A/N: I despise the following with every ounce of my being. That melodramatic statement alone ought to reassure you that I am still alive and have not in fact been abducted by aliens and/or replaced by a clone. Sadly.
I have, however, had some of the most stressful few weeks of my existence, but what can you do? The main thing is I am still scraping through life. And now the whining has consolidated my identity... on with the story.
I have sat on this chapter for... *Edward Cullen voice* "a while" now, waiting for it to rewrite itself into adequacy. It has had the audacity to defy me. So here we are.
Also, the next few chapters will be pretty Clace centric, mainly because its with them that the real game-changer is going to come, but I have got some Malec niceness and cool stuff for Izzy and Simon planned too. :)
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PART II: PLAYERS (1537-1540)
Mea Culpa
Hevrest, Southern Broceland, January 1537
Ironically, the sky was the loveliest shade of violet. The days here went from white, to pink and finally from purple to black, each slipping effortlessly and almost unnoticeably into the other. But this boy's eyes were a rarity, one of that special kind which felt each shift in the day's lighting as easily as he felt the shift from a warm room to a cold one. He could track the merest slither of colour in any situation- but that was only half his skill. His real talent lay in his knack of remembering how each moment looked and holding that picture with perfect clarity in his mind's eye until he could translate those colours to canvas. He was a fanciful boy, and an odd one, keeping so carefully closeted within himself and holding those vivid, vivacious thoughts to himself. He might be balanced on the back of the kindling cart but his mind was elsewhere, of that you could be sure.
Bemused as he was with the boy's interests, or rather lack of interest in anything concrete and practical, his father tolerated them. Mainly because he had been his mother's favourite and she had always indulged this playing with charcoal and paints. With the poor woman scarce cold in her grave, the Duke could not deprive the child of anything else. He had started to gradually work towards toughing his boy up, as well as encouraging him to focus his energy into something other than his damn drawings. "He has but turned eleven," The Duchess would reprimand, "Let him be a child. He will grow up soon enough." Be that as it may, the process was not occurring quick enough for the Duke's liking. He would have to arrange a wardship soon and he could not very well pack off a boy with his head in the clouds and not a scrap of life sense to another noble family. Hence the impetus for bringing him along on today's expedition.
Lyn was famed for its stunning lakes and lush farmland, but for the annual timber haul one had to traipse all the way up over the border with Broceland and buy their wood from one of the huge forest's lumberjacks. It was an inconvenient and time consuming stomp north, but since his wife's passing the Duke was finding any excuses at all to escape their house. The longer he could spend away from the home they had shared together and the wailing babe she'd left behind, the inescapable proof of the role he had played in her death, the better.
However, as he had never personally made the journey before nothing had prepared the Duke for the cold of the winter further north. Things were by no means warm in his southern counties but compared to the, raw, bitter air here its climate looked practically Mediterranean. The nights fell quicker too, though it had yet to turn the fifth hour after noon and already it was fast growing dark.
That captivated the boy hunched over the lantern light in the empty cart, scrabbling at a spare scrap of parchment with a chip of charcoal. He absorbed how the dark silhouettes of the trees stood out, their bare branches like fingers clawing against the lavender-grey sky. At least, he had only ever heard them described as such, according to his elder brother, who fancied himself a poet. But they did not look like fingers, not really. They were too thin. More like cracks of shadow, or even the mad tangle of a maid's hair.
His pondering was interrupted too soon by the return of his father. Having pulled them to a halt to relieve himself the Duke now trudged back loudly, twigs snapping under him while he clapped at his hands to warm them.
"Julian," he barked, causing his son to leap to attention, "Put that away would you? If you don not pitch off the cart, your eyes will give out trying to work in this dark." His son made no reply, tenderly folding up his sketch and tucking it obediently into his pocket.
"Are we nearly there?" He asked now of the driver who looked to have dozed off. Slapping unashamedly at his own cheeks to rejuvenate himself, their servant made some huffing answer, "Aye, the tavern is only a half hour or so off."
"Are you sure?" Andrew asked drily as he swung himself back into his seat. "As I recall you said as much an hour ago." They lurched onwards regardless, the two men still wrangling their way through a pointless argument. They were gripped in it fiercely enough that they failed to notice the thinning of the trees and the pinpricks of torchlight that they were fast approaching. The closer they came the bigger those yellow beads became and soon voices were detectable too.
"Father," Julian started, scrabbling his way on his hands and knees along the rocking deck of the cart, "Father!"
Eventually, when his son was almost on top of him and he had to pay heed, the Duke turned his head. "What is it?"
"Look!"
Andrew narrowed his eyes and tilted forward, still unable to make out what exactly they were riding into. "The town? We must be at Hevrest at last."
"Not enough light," Julian protested keenly, "It is only a line of torches." Sure enough, not a half mile down the road they were forced to stop again, this time by a portly, red faced man in the uniform of a town magistrate. "Who goes there?"
"Make way at once for His Grace the Duke," Their driver called out immediately from habit.
"Impossible!" The magistrate disputed, sticking out his round chest before launching into a tirade. Julian had already lost interest, nose twitching as he tried to detect what the tang on the crisp air was. He had already identified the reek of beer off their stout, self-important barrier, but not the accompanying, more powerful odour.
"No, The Duke of Lyn, you dunderhead! Who else?" Andrew was presently thundering.
