The Favoured Fall

by uneveneyeliner

Renaissance AU. Everything changes for Clary when the King of Idris acknowledges his daughter. She suddenly finds herself the centrepiece of his most ambitious plan: her royal marriage. Worse, she is now a contender for the throne of a country on the brink of religious and civil war. A situation only complicated by the arrival of golden-eyed young diplomat with a troubled past...

27. Lions and Wolves

A/N: I LIVVVEEE. With my penchant for being extra af intact, as you can tell.

First and foremost can I just say a special thank you to Fairy Lights Never for the review! It genuinely made me smile! I don't know about my being magical, more of a mess if truth be told, but the kind words do motivate me!

So here you go!

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"The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves." -(Machiavelli, The Prince)

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Lions and Wolves

Canal Street, Alicante, July 1537

"Magnus?" The path through the house, whatever its size, was well trodden enough by now that Alec ought to have been able to discard the creeping uneasiness he felt. Yet he found himself lurking with baited breath at the door to the master of the household's private parlour, nudging it open warily with his toe. Instead the peculiar hush of the place felt as though it were balanced as haphazardly as the mountainous stack of wallets encased in his tremblingly weary arms. Much too deceptively calm to be comfortable, Alec thought as he apprehensively shuffled sideways into the wobbling candlelight. Instinct bade him keep his rapidly rising and falling breaths as quiet as he could. As though the past half-year had been erased he felt like an intruder all over again, having crept unwanted into the private quarters. Desperate to see Magnus, Alec had carved on intrepidly, reassuring himself that when he did find the other man he would find his company wanted just as badly. Nonetheless, he made a point of easing the door backwards on slick hinges until he shut with a muted click.

It had been a long time since the once deliberately empty house had been their first and only haven from a world that would neither understand or tolerate their relationship. Eventually Magnus could delay no longer on hiring to replenish the depleted ranks of his domestic staff. If it had been merely a case of keeping up appearances Magnus may have left the underlings quarters vacant, but on a practical level such large residence needed a sizeable cohort of employees to keep it clean and hospitable. Magnus had recently told him in passing that having worked so hard and from most humble origins to possess the deeds to this house in the first place, he was not prepared to relinquish it. So now, if he wanted to see him Alec had to wade through shallow waters of over-helpful servants and stewards. Weeks later it remained odd to feign at needing a guide through the tangle of hallways and rooms he had come to know perfectly well, and even stranger to scrabble for some excuse for wanting to see Magnus in the first place. Or so he had thought before he faced the present abnormality of glaringly empty halls. Intensifying anticipation of some crisis raised Alec's skin to gooseflesh and set the hairs along his arms prickling.

"Magnus?" he called out tentatively, wincing at the clanging echo that bounced around the lofty ceilings and decoratively panelled walls. He deposited his paraphernalia on the nearest available flat surface and stretching out his aching forearms gratefully while he peered about him. Perhaps he should not have let himself in, but he had seen the lights in the upstairs window through the twilight and was used enough to the property to easily navigate himself round to the side door. Upon finding it off the latch for him, Alec had accepted that as invite enough. After having hawked all these documents all this way and paying twice the usual fare to a boatman who insisted the journey would take him against the tide, the young Frenchmen was not prepared to acknowledge the defeat of a wasted outing. Instead he opted to follow his instinct and what he knew of the man he sought to carry him to further into the familiar inner quarters.

He had more than Jace's administrative woes troubling his mind tonight. Alec had a list of reasons a mile long to want to stay in Idris; avoiding his family obligations- among which was an ever more urgent advantageous marriage- his parents ongoing stalemated war, staying with Jace and Izzy, staying with Magnus…

Officially the only thing preventing him from the return to his old home that was already months overdue was playing mentor to his newly ennobled friend. For the patience and diligence he had displayed in assisting with the running of the Broceland estate he was receiving a wage, but not one as handsome as he would have liked to make the hours of reading and sums bearable. Regardless, Alec kept his disgruntled thoughts private, now he knew the Brocleand books as intimately as the gospels he also knew that the slice of payment Jace was offering him was very generous considering his financial position. That knowledge added to the pain of accepting the coin in the first instance. Sadly the pressures of Alec's own family finances still lay around his neck as surely as a lord fashionable chain, stripping rapidly away at what few options had.

Ideally, he needed an official court position with Valentine. He had contemplated vying for the now open position of French ambassador but he had known even as Jace offered to employ what limited influence he had to assist his oldest friend in getting the job, diplomacy was no more his calling now than it had been a year ago. He remained too transparent, which was ironic. Having hidden his true nature successfully all his life Alec liked to think he was better than most at telling others what they wanted to hear, but only as a force of habit. He had not the charisma or tact for intricate political dealings. His bluntness was more like to inflame foreign tension than dissolve it. Some other position then may have to satisfy him then, perhaps as some level of treasurer given his talent for numbers.

Alas, that may have been easier had he any manner of sway over King Valentine. As things currently stood His Majesty had no reason to appoint a foreign born nobody to anything, anywhere. He had no connection like Jace's, though through his mother's line he had some claim to an old Idrisian name it was not a royal one. Furthermore, the Idrisian lands that had come in her dower had been sold long ago, Alec had been told with crisp candour by his mother. All he did have was am enigmatic three-day-old letter from the Duke at Chatton, reassuring him that with thanks to some recent development Jace could not impart yet he had a very good reason to hope he might ask some favour of the King on Alec's behalf.

At first Alec had been bewildered, now after folding and unfolding the document so many times to scrutinise it for a hidden message he had yet to extract if it was there at all, he was merely perplexed. Perhaps with the experience under his belt that Alec had not, Magnus might be able to translate or explain exactly what political leverage Jace was insinuating he had.

Demanding as they had once felt, these worries scattered faster than the feeble fluffy stems of a dandelion clock in the first breeze once he encountered the silence of the house on Canal Street. The ill mood and tension hanging over the house was enough to silence Alec's clamouring worries in turn. Recently Magnus had been out of sorts, he recalled, grumbling of many ambiguous affairs that might hold him in Alicante and expressing, if anything, reluctance to join the court on progress. In fact, yesterday at Princewater he had muttered an admittance of indecision as to whether he ought to take to the road in the King's train at all. Yet for all his distraction of late and apparent dismay at the season's demands, Magnus would not make himself scare without so much as a farewell or an excuse, would he?

The unease fizzing along Alec's skin finally settled like a loadstone in his chest. It was not as if Magnus had never disappeared before. That had been an entirely different situation, he sought to soothe himself even as his footfalls clanged around the eerily barren rooms. Then he had feared for his life and the two of them had not been so close. This had felt like a mere dalliance then, a fleeting fancy. Before either of them would have dared describe it as love.

