sent for you." He swooped in a breath, "The King has a task for me."
Alec listened carefully as Jace imparted the details of what was expected of him, dread and anger stirring and rising higher the more his brother said. When he finally finished, looking more despondent than he had in months, that ire had subsided, leaving only tremors of pity. Resisting an unhelpful frown, Alec tried to urge the wheels of a plan into motion, "Can you not work your verbal magic? Convince His Majesty to take another course?"
"Not this time," Jace shook his head glumly, shakily pouring himself a glass of wine before adding, "I did try but he is most resolute in this masterplan. All I can do is as I am ordered."
"You truly think so? God Jace, you promised to fight for these people, not punish them."
At last a strong emotion ripped across Jace's face, "As if I am ignorant of that! As if that is not likely why I have been chosen!" He broke off and swallowed gruffly before continuing in a sterner, lower voice, "Things threaten to get out of hand and you know Valentine would rather sever his right hand before he surrenders control. If he lost control for even a second… people are talking and he has started to look weak. I dismissed any rumours I heard about my ascent or marriage, knowing them all to be untrue, but even those which lack substance can be dangerous." He shook his head, "I do not want to do this. Yes, I said I would try to help the commoners' cause. But I swore to serve and protect Clary first. What threatens her father threatens her, as it does me. I am Duke of Broceland in name alone and only that much with the King's blessing. My wife is my responsibility. I have to provide for her and keep her from any harm. All of which can only be achieved if I am in His Majesty's good graces."
A pettier man may have commented that having Clary Morgenstern as his bedwarmer was not such a consolation for dirtying one's hands at Valentine's bidding after all. Alec, on the other hand, simply chafed his hands together, thinking furiously. Not long ago Jace would have resisted this order with everything he had. But he was not the man he had once been. Alec found himself thinking of an old marriage custom he had once read of, when the bride and groom were handfast with their hands tied together at the ceremony to symbolise the binding of their union. Now his friend's hands were indeed tied, by both his marriage and by his title. Neither of which had been an empty reward, not that Alec had ever anticipated it was. By welcoming Jace into the folds of his family Valentine was neutralising the last Herondale threat. Using Jace to dispatch his other enemies was the final move in a very long game.
Leaving Alec Lightwood to decide once and for all where he stood in all of this. He was not a reckless man by any stretch of the imagination, although even if he had been such a streak would have paled when compared to Jace's long ago. Alec calculated his moves before he made them. Mostly.
"You know I would follow you anywhere."
Jace's eyes sparked with disbelief, "No. Not to this hell."
"Especially to this hell."
His friend tutted, "Just because I am to lose what is left of my honour does not mean you have to do so with me."
"Yet if I break my promise to stand with you I could no longer call myself a man of my word either."
"God damn you Alec, why do you always have to make sense?"
Laughing humourlessly, Alec shrugged, "Would that I could take my own advice every once in a while."
He glanced back to Jace's unhappy, terse face, "You are sure you have no choice in this?"
"None whatsoever. I am beginning to believe the one thing none of us ever had in this was a choice."
"There is always a choice, if only to refuse," Alec maintained stubbornly. "You always, always have your own mind. The only question is whether or not you act upon it."
Jace returned to rubbing his eyes instead of answering, leaving Alec struck by the slump to his shoulders. These past few weeks he had grown so used to seeing Jace lively and joyful. Telling Clary he was to be parted from her must have taken every bit of that vigour out of him.
"Well, in this I dare not refuse. I might be the King's son by marriage but marriages are easily undone, especially in the early days. I do not have the right friends or any leverage at the moment. I am not in a position to refuse, or have a mind of my own in the matter." He pushed his agitated fingers through his hair, the way he always did when he was thinking ahead or perplexed. "But, God willing, when we return I shall have to see about remedying that position." His eyes skid to the sealed door before continuing in a mutter, "I have no intention of being powerlessly pushed to the next square in another man's game again."
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A/N: SCREW YOU VALENTINE. I think I'm going to get that printed on a t-shirt.
I hope you had a better Christmas than Clary and Jace just did. Also domestic clace was so much fun to write, I should do that more often. Then again, I could always make them suffer some more, and for the sake of the overall story that is exactly what I intend to do. Which says a lot about me as a person... Anyway thank you so much for reading! xx