"Beg pardon Your Grace," The magistrate grumbled, appearing not altogether convinced of their identity, "But I have strict orders from the Duke of Broceland that no one is to pass this way. None can interfere with the King's justice."
"All that is being interfered with here is my fireplace," Andrew muttered irritably. Then he added, louder, "How am I supposed to reach the village then? I need a room tonight for myself and my son. It is dark and we are miles from home."
Before he could receive a reply, a shrill, piercing cry pierced the shadows. For the second time, Julian felt every muscle in his body jerk and then tense.
"What the devil-" The Duke began, only to be interrupted again by a clamour of spiked, angry voices and another wail, petering off into noisy sobs. Another decidedly female voice rose, this one swelling with a flood of curses.
"Get out of the way, man!" Andrew boomed now, jumping down from the cart and marching in the direction of the fray, an arm shooting out to latch onto his son en route. Julian was subsequently hauled off the cart and trailed along, confused and disconcerted. "We are gentlemen! Where there are ladies audibly in distress we needs must lend whatever aid we can," His father insisted, easily shoving the magistrate out of his way. The other man crumpled upon the contact, crashing down onto his backside. It might have been funny, but nothing about the situation seemed to warrant laughter.
It quickly become apparent just how far from funny any of this was. Upon making their way into ring of damning torchlight, the Blackthorn men instantly froze, watching horror struck and helpless as the grotesque tableau before them unfolded. There were armed men forcing back a small gaggle of yammering, distraught women. One, not very old- hardly twenty- was clinging to another, taller girl and weeping hideously, unable to form any other noise besides a broken, repetitive "No!"
The woman they had heard from the road was still throatily swearing and calling for divine vengeance, while being thrust bodily backward by two more soldiers, literally kicking and screaming. The others were grimly pasty-faced, red eyed and shaking their heads, speechless. "Away! Away to your homes!" One of the armoured men bellowed, as if he were shooing a yard full of scavenging cats and not a group of anguished women. Slowly, dizzily now the terrible smell from earlier was at its most overpowering, Julian turned to see the cause of their upset.
Before now, their cook at Bellgate had taken him up to the tower loft, to the pigeon coop. He had loved it there, in spite of the heady stink of animal excrement. He found their low rumbling coos and hoots soothing and he liked feeling the sturdy warmth of their plump, feathered little bodies in his cupped palms. Now Julian remembered why he no longer went up there, why he also avoided the chicken pens and duck ponds. It was impossible, one you had seen it, to erase the picture of the limp rows of birds no longer warm and noisy, but hanging lifelessly from their necks in the cool store house.
It was the same now, facing the row of unmoving, dangling bodies. Only worse. They were not protesting the hanging, no, that had taken place some time ago. The real grievance was that the remains of some ten men were still hanging untended from the boughs of the nearby trees. Rotting.
Leaving the women who loved them left unable to do anything but stand here every day, every night too possibly, protesting with their presence. Offering in devastated solidarity whatever they could: their tears, their curses, or far more chillingly- their damning silence.
That smell, the sight, the unrelenting sobs and screams of their women...
At last, the hands of the closest guard closed on the shoulders of the stunned boy who had no idea he and his family had only begun to taste their unjust share of the King's justice, and hauled him backwards. With his cold face warming slowly with tears, Julian pitched forward and struggled with all the strength he had- and in vain- for what could he do even had he the freedom of his body? Trapped in a nightmare he could do nothing more than subside into a fit of helpless sobs as he was dragged out of the torchlight and back into the dark.
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Princewater Palace, Alicante, January 1537
Isabelle had lost count of how many times she had paced around this little fountain. She was starting to loathe that strumpet of a scantily clad water nymph who pranced shamelessly in the stream of falling water. Or rather would have, had the water not been frozen solid.
She stomped around in circles to ward off the worst of the chill, her breath steaming in front of lips and billowing over her shoulder as a ghostly banner and fingers clenched tight inside the sable muff her mother had gifted her for Christmas. It was a hand me down, of course, but Isabelle had accepted without complaint. Though she knew it to be a sobering reminder of how desperate their situation, it did keep her hands warm. Not that such small comforts were enough to settle her mind this morning.
It was unusual for her to be out of bed at such an early hour, let alone out of doors, but she needed a time and a place no one would stumble upon for this meeting. The dead, icy gardens would not be in use so soon after dawn. There were no gardeners this time of year and with the paths so frozen they were more like the surface of a bottle than gravel, much too treacherous for any lord or lady's early morning stroll.
This slip of ground had been sheltered from the worst of the frost by the rim of the fountain bowl, so it would suffice for Isabelle's pacing. She feared that if she did not move she would perish in the cold. But think, she tried to cheer herself, what a pretty addition to the fountain you would make.
Reliably, while he might be late, Simon made a grand entrance. And of course, by grand she meant that he made a fool of himself, trying to stride meaningfully toward her and consequently losing his footing on a patch of ice and plummeting downwards. She would have laughed, but she was close enough to hear the sickening crunch as he struck the ground face first. "Saints, have mercy!" she exclaimed, scurrying as cautiously as she could over the sparkling lawns to where he lay. "Are you well?" She reached out to help him, but Simon recoiled. "Unhand me! I am fine!"