That did not dismiss that Magnus had been on edge, or that he had evidently ben withholding something. Alec had not thought to extract any kind of confession, occupied enough with his own difficulties and suspecting he would only be laughed off and his fears dismissed. Like they always were. Now he fretted that made him disloyal, or worse, appear too selfish or uncaring. He could be accused of having many an undesirable quality, but Alec Lightwood had never considered himself self-absorbed, or imagined anyone would have cause to see him thus.

Unloading the last of his papered burden, Alec mentally shoved his anxieties aside. By straining his ears now that he could, at long last, detect voices. Intuitively, upon recognising both a female and a male tenor and then detecting the spiked energy of an argument among the climbing volume of the discourse, his first urge was to retreat. He had experience enough of such quarrels from his parents that he knew a wide berth was best applied to such situations. Small wonder his muscles bunched for flight, it seemed for an awful moment he had been transported back into the world of his sorriest childhood moments. But as the toes of his leading foot hovered over the lowest step on the stairs leading to the master's bedchamber he found himself frozen instead. One of those speaking was unmistakably Magnus- he would have knownthat voice waking or dreaming. And for the other to be a women's in such an altercation… almost of its own accord his foot skipped onward to the second step (the one which did not creak) and the rest of his body followed. Several more were bounded lightly up in a similar manner until Alec found himself tensing to a still again, this time more decidedly within earshot.

"How much clearer need I be? I tell you no again and again, always living in hope that this time you will heed it."

The woman, whoever she might be, scoffed, unperturbed. "As always Magnus, you flatter yourself." With frantic keenness, Alec's ears drank in the low, easy surety of her voice; its sensual rasp and flowing confidence, then the slightest edge of an accent dragging her vowels until a sense of familiarity scrabbled infuriatingly at his mind. He knew this woman and he had certainly met her before somewhere. Who the devil was she?

"This is strictly business," She continue winningly, "Admittedly I do flatter you in the asking. There is no one else I would extend this offer to once, let alone multiple times." She sighed heavily, and briefly exasperation grated away some of the dark honey of her tone. But since Alec heard that, it was also enough to snare her notice and accordingly she drizzled some more sweetness into her next purr, a sprinkling of rare sugar from the Americas, "But for the sake of an old friend…"

The answering laugh surprised Alec in its sour mockery, "We have known each other long enough and well enough to dismiss the pretence of friendship by now, surely."

The unnoticed eavesdropper on the stairwell chanced some more weight on the banister, craning to see if he might snatch a glimpse of the mystery lady who claimed to know his lover so well, startled by the contempt in Magnus' reply. "And I also know too well how happily and unscrupulously you mix business and pleasure. Your business-" he sounded as though there were a plethora of unsavoury names he might substitute for the term- "has no place in my life now. Nor do you."

All Alec could glimpse to his frustration were the flickering shadows of the two figures cast on the Arabian carpet before the ajar door, as the duo paced and circled one another. The returning feminine laugh was sultry as it was cruel, her next speech silky soft and sweetly chiding "Oh Magnus. You make such a pretty picture with that stance on your high horse it is almost a shame to knock you off it." Even her teasing tuts fell nicely on the ear, "You are so quick to demonise, but do think twice before you spit on me. You forget when you do so that you and I are one and the same."

Magnus made to protest, "You and I are nothing alike, Camille."

The name ought to mean something to him and it did, but while he fought to keep up with the rapid volley of words above him it kept twisting just out of Alec's grasp.

"You forever seek to delude yourself, but alas- you never quite succeed, do you?" Her voice hardened, the words now clear and sharp as diamonds, "We both know it cannot be escaped; what we come from, where we come from, who we were. What we were. It will always have a place in your life, as in mine."

"Yes you share my past, which I cannot deny." Magnus corrected, almost too quietly for Alec to hear, "But not my present and certainly never my future."

"You never have been a fool, darling." The light, teasing admonishment remained, but the underlying viciousness kept mounting and Alec watched the two wavering shadows move closer and merge. "Do not start now." He longed to barrel through the door and push this Camille away, possibly even out one of those mighty windows, but he stayed where he was, tense and desperately curious for whatever clues to Magnus' elusive past this woman might drop, however maliciously.

"You know my house is profitable. A man like you can always discern where money is to be made and wants to make it. You will need to make it. Come, you must know your days at court are numbered. Yes, Queen Jocelyn liked you and the King tolerates you but you must know you disgust the lot of them. The likes of you, a bastard born gutter rat from the docks, living a better life than most of those who have got titles and pomposity stretching back centuries? That has to be scorned. And that revulsion is for your common origins alone, imagine if they knew just how sordid those beginnings were? Imagine the catastrophe of their learning how that first windfall fell into your lucky lap?"

"Camille," a warning growl.

One that went unnoticed and the whistling rustle of what might have been a feathered fan did nothing to veil the biting, poisonous laughter, "Truthfully they would be glad to hear of it. The first opportunity to get destroy you and they gratefully seize it." The lilting pitch of a female's voice did not suit the next ugly words," You expect any of those noble pricks to care for or about you? You will always be city scum from the slums in their eyes. Even that precious blue eyed lord of yours thinks it, all the while he fucks you."

"Do not dare speak of him!" Alec had never heard Magnus raise his voice before, but the shock of it was not solely what made him bolt soundlessly down the few steps he had climbed now, his sweat damp fingers curling so tightly around the base of the wooden ball at the foot of the banister that they hurt.

She continued intently, the tone blanketing her words changing from whip to bandage, "I have never lied to you Magnus and I do not mean to start. He might bed you for now but never imagine he loves you. You are his dirty little secret, that is all. He will still marry another pretty little gentlewoman when the time comes and keep you buried with his shame. And you know all of this to be true. So do enlighten me, why so obstinate, dear heart? Who else could ever know all of you and love it?" The malice plummeted away from her now as if it had exhausted her. When she spoke again it was persuasively pleading, "Why fight it? You know where you belong. You know to who you belong. I have always taken care of you." She proclaimed it in something of a wounded whine.

"You have always used me." Alec had never heard Magnus sound so flattened, so pained. It drove him to angle himself in the clustered shadows so that he could finally peer properly up through the brightened slice between ajar door and wall into the upstairs room. He could only see the profile of Magnus's face, a furrowed dark brow, long nose and quivering pearl earring. Of Camille all that was visible was a raspberry coloured sleeve ringed by Magnus' slim fingers as her hand was snatched away from his face.

"I may never belong anywhere, but wherever I am I will find myself better off than I would be with you. If you cared so much for my happiness you would leave me be and let me enjoy the life I built for myself. You have no right to be jealous of it Mille, nor any cause to despise it. Other than, mayhap, when I offered to share all I had and all I was with you, you refused." For a moment, he sounded pitying, then he grew stern again, "Now the offer is no longer on the table."

"Magnus-"

"Nothing could compel me to take anything more to do with your business for as long as I live. Not even you. Would I could wish you success with it, but we both know I cannot." Softer, he added, "It is not too late for you either. You are still young, there is still time for you to learn a trade or find a husband. Sell the house, buy a fare abroad or a country manor. You are not beyond saving."

Camille laughed again, though it was not as spiteful as before it remained disdainful, "And you are not beyond damning, Magnus Bane." She whispered something else afterward that Alec could not hear, but that was far from his primary concern, not when it dawned upon him too late that her last comment was a parting blow and the chamber door was whipped open to reveal his loitering. The unlit lower level and his listening spot had once been swamped in shadow but the flaming orange light of the setting sun pouring from the huge window and through the door streamed down the stairs banished them and temporarily blinded Alec.

By the time he had blinked enough to see clearly again, the full horror of his position became obvious. Firstly, he took stock of an ashen Magnus, looking down on him sickened with worry as to how much of the previous exchange he had been privy to, his usually tan skin bleached a sickly white against the loud crimson of his doublet. Then, with even heavier, grimmer dread, Alec turned to look properly upon Camille for the first time.

Contrary to Magnus' dumbstruck distress, the only emotion upon this woman's exceptionally exquisite face was a snide quirk to the corner of her mouth and a menacing delight shimmering in the jade green of her eyes. Even Alec, who had less cause than most to care for a woman's physical beauty was arrested by her beauty; the smooth alabaster creaminess of her skin, the sweet symmetry of her face, the ripe plumpness of her lips and the long, curling lashes that surrounded keen, glimmering eyes. She was bareheaded, he noticed next, though she must have been well in her twenties and surely no maid, her flaxen curls pinned up in what looked a series of complicated, elaborate twists and braids. Milk and honey he thought shakily. In lieu of a cap or veil for propriety or modesty, a tortoiseshell and gold clasp adorned her head, securing a swathe of black feathers instead, more of the same coal coloured feathers forming the lowered fan clutched laxly in her right hand. As she drew forward, descending the stairs every bit as regally as any queen or princess Alec had ever encountered, he realised that her lashes had been artificially darkened and lined with kohl. It only made her jewel bright eyes all the more captivating, though they stayed just as cold and unfeeling as stones- even precious ones. Beyond that, he could also appreciate her face had been powdered and so revised his precious assumption, she was more likely to have crossed thirty. Not that dulled her beauty greatly, there was not a spare ounce of flesh on her anywhere, beyond the generous bosom even more generously displayed to the point that the young Frenchman felt compelled to avert his gaze from that and tightly clinched slender waist.

Now he remembered when their paths had first crossed: it had been the night of Magnus' party, the night Alec had first met him. She had been clad in only her corset then, he blushed to recollect, and stoking up an argument on that occasion too. He was innately immune to feminine charm, but beyond that, Alec liked to think that not even her dazzling loveliness and the memory of the sirens' call of her lyrical voice would make him forget the awful things she had uttered. Particularly about him.

She finally swayed to a halt, right before him, and while he towered over her it took the whole reserve of Alec's self-control not to take a step backwards. "Ah!" she declared, lifting her brows as though she had just been handed an unexpectedly delightful gift. Magnus, watching in a miserably injured silence from above was no help at all as Camille released her hold on the fan and let it swing slackly in mid-air, still bound to her narrow wrist by an ebony satin ribbon. To Alec's horror her eyes skimmed up and down him as if she were assessing the breeding capabilities of a prize horse and then, without dropping or dimming her smug, seductive smile her hand shot out to cradle Alec's face. Carefully cut, polished nails nipped into his flesh as she tilted her head and let that smile grow, "So pretty," she crooned, finally letting her hand drop, fingers lingering just below his jawline. This time Alec let his limbs obey his longing and did leap backward, quick as he might have down had she pressed steel there rather than her fingertips.

She hummed amusedly, eyes flashing triumph before she drew back altogether. Loath to leave Alec's thoughts the opportunity to gather themselves, she sprang forward again, this time with what would have been a friendly or maternal double slap to his cheek- had they not been landed a tad too sharply.

Allowing his jaw to tighten, Alec let a stiff, quick breath skid down his throat. If only he had some clever, scathing comment at his disposal to parry with, but he was not Jace or Magnus and any coherent thinking was lost in the blank hostility wiping his mind slate clean. He stood unmoving, determined not to let anything other than distaste become apparent in his stance or expression while he stared Camille down. Perhaps because she despaired of provoking him to a fight or worse, because she deemed herself already the victor and him unworthy of one altogether, Camille breezed past Alec and for the exit with all the measured poise and deliberation of a dancer, timing perfectly the provocative rolling of her shoulders and hips. Seeping the seemingly effortless grace of someone who knew how to attract attention and how to hold it. Camille made Isabelle look like a cheap imitation, she went further and did it better. Isabelle played at being the seductress, the femme fatale, this woman was not playing.

On shaking, numb legs Alec climbed the staircase. As he approached Magnus the only expression the other man was fit to conjure was a sickened acceptance. Wordlessly (what words could fit this moment?) Alec hesitated, leaving their eyes locked, then stepped past him and into the chamber. Magnus tilted his body to the side and let him pass, turning around to face Alec again with a stronger look of grieved acknowledgement. A rabbit in a snare, confronting the impossibility of escape. The conversation he had always shied away from, the questions he had always batted aside with an easy jest or wry comment could not be evaded any longer. And though Alec's heartstrings jerked painfully at the desolation in his lover's slumped body, he still rejoiced. Now there could truly be no more secrets between them. Or at least significantly fewer secrets.

Magnus gestured defeatedly to the seat opposite, as though he expected some harsh words and a bolt for the door to be the more likely outcome, but Alec only retreated until the backs of his legs skimmed the edge of the cushion. He refrained from sitting, hoping that by remaining standing he would gain more answers. This time he could not appear like a man to be trifled with or lightly dismissed. Shakily Magnus poured himself a tall glass of wine and lowered himself back into his own seat and took a long draught from his cup, a sudden slice of withering sunlight from the window darted off the metallic rim like a spark as he cast his arms wide in a half shrug half surrender motion. "What can I say?"

"Who is she?" Alec growled, unease and impatience rendering him dogged. Then, pushed further into dissatisfaction by Magnus' continued tight-jawed silence, he tried to lure out more information with a prompt. "The last times our paths crossed you called her Lady something. Yet she had never appeared in court in my time here."

Magnus yielded a scoffing laugh. "Camille Belcourt is no more noble than my bootlaces. She calls herself Lady Belcourt in jest. It is, like so much she says and does, a mockery. Because she has had so many 'dealings' with the nobility she declares herself eligible for a title. Since she spends more time with the gentlemen of Idris than their wives do." His lips lifted in what could have been a grimace, a smirk or a sneer. Yet to Alec's ears the following pronouncement held more sadness than derision, "She is by profession… I believe the term she prefers is a courtesan."

Alec was suddenly glad of the chair behind him as his knees weakened and he sank into it.