Isabelle retracted her hands, but stayed scowling, "Are you quite certain?" His insistence was decidedly undermined by the fact his nose did not look like it should be that shape and was bleeding profusely. His upper lip and the sides of his cheeks were stained bright red. "Yes!" Simon sniffed, pressing his hands, then his sleeve to his face. Feebly, Isabelle added her kerchief into the mix. For a moment, Simon resisted, but then the blood began to seep through his fingers. He accepted her offering.
"Christ," Isabelle tutted, "You need that examined. It looks broken."
"It shall have to stay broken a while longer," Simon declared with muffled irritation, which it took Isabelle a moment to work out. "I need to speak with you."
"Simon it can wait-"
"No."
Isabelle started. It was the most forcefully he had ever spoken to her.
"Is it an explanation as to why you have not spoken to me since Christmas? An apology mayhap?" She did not have to pretend her umbrage, that came perfectly naturally. God help her, she had missed him. The absence she had felt every bit as keenly as Alec or Jace's. With no diversion beyond a moping Clary and her mother's hectic plotting (Jonathan, thank God, had gone back to Edom after the Yuletide season ended while Mayrse had inexplicably lingered) Izzy had found herself longing for his easy companionship.
He paused his frantic mopping to try and make himself look serious. "I have my reasons for giving you a wide berth." He swallowed, allowing his eyes to drift everywhere other than her face.
"Isabelle" Now she truly was on edge. No Izzy, no Iz. Plain, grave Isabelle. He never called her that. Certainly not with so much distance in his voice.
"I stopped by your chambers just before Christmas. I cannot remember why exactly- I had found or heard something I wanted to share with you. When I got there, I halted in the doorway. The doors were closed and there were voices within. I should have left, I promise you I meant to, but as I turned to go I properly heard what you were saying."
Impatient, anxious, Isabelle snapped her fingers. "And?"
"Your mother was speaking to you. Well I feel speaking is not the proper word…."
Isabelle froze all over and not from the frigid temperature, though the chill betwixt them had just intensified tenfold. Her breath stopped in her chest and her back seized up so gravely it started to ache.
"Simon…" She had nothing to say, not really, but she needed to halt his words there and then.
Now he did look at her. "I knew you had your secrets. I let you keep them, respected what you did not say as much as what you did. I even conceived that there was something you were running from. But I had no idea…"
Isabelle tried and failed to summon words several times. It was now a blessing that half Simon's face was screened. She did not think she could bear the full force of his judgement. She would rather face the full intensity of a Church court in that moment than have to face the astounded disappointment of the young man before her.
"You really would do anything to avoid marriage." He stated with quiet disgust. "I suppose after all that occurred in Paris, encouraging the lute player to court you is hardly a scandal. It is certainly a dalliance that requires decidedly less effort and risk."
To think, such abhorrence from dear, sweet Simon who knew not the half of it. How could she tell him? Isabelle was shaking all over under the layers she had heaped on herself, fighting back the outpouring of an explanation and mayhap even tears, though she would choke to death before she released a sob over any man. For what it was worth, she had no rehearsed explanation.
Not that he was like to deem it satisfactory. Not that it mattered.
Simon was already looking at her as though he saw at last the type of girl she was and he did not like her a bit. The type of girl he thought she was, she tried to comfort herself by correcting.
Isabelle Lightwood did not care a jot for the opinions of others, she strove to convince herself for the thousandth time. After all, she could lie to everyone but herself. Of course she cared what others thought of her: she lived off it, thrived on it. She had no merit beyond being the girl someone who mattered thought of. "You do not understand," she clipped out hoarsely at last, "You never will."
"No," Simon agreed, moving his palms to reveal a grimace, not one entirely born of his present physical pain, she would hazard. He shook his head slowly, already beginning to retreat from her, "I do not expect I will understand. I do not think I want to."
Therein lay the real blow. She could not be walked away from, not by anyone. So Isabelle whipped away first, gratefully turning her back on him and charging away. Anything but stand there and watch him leave her. Alongside her shame coursed a scalded fury now. Good. She set about stoking that ire viciously, for the anger she could deal with. The anger was the safest and the most acceptable of her current emotions.
Who was he to stand there and judge her anyway? He was only the boy she had suffered as a jest, a distraction. The damned lute player. A nobody, a nothing.
Yet as she scurried back toward the palace, frost bitten grass cracking underfoot, it did not feel like a nobody had hurt her.
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Chapeltoute Hall, Southern Alicante, April 1537
They were sorry times indeed when Luke found he would rather be called to the King's chambers on a matter of business rather than for pleasure. Yet here he was, concealing dismay as Valentine finally swept away the plans for a new palace which had been crowding his table and waved the master builder on his merry way, leaving them alone together. His Majesty was in fine fettle, insisting Luke stay in his seat and take a drink with him. As it happened, Valentine's dark moods were more and more infrequent these days, something Luke was reluctantly grateful for. Partially because he too heard the reports of slaughter in the shires and so knew all too well what was finally easing the worries that had troubled his monarch so long. Secondly, and- though it shamed him to admit it- more so, Luke was aggravated because he also knew that Jocelyn played no small part in keeping her husband in high spirits. That said a great deal about the petty, selfish man Luke truly was, yet he wearied of denying it. The knowledge returned woeful memories of the days when Jocelyn were the only one who could smooth His Majesty's frown away and temper his foulest moods. After so long, after all that had happened since, it left the King's oldest advisor feeling truly sickened to his core, knowing they were back precisely where they had started.
Well, almost.