He was not entirely simple, he knew every city had its sordid underbelly and Idris was no different. Then again, it was one thing to know such things existed and another to face them in his lover's lobby. For several reasons Alec had never found cause or desire to encounter a lady of the night, but he was certain whatever preconception of such a woman he had was challenged by Camille Belcourt. It did not come a surprise really, given what he had seen of her countenance and dress, but to hear Magnus confirm it so calmly was jarring nonetheless.

"Or rather she was. I do not believe she sells her services any longer. Now she sells those of others instead. Today she can boast of being Madame to the city's most profitable brothel."

After a long, uncomfortably tight moment of silence Alec ungritted his teeth long enough to voice the real cause of his agitation, "You speak as though you are well acquainted."

Magnus did not meet his eye, glancing sidewise at Alec and then focusing on some freshly fascinating spot behind him. "If it consoles you any I have never paid for her services. But…" Magnus closed his mouth and swallowed laboriously, like he had a mouthful of dirt to chew and digest, "I have known her for a very long time."

"You are friends?"

"Lord no. Camille has no friends. Only investors, clients and the poor girls she calls investments." He said nothing further, just took another swig of wine and swirled the cup in his hand afterward distractedly. Alec was made to contend with the now all too familiar feeling that there was something Magnus was not telling him. It bothered now worse than ever. He had spent the weeks since his return to the city slowly verbalising the thoughts that haunted him. The things he had witnessed and done in the King's service, things he could not speak of even to Jace who had been with him all the while. Anyone could see those things tormented his friend twice as viciously given his name attached forever to the killing, because he loved Valentine's daughter, because the spirit of the little boy who had never known security or real, unconditional love still clung to him and so part of him would always long to be Valentine's son. Meanwhile Alec had bared the ugliest parts of his soul to this man and getting Magnus to utter aught personal remained an exercise akin to pulling teeth. All his recent activity, the determination to immerse himself in work, in Jace's problems and now Magnus- it was all a matter of creating distractions from his own.

He sought to say as much now, "Considering all that has passed between us, I doubt there is much you could say that would shame or repulse me."

"Is that so?" Temporarily his eyes flickered over Alec's, the fast fading natural light shadowing half his face again as Magnus turned back, "It seems otherwise when the word courtesan- and it is the nicest one for such a thing there is- seems enough to make you either vomit or swoon. Possibly both."

Alec had experience enough with sarcasm as a deflection technique to remain on course, though he did flinch at the hidden hurt in Magnus' voice. He knew it to be purely defensive. Magnus simply could not bear for Alec to judge him harshly.

So he cleared his dry throat with a grimace, "Common misunderstanding. I am not snobbish, simply awkward. I forever fail to say what I mean and when I do try it comes out all garbled and wrong. Picking the right words is nigh on impossible, however much I endeavour to. But I think you will be the first to believe me when I say this, women in general put me in edge so being confronted so overtly with their sexuality renders me beyond uncomfortable."

Magnus laughed a little and rubbed roughly at the shadow of stubble covering his chin. He did not look as though he had either slept or shaved. When he next spoke he sounded distant and more than a little lost, "I have known Camille a very long time. We grew up together, she and I." Another interminable pause and then, so softly Alec almost failed to hear it, "In a pleasure house on the strand."

Alec did not reply. He knew not what he could or should say to that anyway, and he also suspected if he left Magnus to say whatever he felt able to at his own pace he would hear more. Magnus' nimble fingers tugged on the end of his glittering silver chain as the next array of words came tumbling slowly out.

Firstly as a pebble rolling down the mountain, then an avalanche of confessions, "I was born a long way away, it matters not where or to whom. I have never known who my father was, only that he and my mother were never wed. So not only was I born poor, but a bastard on top of that. She did marry when I was a babe, out of desperation. To put a roof over our heads and some measly meals in our bellies. The man she did marry, well he was more of a bastard than I ever have been, just not by birth. He was a small-time merchant who expected absolute gratitude and obedience from Mama because he had stooped to take her to wife in the first place. She was younger and prettier than he could have hoped for anyway. No woman like her who was would have married him unless she were fallen.

'We travelled to Idris for his floundering business and my mother perished on the voyage here. My stepfather took me to the brothel and sold me, effectively. I never saw him again, for which I can only be grateful. I was small and obedient and had my mother's fair looks so I was brought into the house as a cup bearer to begin with.

'I suppose I could be thankful for that man's greed, for it drove him to a higher class of whorehouse, where the then Madame had more coin than any other to spare for such a purchase. I was perhaps nine or ten at this time." He drank some more before going on, "On my first night there I curled up by the hearth in the kitchen. An orphan in a strange land where I spoke very little French and no German at all, so I understood naught that was said to me. Grieving, frightened and half starving I lay there crying myself to sleeping and wishing I could die so that at least then I could go to heaven and be with my mother again. That was where Camille saw me. She was older then, sixteen or so, and already one of the working girls. I understood none of that then, to me she was simply the only one who took pity on me. She brought me a cup of water when my throat was so dry from sobbing I thought I might choke and gave me her shawl as a blanket to sleep in. She was the one person in the whole world apart from my mother who had ever shown me such a kindness. It also helped that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen." Magnus added the final comment with a whisper of a smile. "I can still remember than shawl you know. It smelt of her floral perfume and it was green like her eyes. She remained the most beautiful woman to me even after I met the rest of the girls, all of whom had to be especially lovely to work in that particular establishment. They were pleasing lords and the very wealthy, a night with any of them cost what most workers make in a year, you see."

"I started off scrubbing the floors and aiding the cook, then in the evenings they would clean me up and have me carry a platter of wines or sweetmeats to the clients. At first life there was hard, I worked hard and for very little. I was never paid a wage, I laboured for my little slip of earth by the hearth to sleep on and a crust of bread or so. Sometimes Camille would sneak me a cut of meat from her own plate.

'Because they did feed me and I was not cast out to beg on the streets and live as an urchin I was expected to be grateful for all of this too. When I grew older I did grow into the good looks the Madame had glimpsed when she had thrown a few pennies down to keep me out of the gutter. So I was put to work like the others. For the first time in my life I had my own bed and finally regular hot meals. Of course each time night fell all of that came at a cost, but I stayed there because I had nowhere else to go. I could not read or write, I had no trade. It was my only option and at times I almost managed to convince myself it was not a bad one. For years Camille was the only one who gave a damn whether I lived or died. I never forgot her care and in time we became close in earnest. As time passed we soon became the most popular there. My ability to please men and women alike made me much sought after and as you have witnessed yourself to a degree, Camille has her own special charms. We became the Madame's favourites, her protégées. I did not spend my free hours in idleness, I learnt to write gradually and by wandering the docks I picked up a comprehension of many tongues. Camille and I were not like the others, we were not simply seeking to subsist on shards of attention from the clientele, we were not empty pretty things. Unlike everyone else in that house were not ignorant or devoid of hope that better lives were possible. We cared how the money was made, how the business was run and the Madame delighted in showing us. Eventually, whether she knew or not, Camille and I found our friendship grow into something more."