Now Jocelyn knew the man she was married to and loathed him for it. And though that may make all the difference to Luke that was the only impact it had, as Valentine damn well knew. It would not appear to trouble him at all that Jocelyn still blanched when he touched her, or that her mouth always tightened into a clamped, harsh line and she needed a sequence of composing breaths before she could make any reply to him.
In fact, Luke strongly suspected his king was beyond caring if his wife loved him, that she was here at all denoted a surrender great enough to placate him. He had won. Even after a decade she had come crawling back to him. All those lonely nights, every time he had to sit beside an empty throne, for Valentine it was all worth it now- his Jocelyn had relented in the end and come home, just as he had always known she would.
Leaving Luke Graymark the man pathetic enough to lose the love of his life to Valentine Morgenstern not once, but twice. Not even a cup from the King's finest vintage was chasing the bitterness of that off his tongue anytime soon.
Still, he made himself sit still and keep sipping, as though the silence between Valentine and himself were comfortable. Oddly in tune with the line of sour wistfulness carrying his mind, Valentine curled his finger around the stem of his goblet and surveyed his friend keenly, "Why not marry?"
"What?" Luke eventually spluttered out past his wine, clumsily dabbing at his mouth with his sleeve in the aftermath.
Valentine's rolled his shoulders back in a shrug, "You ought to take a wife, my friend."
Do you recommend one? Luke wondered mutinously. Aloud, he ventured a nonchalant chuckle and shook his head, "You enjoyed playing matchmaker with Clary that much?"
Again Valentine's eyes fluttered upwards casually and then back to Luke, tapping out a tune against the arm of his chair. He continued in that same blasé manner, "It merely strikes me as odd you have not looked for a marriage yet."
Luke's mind flew back to a dim parlour, Granville Fairchild's rattling cough and sympathetic eyes as the young man before him gruffly and awkwardly saved him the difficulty of delivering a refusal, instead formally withdrawing his suit for his daughter's hand. Knowing even as his heart broke he had to do so, to save himself from the embarrassment of hearing a denial on the tongue of a man he loved like a second father. All the while sending out a silent prayer of gratitude that Jocelyn need never know he asked. What choice had he? He could not keep pursuing the woman his King wanted. Better, he'd believed, to graciously and covertly accept defeat.
The existence of that suit, as far as anyone need know, died with the queen's father. Luke wished he could say he had never looked back.
For the moment, he had to look forward, at his scheming monarch. Valentine noted his reluctance to speak and chose to misinterpret it, "Have you yet to meet a worthy woman?"
"Yet to meet a woman deserving to be bound to me," Luke agreed honestly enough.
Valentine kept smirking, "What of that maid of yours? The one you brought to court, for Clarissa."
Luke almost choked, "Maia? Good God, no."
"No? Was that not why you brought her here? It would be a good match, given her father was a business associate of yours."
"A friend of mine. He charged me with looking to her welfare and her shares in his property after he died."
"A blessing if ever I heard one."
An abuse of trust, more like, Luke thought, every part of him rankled at the thought of wedding the girl he had been trusted with the upbringing of. A girl young enough to be his daughter, as was proven by her serving Valentine's. He was speechless, shaking his head slowly and struggling to bite back a torrent of incredulous laughter.
"Many a man would interpret that dying wish as such anyway," Valentine continued, teasingly, Luke prayed. "How better to care for the pretty maid and her inheritance than marriage?"
"Maia is a clever girl" Luke shrugged, "In time she will manage her affairs well enough, with or without me. I will guide her, of course, but I would rather she make her own way in the world."
"Character building," Valentine commented wryly, but the gentlemen were spared a continuation of the issue by the arrival of the Cardinal.
Disconcerted as he was, Luke let his fingers curl back in on themselves into a fist in his lap, reflecting that in all his experiences in recent months the Cardinal's presence never boded well. He was beginning to perpetually establish himself in the Lord of Aconite's mind as the crucifix wielding harbinger of doom.
"Majesty," he accepted the seat Valentine gestured to.
"Welcome, Your Eminence. We were just discussing the benefits of a holy sacrament."
"Which one?" Enoch enquired, taking gladly with the question the proffered wine glass. That indulgence, it would seem, was allowed.
"Marriage."
The Cardinal fought a losing battle against a cringe for a brief time and then tossed back another mouthful of fine Spanish vintage. Enoch's terror of all things feminine or sexual was an ongoing joke between the King's nobles, since it was rare that a cleric could be found with such an aversion to lechery. Lord have mercy, Enoch saw Eve in every woman he encountered. The vaguest mention of marital union turned the holy man's stomach and got him uncomfortably hot under his stiff clerical collar.
Valentine left his third guest wriggling in his seat a little longer before graciously turning the subject, "But enough of that. Speaking of the sacraments, there is another I anticipate you will be requested to perform tonight."
The Cardinal looked as though he would have gratefully bestowed extreme unction on himself just to get off the subject of wedlock. "Certainly, Sire. What would you have me do?"
His question was answered not by Valentine, but by the door to their chamber swinging open unexpectedly again. Luke was taken aback by the appearance of a young Duke of Broceland, loitering wan faced in the entryway. He had removed his cap and now wrung it between his hands like a dish rag, the corners of his mouth sternly lowered and his eyes travelling swiftly around the entirety of the room on instinct. He could not have realised he was doing it, bracing himself for an assault from any quarter and looking as though he preparing himself for the very worst.