"We became lovers," he confessed quietly, unashamedly and a touch sorrowfully. "At the time I imagined no one had ever loved as we had. That we were soulmates. I also believed, and Camille fostered and encouraged this, that being what I was no one else would understand enough to love me. In hindsight, I suspect Camille played at returning my affections because she saw me as a rival for the brothel. The Madame was old and sickening and not long for this world, so she wished to make sure that even in the worst case scenario, should I inherit the business, as my lover she would still have some stake. I think, having sold herself for most of her life, Camille is unable to view such a thing as not having a price. She cannot love simply for the sake of being loved in return, she cannot trust far enough to let someone love her without thinking it needs to have some material benefit. As it transpired, we both inherited half. I had no desire in remaining as I was, or in putting others through all I had endured so I could take a profit. Camille thought otherwise. I convinced myself that she was frightened because she had known nothing else. That we had all been raised to see that brothel as all that stood between us and destitution and that I merely had to convince her there was more. I was content to sell my share in the house and Camille gladly bought it, at a unfairly low price I also know now. Then I was young and still naïve and still too blinded by what I thought was love to see that she was steering me exactly where she wanted. I thought to make an honest woman of her, so I urged her to sell the brothel altogether and marry me."

He shrugged with unconvincing carelessness and snorted as he looked over to catch Alec's brows shooting upwards toward his hairline. "It sounds as ridiculous to me now as it did to her then. She laughed in my face and waved me on my merry way. That was five years ago."

'I cannot pretend Camille has given me nothing in this life. She taught me to be cunning- how to survive. Then, by making me use all that I had learned to escape and protect myself from her, she unwittingly showed me how to recognise those who would trap me, especially when they would do it with sweet words and insincere promises."

Magnus cleared his throat, clearing his mind too to the present. Some colour stained his face at last, while his focus returned to the present and to the man perched avidly before him. "For a time I did have to live rather modestly, believe it or no, until I made my first court contact." With that, the gates began to clatter down around his heart once more, shielding more recent, tender hurts and travails as Magnus quietly insisted, "Which is a story for another time, assuredly."

After pushing his cup onto the precarious ledge of the nearby table, he let his hands drop and faced Alec at last. He let his fingers wind together, not before Alec had noted them shaking, and stared at his knees. "You would think, enduring all she has in this world, she would at least run her business more humanly than her predecessor. I certainly know she has a capacity for kindness. Alack, by all accounts she has emerged the exact replica of the Madame she was moulded to be.

My endeavours, on the other hand, have proved to be equally as lucrative and more honestly conducted, for the most part. This much was confirmed to me several years ago when she approached me again. At first to rekindle our romance and later, when that did not end to her satisfaction, she tried to tempt me to invest back in the brothel again. As when she came here today."

Now Alec did baulk, yet not in response to the discovery of Magnus's previous employment. He found himself more greatly disturbed by the prospect of Magnus falling back into the arms of an old flame, one he had such history with and whom he had openly admitted to loving deeply. A woman no less. "You never thought to accept her?" His throat felt twice as thick as normal, but he managed to grate out the worst scenario he could envision, "Or rephrase your proposal?"

Surprise quivered across Magnus's face, that after all he had just spoken of this was the part Alec wanted to discuss. "Once I did think I might get the happy ending I dreamed of as a boy. But eventually the time came to admit I have always been more in love with the thought of Camille. I have adored the person I want her to be rather than the one she is. All she has ever done since that epiphany is prove me right. You saw that for yourself earlier! She cannot bear to have me happy. She cannot bear to think that when all has been said and done I came out the other end better than her. That I could be complete without her."

Now Alec ducked his head, thinking furiously how to phrase what he wanted to ask next, "And…" he played with a loose thread at his sleeve, "Do you truly think you can be?"

"Alexander," Magnus said his name so crisply Alec had to look back properly at the other man's disbelief, "Is that truly what you wish to ask me most?"

Alec spent the next, lengthy minute in fervent thought before concluding honestly, "Yes."

"After all I just said. About who I am. What I have done. I worked as a whore for seven odd years!"

"Yes. I heard and fathomed that detail." Alec waved his hand impatiently, hearing it stipulated once had been quite enough, before he sobered, "I am sorry Magnus."

"As am I." He had never seemed this upset before, always even in their most solemn moments there had been touches of bravado or teasing, "I cannot blame you. What could someone like you possibly want to do with the likes of me?"

"What?" Alec demanded sharply.

Magnus hesitated again, "You are sorry but you cannot see me anymore? Not like this? Is that not what you are trying to say?"

"No! God no!" He made himself take a deep, slow, steadying breath. He could not afford to verbally blunder here. He knew he may not survive the loss if he did. All of which meant he was shaking too when he did get words out, "I am sorry for all you have had to suffer, is what I mean to say. But I do not think that changes anything. It does not alter what I think of you."

"No?"

"No that was not wholly true. I think more of you now, to be truthful."

Shock and then some more profound emotion rippled across Magnus's features, "Alexander-"

"You are not to blame for anything that happened to you. You deserved none of it."

"You do not think of me as the worst kind of the despot the world has to offer?"

"On no account," Alec insisted sternly. "I think you someone who has had an unjustly difficult life. Someone who has had to survive the hardest of times, make the most difficult of choices. You have been unfortunate, you have had to do unfortunate things. I pity you for it, I do, though I admire you far more. All of what you have just told me, Magnus you survived all of that. Death, abuse, exploitation, heartbreak. You are not a victim of those things but a survivor. Someone who against all odds, despite the worst of circumstances and the worst of people has emerged with kindness intact. With hope and courage. Camille let that world claim her and she became what she hated. You are better, braver. You open yourself to the world, you dared to dream that there was goodness in that world, so you gave goodness to it. You let yourself live and love. That is remarkable."

"You are remarkable." Finally, he let his voice shake as he could not stop it doing so, not when Magnus was looking at him with those wide, damp eyes. He was staring at him as though he had just found something new, miraculous and wonderful. As if he had been lost at sea, alone and adrift for months and was at last witnessing the tantalising, tremoring , blurry line on the horizon widen and darken further. A straying sailor at last allowing himself to breathe the word 'land'. A man staring with amazement on his salvation, upon some undiscovered, untouched new world, one existing beyond all reason and all knowledge. Something new, something dangerous, something blessed: all that should not have existed and yet was here. What once he had hardly dared dream of take form undeniably before him. Very real after all.

-00000000000000-

---

Chatton House, Broceland, late July 1537

It was a small miracle Clary had disguised her condition this long. After days of expectant glances at his daughter and keen appraisals of every exchange between the young Duke and Duchess, Valentine could sustain solely on suspicions no longer. For a man who could rely on a supply of endless patience when he had a scheme to enact, he had soon reached his limit of waiting for his daughter to break the good news of her own accord.

Clary had spent the morning packing the last of the things that would come on the road and back to court with her. It was a tedious, stressful travail at the best of times but now it was all the harder. Apparently, once a man entered wedlock he lost the ability or inclination to pack for himself, for now she was also burdened with the duty of deciding which of her husband's belongings to take too. She was irritable with the prospect alone, since the Duke and Duchess had already moved themselves and their belongings out of the house's best rooms so that the King could have adequate lodgings a fortnight ago. Now she had to move all their things again, and quickly, for they would were due to be on the road later today. Thus far, enacting her duty was no better than she had anticipated. Mercifully they had not too many things, having travelled relatively lightly from Alicante in the first place. Regardless, that did not alleviate the tedium of putting the final touches to their departure. Clary was trying to hearten herself by singing mentally the virtues of keeping busy, God willing all went well and there would weeks of careful idleness awaiting her before she gave birth.

Not that many were wise as to that. Thus far she had only spoken of her pregnancy to Isabelle, who would have guessed soon enough anyway and then to Simon, who had received it all in a shocked silence and seemed to be tottering around in a state of hazy disbelief ever since. Both of them she could rely on to keep hush and she knew Jace had yet to breathe word to a soul. The only person he cared to tell was Alec, and he had told her he did not want to impart the tidings by any medium that was not face to face conversation. Consequently he waited to tell his friend with Alec having, for some inexplicable reason, chosen to delay in Alicante. Izzy doubtless knew more than she uttered of his whereabouts, but Clary knew she would never betray her brother's secrets and so bade herself let the matter be.

Much as the beloved trio she had told of her pregnancy meant to her, and however much happiness their joy in the news had brought her, faced with the sudden reality of impending motherhood the one person after her husband Clary had longed to tell most in the world was her mother. She itched to confide in Jocelyn on every occasion their paths had crossed. In spite of that, each time the words had swelled up within Clary and threatened to spring free from her lips, something halted her.

Firstly, stubbornly, she kept it to herself because she felt that all Jocelyn had refrained from saying over the years had left her needlessly helpless in her new world. Even so an apology continued to look like an improbable event and by now Clary was dubious as to whether she really wanted one. She just wanted her mother. Understanding and emphatic as Lady Penhallow may be of her young mistress's condition, it was no substitute for her real mother's knowledge and comfort.

However, since her return to court all Jocelyn had done was silently shadow the King. She had become an entirely mute, meek presence on his arm, adopting an utter passivity with an ease that astonished Clary. She had grown up with a fiercely thinking and fiery spoken woman, not to mention the definite sense of a crackling animosity between her mother and absent father. Now she was faced with a woman who seemed as if she had never been other than Valentine's creature. That most of all saw Clary's restraint and fed the anxiety that she needed to hoard whatever secrets she could. She knew full well that the instant Valentine became aware that his greatest plan was finally bearing fruit and that his goal was within grasp he would want and need complete control over Clary again. She would be bundled back into his safekeeping, only even more intensely watched and controlled than she had been before. After what little respite she had tasted from his domineering Clary was not sure she would ever be ready to surrender, however temporarily, the small freedoms she had tasted since becoming Jace's wife.

Now she had to accept that her time was up. The final, undeniable proof that the last grain of sand had landed in the bottom half of the glass timer came with a young Morgenstern liveried page's quiet order for the Duchess to attend an audience with the King. With a final scan around chambers heaving with the final frenzy of activity before taking to the road, Clary concluded that her women had matters well in hand and her presence would not be missed for the time being.

If only the fates had been kind enough to offer her some excuse to postpone the anticipated annunciation a little longer. Alas, short of having been fatally maimed Clary could think of naught else she could beg to be excused with. Sullenly she fell into step behind the page sent to fetch her (as though there were some risk of her getting lost on her way to Valentine in her own house!) and soon was warily skirting her way into his newly adopted presence chamber.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Broceland, Your Majesty" the herald boomed before her and Clary hastened onward, trying to create the fullest picture of her surroundings possible before she had to creep toward her father with her eyes pasted to the ground. From the way in which the distracted muttering of the loyally loitering handful of lords momentarily lapsed and then resumed more vigorously once Clary passed, she realised her unexpected female presence would be stirring imaginations for at least the next half hour.

While Valentine may forge south annually to chase the best weather his kingdom had to offer, he could not devote the season to leisure alone. The cares of state tailed him in the form of these lords and secretaries, all of them needing some legislation signed off on or amended, or coin for some scheme, or even just the King's attention while they pursued some position. And now these forever disgruntled, conceited band of toadies seemed set to pry on her most personal matter of all. With some dejection, she also had to accept that Jace was not amongst them, leaving Clary alone to fall to the necessary round of obeisance with even less enthusiasm than she customarily had for such things. Privately a small curtsey would have sufficed but as she was to be cursed with an audience she had to fall without hesitation to her knees and settle for peeking reservedly up at a pair of neatly polished boots.

Valentine immediately rose from his throne, whereupon to Clary's mingled dread and alarm he raised her from her curtsey not with a calm command, but with a fatherly chuck under the chin. She raised a small smile with the rest of her body as she met the King's ardent gaze, as if she could not guess what this was about. He wasted no more time, beckoning to her almost playfully as he jumped down from his borrowed pedestal in the rooms that would forevermore in Clary's mind be hers, and ushered her into the adjoining private chamber.

"Good afternoon Clarissa", Valentine waved another posted page away, only stopping him sort of closing the door. He could not bear to have no witnesses at all for this, even if the magnitude of this moment would escape them for the time being. All of which enabled Clary to see for herself the dissatisfied curiosity she had brought upon His Majesty's minions. They were exasperated that she was wasting the precious time they could have used to bask in the King's interest. Little did they know she may well be carrying their future monarch.

Close to amusement at the small mindedness that usually would have driven her to a similar frustration, Clary was drawn back to the present by her father, who in the absence of any immediate retainers had taken it upon himself to do her the rare honour of pouring a glass of wine for her himself. Carefully, Clary took the delicate silver vessel and then the chair her already seated sire signalled for her, holding her face as pleasantly neutral as possible while Valentine expressed his affectionate concern for her health. It would seem a dutiful whisperer had dropped into his ear that the Duchess was recoiling from certain foods she had until now always loved, while conversely was expressing ravenous desires for others she had never been fond of before- (quail's eggs, of all things!). Finally, as Valentine referenced with kindly impatience now, she had also been sick in the mornings.

"Are you well, daughter? It seems this ague is disinclined to lift. We can send for a city physician."