Although Luke would wager that the very worst had already happened. He had not known the Herondale boy very long, and he had certainly not expected to like him as much he did. Thankfully, having never known his father by birth had proved no loss; Jace Herondale's bravery more than compensated for Stephen's cowardice. Though he was far from ignorant as to what the land's newest noble had been doing these past weeks, Luke was the last man who would condemn another's terrible deeds for love of Valentine. Or as was more accurately the case here, love of Valentine's daughter.
Taking in the stillness of the tense young man facing his king with a guilt bleached face, there was nothing Luke wanted to do more than put a hand on his shoulder or drop a word of comfort in his ear. To tell Jace that he had once stood before Valentine just like that, fighting self-disgust and desperation for his monarch to see all that had done for him and be glad of it. Hoping that the sale of his soul brought a good price. Sadly, Luke was not sure that in light of his current position- arguably no better than Lord Broceland's, he had any reassurances to offer worth hearing.
Whatever Luke might have thought of Stephen, that hatred was not something he would allow to pass onto his son. It was not Jace's fault he had been born of Celine Mountclaire instead of Amatis Graymark. Irrespective of any of that, he was in love with Clary. And her, Luke was certain he loved. For that reason, and many others, he wanted to tell Jace everything.
But Jocelyn forbade it. She did not trust the boy- she mistrusted his blood and his upbringing even more. Luke's plea that he may help with their plan, his attempts to remind her they needed all the allies they could garner together if they were ever to execute their scheme- all had fallen on deaf ears.
"He has not exactly proven himself," she had insisted icily.
"He is Clary's husband, whether you like it or no." Luke had reminded her with a generous helping of exasperation. "We cannot leave him oblivious to our designs forever."
"Nor will we" came the reply, alongside Jocelyn's wearied rubbing at her brow, "I agree we may need him. Or his bloodline, to be blunt about the matter. But the time for any action is not now. When that moment does come, when we do act- we will tell him then. When it is too late for him to be anything other than with us."
"Jonathan," Valentine's warm greeting blazed through Luke's wandering thoughts, and he glanced over as the King smiled at his son in law as though Jace had just returned from a minor errand rather than a rampage that would have broken a lesser man, "Welcome back."
Enoch had almost had a seizure at the Duke's unexpected entrance, his hand had flown to the ornate rosary beads hanging from his belt as they might protect him. Besides the Crown Prince, the Cardinal was the most perturbed of all the nobles by the resurrection of the old duchy. Not in the least because he had spent a portion of the summer terrorizing the young man who had, in the following months, married into the most powerful family in this country.
Luckily for him, Jace failed to note the room's other occupants at all. He stood frozen, hand clenching the back of the chair Valentine had offered to him and chest rising and falling as though he had run all the way north east to the capital on foot. Valentine plucked from his doublet a carefully stored letter, the last he had received from Jace on the road, he revealed alongside a command for a final update, "Is this dreadful matter settled at last?"
Tonelessly, Jace told him as much. The sweeping details of all that occurred fell with a precision that told it was an entirely rehearsed speech they were hearing. Not that it stopped the hairs raising on the back of Luke's neck or stopped the recently swallowed wine churning uneasily in his stomach. Valentine's only response was a measured nodding, again, as though Jace was speaking of his abilities to locate all the items on the royal shopping list. When at last all the rebellious shires had a body count, the King offered a short string of words of commendation to his faithful duke and made to rise from his seat.
"Come. Now all has ended favourably we may join this evening's feast." He bound to his feet but paused while Luke and Enoch scrambled after him, finally reading the reluctance on the Duke's face. "Clarissa will be there," Valentine offered persuasively.
Jace grew paler still, which Luke had not thought possible, "Majesty" he broke out through chapped lips, "With your permission I would retire for the evening. I am more tired than anything." Their sovereign hesitated momentarily, narrowing his eyes slightly at the younger man, before relenting with a quiet sigh, "Very well." He passed onwards through the doorway while Jace stiffly bowed again, leaving Luke and the Cardinal to tail after him and complete their ragtag Trinity.
Then, with perfect dramatic timing, as ever, Valentine paused on the threshold and raised a finger as though he had just recalled a particularly interesting fact. "Your Eminence. It almost slipped my mind. I summoned you here on the understanding my lord Broceland may want you to hear his confession."
Bewildered, Enoch swivelled to glance back at Jace, as did Luke, whereupon both were equally taken aback by the expression of tentative desperation that awaited them on Jace's face.
He blamed himself, poor boy. But thus Valentine always played it. Having others sully their hands in the hope his own soul stayed clean. He ought to say or do something for the boy, but Luke soon hatefully surrendered the prospect of that too. If he could not save himself or Jocelyn and her daughter from Valentine how could he possibly help Jace? Hurrying to the door, sobered and miserable, Luke ducked his head and made the little escape he could.
It would not be much of an absolution for the boy, at any rate he feared. Enoch looked as though he was prepared to swipe a hasty cross in the air and proclaim all absolved. God love him, it hardly mattered. Luke doubted an absolution from the Pope himself was like to ease either Jace's mind or his conscience.
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After so long being left virtually alone at the high table Clary had taken to latching her eyes onto whatever untoward movement might occur elsewhere in the hall. Without Jace to make her laugh or Jonathan to taunt her, there was no chance of her missing a tipsy maiden spilling red wine on her new gown or an opportunistic hound snapping a chicken leg from a lax lordly hand.