Clary buried a sigh in the thrumming silence which followed the inquisitive commentary. It was not as though she could have kept it hidden indefinitely, but her luck had held far enough that she had dared to think it could endure a little further. At least while all of this was still becoming slowly real to her with each new startling change in her body. Even when the court had come to Chatton and she knew it to be proclamation to be impending, she had imagined she might let Jace impart the news. Doing so should serve to remind her father of his young Duke's service and value. Better yet, it may dilute the horror of the last report Jace had made. Now she found herself trapped between the King's impatient expression and a room full of lords craning to see what manner of conversation they had been excluded from. She could shrug it aside no longer; not when Valentine could not disguise a desperation for her to confirm his suspicions so intense it looked not unlike physical pain.

So, sweeping her reluctance and resentment away Clary donned a sheepish smile and spoke with soft conviction. "Nay, Sire. I am perfectly well. I refrained from confiding in you before as I wanted to be certain it was true and proceeding as it ought to…" She dragged out a pause as long as she dared. God it was delightful to have Valentine hanging on her every word for once- it made her feel powerful, "I am to have a child, Father."

She had also pictured several times how exactly the King might greet the news that his ambitions were to be satisfied. Her wildest conjuring could not have prepared her for how Valentine sprang out of his seat like an excited schoolboy, his face holding perhaps the most emotion Clary had ever seen upon it as he seized her hands and swooped in to land a kiss on her cheek. "This is glorious news indeed!" He kissed at her hands too, from outside the ajar door to the audience the anxious, curious buzzing of the abandoned courtiers and advisors rose at the exclamation. Clary froze, watching bemused as her father straightened again. "When?"

"The new year."

His eyes shone, sleekly polished onyx, as he cast them heavenwards, "God keep you and bless you." Then, on an afterthought, as if all of this had been the Lord's doing and had nothing to do with her at all he turned back to his daughter with low triumph. "May He and the Virgin send you a happy hour."

"Amen," Clary murmured, dipping her chin again, the din of her hammering heart clamouring her ears louder than Valentine's prayers, as if she had just run a race. She could admit to herself now she had started to wonder whether Valentine's plan to make her issue his heir still stood or no. When he had first told her of it the whole thing had sounded closer to madness than genius and besides, even had he discarded that plot her father would likely not have thought it necessary to inform her. Judging from his elated response, his intentions had not altered from Christmas. Her own thrill at that confirmation startled Clary too. Though, come to think of it that should be nothing unexpected. She was, whether she liked it or not, a Morgenstern. It would seem she had ambition as fierce as the rest of them and now it had just been woken.

My son will be King. I will be Queen Mother. Never a nobody again.

Not long ago it might have appalled her and the fear of such responsibility would have had her cringing, but instead the thought sent an excited determination forking through her veins like lightening. A fresh wave of dizziness set her whirling too and she doubted this onslaught of vertigo was solely due to the child she carried.

Weakly, she broke away and lowered herself downwards to the seat again slowly. "Forgive me" she muttered, starting to form some hasty excuse.

Valentine waved it aside, sitting opposite her again. His folded hands rested on the little table between them, thumbs tapping against one another as he grew thoughtful. "Is travel advisable?"

Clary was unsure if the question was directed to her or a rhetorical rambling aloud. She strove to answer it regardless, "I see no reason why not," Then, wincing, added, "But I think perhaps doing so on horseback may not be wise." Given her previous experiences she could not say with confidence that frets of her taking a bad fall which might harm her precious child were unfounded.

Valentine was nodding readily, "Assuredly. That goes without saying. There is sure to be a litter somewhere in this house." Evidently, the King had not thought to bring one; it had not occurred to him it would be necessary. There was a sort of humour in that itself, Clary considered with a tiny, rebellious twinge of mirth. One would think with the strength of his demand for a child from her it would have crossed Valentine's mind to bring some sort of symbol to remind her of the debt to him and Idris.

As though her thoughts on what the royals owed Idris had been read, the King's eyes and focus returned to the doorway and the many inquisitive ears and minds beyond. "I am afraid I must take my leave of you, my dear. My duties elsewhere demand my attention." He rose, but not before he brushed his hand against her cheek, staring down at her with a wistful awe and clear pride at the vessel of his divinely guided plans. The little girl that Clary had been not so long ago basked in the approval. She had come to court with the hope of knowing her father at last, of finding the fatherly love she had lacked all her life and proving herself a child he could be proud of after all. But she was buried and half-forgotten inside the hardened, remoulded version of her; the hardy, wily young woman this man, his court had the demands of both had shaped.

Meanwhile practicality established itself and His Majesty spoke again more briskly, though his exultance remained strong, "I shall issue new orders, we need not leave yet. There is time enough upon the morrow. You are not to be hurried or harried, we will not be pressing for Garrotway before nightfall. A delay should allow for travel at a more civilised pace."

Hearing the implicit dismissal, Clary rose tentatively. "Take care of yourself," Her father went on to instruct, as though that remark was all that might dissuade her from an evening's deadly snake charming. The Duchess bridled an eye roll just in time. She may as well adjust quickly to doing as Valentine said again. He had laid claim to the child in her womb and by proxy that meant her too, certainly while she carried his heir. "Send your husband to see me. He shall also have our congratulations immediately," The King called over his shoulder from the door in conclusion.

With that bidding, Clary willingly made her escape behind him, pausing only to dip a light farewell curtsey below her father, reinstated on the throne. Not very long ago she would have scurried away with her chin down, blushing at the heat of so many attentive eyes being on her. This time, she found she relished it. Let them look all they wanted, for she finally appreciated that they had wondered for so long if she would prove to be someone worth watching. Now she was.

She marched onwards, answering the searching stares of the King's men only with an aloof nod. She was their plaything no longer, not some toy they could amuse themselves making games with. Nay, now she was one of them. From now on she had her own stake in the game.

In fact, though they did not know it yet, she possessed the ace. And she was not going to humbly pass her child over, no matter what her father thought. Her child, not Valentine's, and thus it would stay. While she carried his grandson, his preferred heir, she held considerable sway over her father. That gave her considerable room for manoeuver and everything to play for. Fuelled by this new, foreign sense of confidence and an unusual exhilarating feeling of empowerment, she strode out of the room with more energy than she had felt in days and bolder than she had felt in years. She moved with faultless grace and an unshakeable self-assurance, as though she had just been crowned and anointed queen. As her clasped hands bumped against the tiny, almost insignificant bulge of her belly secreted within the swell of her skirts, Clary reflected that she may as well have been.