She still hated eating her meals in the great hall. She despised the noise, crowd, smell and calamity, not to mention the knowledge that she was one of the main attractions in the grand performance, planted right at her father's right hand. Thankfully, the majority of her dinners could be taken in her private apartments, but Valentine liked to host regular public feasts, emphasising each time that appearance was everything. Idris needed to showcase its royal family's prosperity and good health. Therefore, each carefully selected course was designed to exhibit their wealth and eager appetites, all of which reasserted their power.
This was one of those nights, and though feeling a multitude of eyes on her rather whittled away her hunger the Duchess of Broceland reminded herself she had endured much worse and set about chewing on her carp industriously, knowing it to have been freshly caught for this Friday dined on nothing save broth and fish for the long Lenten season, Clary had no serious appetite for the fare and so welcomed her first diversion from needless small talk with the lucky nobles who had been invited to dine at the King's table. With her keen eyes sharpened by boredom, she espied the steward making his way toward the doors with the platter immediately, confirming the suspicions she had begun to harbour an hour or so ago.
She caught the nearby Marques of Edgehunt's eye, but before she could make any enquiries he obliged her with an oblique smile, adding a glance laden with meaning, "Serving the Duke I expect."
Clary's breath caught in the back of her throat and she had to forcibly beat back the elated smile that was springing to her lips at the thought.
"Ah, he has returned then?" She asked somewhat smugly, her lips aching with the effort of restraining a grin.
"Some hour hence, Madam," Penhallow confirmed.
Clary nodded and took another small sip from her goblet and allowed her gaze to dart to her father's seat, her happiness significantly diluted by the realisation that Valentine had left her in the dark once again. He had to be aware Jace had arrived home but he had yet to breathe a word of it to her. Clearly Valentine was as enamoured with his secrets as ever. No matter how big or small, he hated to relinquish any information he had that she did not. Leaving people ignorant was one of many things which made him feel powerful. Regardless, keeping word of her husband's safe return from her was needlessly callous.
Feeling the weight of her judgment, the King turned his head to her, "Clarissa?" he softly invited from question in her eyes.
"I thought I glimpsed Wayfarer in the courtyard earlier," she stated, keeping her tone deliberately as light as possible. Her father raised a single white eyebrow in enquiry. "Jace's horse" she clarified briskly, with another affectedly nonchalant bite.
"Ah," Valentine dropped his eyes and began to wipe his hands on the cloth provided, pulling it off his shoulder and unto the table and only returning his attention to Clary when he was sure his fingers were thoroughly clean, "You did. I heard from him at the start of the week, when he told me he was only a few days from the capital." Clary experienced a momentary pang of discomfort. Jace had written to her around the same time, making no mention of being so close to home. She rapidly swallowed back any misgivings and held her father's stare. If her husband had neglected to tell her he was coming it would have been deliberate, he only sought to surprise her. Well that he had.
"Then surely he has been back at least an hour." Then the epiphany dawned, "Which is why you were delayed in arriving here."
Her father's cheek twitched, either from a restrained smile or annoyance, Clary was not sure. "He has," he informed her in a low voice, pointedly looking over her shoulder and smiling at whoever she saw there. Clary let her hands fall into her lap and clenched her fists under the table, she would not let him brush her off tonight so easily. "And it did not occur to you to inform me?"
Valentine sighed, reluctantly focusing on her again as if she were a petulant child about to throw a tantrum, rather than a woman with a just complaint. "I do not see the need to dispatch a page each time someone passes through the palace gates, Clarissa."
"My husband is not just anyone," Clary shot back, temper crackling.
Valentine raised his eyes to heaven, as though her questions sorely tested his patience, "Lower your voice. There is no need for a great exhibition."
Clary struggled to quell and retract a retort. His Majesty marginally declined his head in approval and rewarded her peace with an elaboration, "Jonathan declined an invitation to eat with us."
Slowly the young Duchess loosened her fingers and shot Isabelle a reassuring smile, her lady had noted the high colour in her cheeks with concern and slid her eyes meaningfully from Clary to the King and back again, subtly tilting her head to convey a willingness to intervene. Clary pinned a smile back on her face and gave her head the smallest of shakes. Thankfully no one else seemed to have noticed the disharmony between the two royals, although she did live at a court of skilled actors. Still, she longed to speak with Izzy, who also deserved to know her brother was back. Most of all, she longed to rush upstairs and see Jace for herself.
Reading her thoughts Valentine waved away the servant pouring more wine and spoke again, "If you must know, I withheld news of his return because I needed to speak with him first. I needed his report first hand, before you distracted him and the two of you hurried off together." He laughed as if she had just told him some mighty jest and gestured so only she could see at the stout ambassador from Lorraine peering up at them from one of the lower tables, "And I need you to be seen sitting with me without the merest hint of discord between us. Which I knew you would not, had you discovered who was in your chamber."
Clary could not very well argue with that, though it did not remove the sting. If only smiling at mealtimes was could indeed repair this family. "Fear not. Once this meal is over you may have Jonathan all to yourself once more." The not-so-hidden meaning behind the words had the colour rising in Clary's cheeks again and set her squirming on the bench at her father's blunt suggestiveness. Now that her husband was back Valentine was eagerly anticipating the baby he already had such great expectations of.
After waiting over a full month to see Jace she could wait she supposed she could make herself wait a little longer. So she smiled as pleasantly as was humanly possible and engaged in the chatter of the surrounding table with her finest manners and what little charm she had. Which mercifully paid off, soon after the plates were cleared away Valentine consented to Clary's retirement, rising from his seat to kiss her goodnight.
To all onlookers, including those who would report to the Archduke of Lorraine, Valentine was in no way doubting his newly raised Duke and Duchess of Broceland. Clary did not care about any of that- let Valentine worry about her scorned former suitor, she had waited long enough for this reunion. Hurrying up the stairs with her ladies behind her she pulled Izzy to her shoulder long enough to inform her of recent developments and then dismissed them all upon reaching her presence chamber.
By that point the news of the Duke's return had spread like wildfire and the early dismissal was all the confirmation required. "But surely Your Grace needs some assistance-" an uncomprehending younger maid began before Isabelle snickered, "Her Grace will have enough assistance getting undressed this evening." On any other occasion Clary would have scolded her, but tonight she just wanted rid of all of these women. Besides, she was harbouring hopes to that effect herself. She had spent too long in her lonely bed. In the few short weeks they had been together following their wedding, she had only been with Jace a handful of times.
Pressing her palms to the sleek wood she shoved the doors open and hastened into her bedchamber expectantly- her empty bedchamber. Frowning, she slowly pivoted, scanning her surroundings for any evidence of Jace or an explanation for his absence. Oddly, she could find no sign of him at all. Everything was precisely as she had left it earlier, right down to the undisturbed book laying by her pillow.
Despite the prickling uneasiness in her bones, Clary dragged her feet back across the room and out into the narrow corridor that connected her chamber to Jace's, or rather the one that had been assigned to him but had been left vacant.
Until tonight it would appear. Letting herself in she found every candle in the room lit and the fire blazing. Then she took stock of the abandoned pair of riding boots tucked under a chair and an untouched plate of food- the same she had seen leaving the hall what already felt like years ago- balanced on the little table beside it. The accompanying jug of ale had not been dealt the same neglect, upon closer inspection she found there was only a dribble of liquid left in it. Through the half-open door to his outer chamber she could hear voices, one familiar and commanding, the other a meekly assenting grumble that sounded like an obedient "Your Grace" before there came the sound of a shuffled retreat and a closed door. Clary counted ten heartbeats in the subsequent silence before deciding to announce her presence, "Jace?" she called out uncertainly.
A moment later he came into view, looking little different to how she remembered him, blond hair damp from a recent wash and a few days of fair stubble along his jaw. It wasn't until he crossed the threshold to abruptly stop and stare at her that Clary allowed herself to truly concede aught was amiss.
On the many occasions she had allowed herself to imagine their reunion she had always expected that he would rush to embrace her, or put his hand in hers and pull her away instantly from prying eyes… she at least expected him to smile. The Jace she found herself facing now did not move a muscle, in fact he barely blinked. He kept staring her down with that blank gold gaze and the only kind of emotion she could discern from his face was a tension that betokened, if anything, dread.
"You are home," she floundered to the obvious, desperate only to end the fraught silence between them.
"Yes," he agreed faintly, wrapping his arms around each other instead of her and holding them tight to his chest.
Clary swallowed past her dry mouth. "I did not know. I would have come sooner but my father failed to tell me…" She trailed off at his unresponsiveness, frantically gripping her fingers together until they went numb, "How was your journey?" She tried again with the feeble enquiry.
"Long," he responded, in a clipped voice that closed off any conversation. Clary took an instinctive step back, partly from discomfort. After all the tenderness they had shared before he left, after all they had endured in the past few months to see him so remote now was almost physically painful. She had come so far, getting him to admit her to his heart. She thought that dismantling the walls around his heart once would suffice. God knew it had been effort enough.
Yet now, despite the roaring red flames in the grate mere feet away from her Clary felt the chill in the room. She was the wife he had adored, rescued and fought for, but he was lingering in the doorway, treating her as he might a stranger and looking as though he longed for nothing more than to bolt from her.
"What are you doing here?" She blurted out, discomforted enough to voice the question she really wanted to ask.
"Is it not home?" he asked distantly, "You said so. The royal family tends to reside in Alicante."
"No I meant here. In these rooms."
"They are my rooms."
"Yes I know but-"
"Clary," The way he spoke her name, flatly and completely devoid of the usual affection, halted her immediately. "I am tired. I just want to sleep."
To another woman, to another couple, it all might have sounded reasonable enough. But with Jace, her being pushed away thus was unbearable. Clary felt her throat begin to thicken at his brusqueness. She cleared it as best she could, but when she spoke her voice still wavered detestably, "And you cannot do that in my bed?"
Jace did not volunteer a response, which was answer enough. In any other circumstance she might have quipped about him fearing her inability to keep her hands to herself for one night but here it felt inappropriate. Things between them felt so strained and suddenly fragile. Much as she hated this taciturnity she was afraid of breaking it, fearing that pushing him to speak to her now would shatter more than the silence.
"I am tired," he repeated dully and the words struck her like a blow to the chest. She was no fool- she knew she was being sent away. They had quarrelled before of course, but even in their worst clashes there had been feeling. He had never attempted to freeze her out before. She would have thought that after experiencing all he had Jace should be glad to throw himself into her arms and forget the whole thing. That was why Valentine had sent her up here, after all. So she could kiss it better and remind Jace of how she could make it worth doing her father's bidding.
In the very least, he should want to talk about it. She attempted to urge him to do as much, "Jace, speak to me. You cannot carry all of it around…"
Something within Jace finally cracked, "How much clearer need I be? Leave, Clary!"
Moments ago she had thought she would be glad of any force of emotion from him, even anger, but when he did snap it wounded her. She took another reeling step, not backwards but forwards. She found herself reaching for him, clutching at him in the vain hope she could pull him back to her. "Why should I when-"
Jace caught at her wrists before she could reach him and shoved her away, leaping back like her touch had scalded him. "Because I am telling you to!" He shouted in earnest this time, "Why can you not, just once in your life, do as you are bid?!"
Clary recoiled quicker than she would have done had he slapped her, the fingers of her right had curling around her left wrist just as his had. She realised dazedly that the reddened skin there hurt. He had hurt her.
Because she had hurt him. He blamed her for all of it. And had he not reason to? Were it not for her he would never have had to return to Idris, back to the land of all his demons. Were it not for her, for loving her, Valentine would not be able to wield the influence over Jace he did.
Once the epiphany struck, she could not bear it any longer. Clary turned and fled from him.
The next she knew she was bursting back into her own rooms and colliding with Rebecca, who must have been on her way to find her. "Your Grace?" the older girl took one look at Clary's face and her eyes flared with alarm, "Clary? What is it? I heard shouting- are you alright?"
Clary shook her head fearfully "I- It was f-foolish of me to think- to think that- nothing would change." Forgetting all pretences of formality her friend reached for her. It was only as Clary's face met the smooth velvet of Becky's shoulder that she let the tears fall in earnest.
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Every night it was the same. The unremarkable grey sky and frosty grass. The pool of churned, bland blackened earth by the roots. Echoing, brazen cawing as crows flapped impatiently in the branches of nearby trees. The only varying factor was the face at the foot of the tree. Sometimes it was the Prince leering, otherwise it was the King, shaking his head with unsurprised disappointment. Behind him Isabelle always screams helplessly, her beautiful face stained with tears as she weeps without restraint, but never any sign of Alec. The final proof that this time no one was coming to save him.
Jace was almost glad when the rope tightened and his body swung forward without his command, without any trace of fight. Never was there the crack of a broken neck. No, it went on without that mercy. It had to be the choking, merciless noose, closing like a particularly calloused hand around his throat. It was agony, it was never going to end…
Instead of his blood cutting off to numbness it flared under his skin like fire, until he could feel every muscle in his body, bunched in pain and contracting breathlessly.
Still, by now he knew it was almost over. Still, he knew the worst was yet to come.
As his body finally started to convulse, his watering eyes inevitably rolled back in his head, until he could see with impossible clarity the prone body that hung beside him. First the cracked, broken and bloody hands dangling at her sides, smearing the skirt of the tattered gold wedding gown. He forced himself to look at her face, unable to ignore the unnatural angle her head lay at. Into the glassy and unseeing green gaze, still trained accusingly on his…
With a strangled, incoherent cry, Jace shot upwards, left hand shooting instantly to his neck. After managing several gulping, painful breaths he forced himself to run his fingers along his unmarked, untouched throat. Meanwhile his right arm flew across the rumpled sheets to the cool, empty side of the bed. Reassurance: she was not here. She was safe. More gasping, then he made himself move. Scrabbling his way out from under the sheets and to the foot of the bed, then fumbling with shaking fingers until he could free the empty chamber pot from under it. Just in time, for then the retching started.
When that finally abated he Jace felt more ill than ever. Shivering, he pried the sweat damp nightshirt off his skin and then shucked it off. Then, not bothering to try and seek out another in the dark, he clambered back into bed naked.
He was no stranger to nightmares. Ever since he had been old enough to appreciate how close his life was to becoming one at any given moment they had plagued him. He should not have expected to emerge from his time being the King's butcher unscathed. Nor had he. The first batch of these night horrors had been born right out of those he had to live through, those he had to create during the day. Rows after rows of mercilessly hung men and boys, since anyone older than sixteen was old enough for punishment according to the royal edict still folded in his saddlebag. But the women, their anger, betrayal, grief, disgust… they had haunted him most. Until this new nightly hell.
It was worse, Jace thought hollowly, drawing his hands over his cold, clammy face. God, this was so much worse.
"What am I? What have I done?" His broken, dry lips mouthed soundlessly. What I had to the timidly answering whisper piped up in his mind on queue.
I did what I had to I had no choice I did what I had to I had no choice I did what I had to.
On and on it went like that, like it did every night, unrelenting and unconvincing. Until dawn.
-00000000000-
A/N: Well I hope we're all enjoying a nice stay in angst central. Some difficulties will be resolved quickly, I promise, but others not so much- with far reaching impact.
We have turned a corner in the tale though. I honestly don't think that when I first sat down to start this I fully comprehended what a mammoth task I had in store for myself. I do have lots more to come and I also aim to expand the scope of the story somewhat, getting a real taste of what Idris is like in general and how that impacts our main characters and vice versa. Religion and its impact on politics will become a major issue. I'm also starting to introduce some wider characters around the throne; like the Blackthorns who are next in line after the Herondales,and those who are associated with them (I think you know who in particular I mean). Some of whom will have big roles to play themselves in the months and years ahead.