-000000000000000-

---

Of course, after that it had been only a matter of hours before all became public court knowledge. The King had not crowed his triumph from the rooftops as he had longed to, cautioned by someone with sense that with Clary was still in the early, precarious days where too much untoward excitement was bad for her. Nonetheless, the circling, breezing rumours had quickly whipped to a hurricane once the King, though Clary was technically no longer his responsibility, had gifted her with a glorious new gown of blue and gold, every bit as fine as the Virgin Mary's robes and almost identical in hue, alongside a small chest of jewels. Where he could have procured such a dress from when he was miles from the city was a mystery, unless of course he had taken it with him from Alicante. Then, were she to assume that, Clary would have to take the next reasonable presumption that with no foreknowledge of her pregnancy Valentine must have originally intended to surprise her mother with it. Suspecting that, she was left disconcerted to be sure, but also snidely pleased. Never had she thought the day would come where she and Jocelyn would be in competition for Valentine's affections, yet here they were.

Bewildering as all that may be, Clary was not prepared to refuse such a gift, not with Jace still trying to find his footing as a noble at court and live up to his title. Besides, the initial rush of prospective power to her head had long since abated, leaving her cold and a touch unsure of herself. In the light of the following day all Clary was more aware that she had not put a son in the cradle yet and any number of things could happen between now and then. Sober and prudent once more, Clary thought upon how she had witnessed enough of the fleeting nature of Valentine's esteem to know she should capitalise on it while she could. Besides, the gown's measurements were near perfect for her- at least for the time being.

And then, as if any uncertainty still lingered to the effect, the undeniable substance to the rumours came in the form of the specifically commissioned litter for the Duchess when the court moved on westwards.

The final confirmation of just how tedious and slow this journey was like to be for the Duchess herself too, as she stood in the courtyard and confronted the cumbersome form of her special mode of transport. She was not in fine cheer as it was, having been plagued with an array of particularly realistic and unnerving dreams through a night of fitful sleep, which had left her stumbling out of bed for dawn Mass with fatigued limbs that felt more like logs than flesh.

Still, no good would come of her complaining, so she would have to grit her teeth and hope that among the many alarming and baffling changes her previously short supply of patience had also been lengthened. Anything ought to be better than her last calamitous journey with the court on the progress, she tried to tell herself sternly, bidding her final farewells to her staff and plucking up her skirts to climb up the stairs to the litter. Wincing a little as she flicked a dated, slightly moth-eaten curtain aside, her paltry attempt at optimism was almost crushed entirely. What did it matter how fashionable the damn thing was, she chastised herself mentally, so long as it kept her baby safe? She was to be a mother and she needed to stop being selfish if she was ever to make a good one.

Just as determination to that end began to take hold Clary was distracted again, this time by the arrival of Jonathan, stepping out of the shadowy gateway into the flashing sunlight. He blinked impatiently as his eyes struggled to come to terms with the sudden brightness. By the time the sun retreated behind another cloud and he could see clearly, he instantly wore the look of someone wished he had stayed half blind.

One could be sure he had been one of the first to get wind of what new gossip was being bandied about the court concerning his sister, but he must have given it no credence, or not fully considered it until now.

Unable to go on staring for fear of what she may see, Clary quickly ducked inside, unhappily not before she glimpsed the dangerously brittle surprise that flicked across her brother's handsome face like the crack of a whip as she clambered up into her seat. When she did peer out again he was on the move, not toward her praise be, but with the darkening genesis of a new tempest buried in the terseness of his expression. She now knew him well enough to grasp that he was holding onto his composure, but not without supreme effort. He knew not what this meant and every possibility his unsettled mind lurched to was worse than the last. Whatever appalling imagining he could conjure up could hardly be worse than the reality, Clary had to acknowledge, even if only to herself. It was not as if he had not been threatened with the prospect of her having a child before now, God help them all Clary had voiced threats to that effect herself. She just had to pray that the fact the father was not the King of France would make Jonathan feel secure enough to leave her and her child be. Jace had no army, no coin and nothing tangible with which to endanger Jonathan, not yet. But her brother was no idiot and he had his own spies and cronies. Worst of all, he knew their father too damn well. If anyone could sniff out Valentine's most secret intent, it was his son. Moreover, if the King kept making such a fuss soon even the scullery maids would detect there was more to this than there seemed.

Bitterly she acceded that if this was to be her welcoming gift to the Crown Prince she could not take it back now, squirming anxiously upon the plump cushions which lined the bench beneath her. She was wrapped up in her fearful thoughts so deeply that when the curtains were hauled back again without warning she leapt out of her skin. She had panicked visions of Jonathan dragging her out of the litter by the throat before she recognised the latest face to confront her.

Isabelle smirked down at her, oblivious to her palpitations, "I think your brother is going to be sick."

"I think I am going to be sick" Clary said shakily, feeling her heart thumping so fiercely in her throat that she felt she had swallow to push it back into her chest. Nonetheless, she had spoken true, and worries of her brother could not take all the credit for it. This constant nausea- well for loss of a more appropriate term- she was sick of it.

Izzy rolled her eyes with her usual touching sympathy.

"Are you coming with me?" Clary enquired hopefully just the same.

"Well when you invite me in the same breath you threaten to vomit with…"

"I will fight it. I am getting very good at supressing it."

"Nay," Her friend corrected loftily, "I heard Lady Penhallow telling you that once you passed your third month the sickness would ease off." The merriment faded, "Speaking of the Marchioness, much we both appreciate and respect her, think you not that you should be hearing such assurances from your own mother? You are lucky enough to have one that cares."

Clary tensed. It was nothing she had not thought herself, but hearing it put into words and forced to her attention still stoked her anger. "Ah why should she? Not when she has a new daughter and lapdog, surely."

If she had expected Isabelle to flinch, she was mistaken. Honestly, Clary believed a wild tiger could be set on Izzy and she would simply fix it with an unimpressed, disdainful stare crippling enough to send the creature whimpering back to its mother like a kitten. Now she barely blinked, "That is not true. As well you know, the likes of me do not make for obedient company." Then her dryness gave way to a sincere softness that made Clary almost wish for the irony back. "Truthfully, your mother was very upset that she had to hear from someone else that you were expecting."

Cursing her perpetually raw emotional state, Clary had to swallow again, this time to force down the heaviness of a sob rather than a quickened pulse. "Then she ought to have been there. She ought to have at least spoken to me, said something of more consequence than 'more wine?'"

"I know you blame her for a great deal Clary. I do understand. You think that had she been more open about the kind of man your father was and how he operates you would have been less naïve when you got here. That you wouldn't have been so helplessly malleable, that he would not have manipulated you as easily as he did." She dipped her voice lower still, leaning even closer, "But that is what he does. Manipulate. And after a lifetime he does it so well that I doubt anything would have prepared you. And that goes for everything royalty and court related too, in fact. As for the rest…"

"The rest?" Clary asked hoarsely, reeling from the inescapable truth of all Izzy had just posed to her.

"The rest of what you consider her culpable for. It has occurred to you, more than once I'd wager, that she is the reason the King is this way. Mayhap, had she not thrown a tantrum when she stopped getting her way all the time and run away, had she stayed with him, then he may not be so unforgiving. Or have become a man who trusts so little he needs to know how often his own daughter hems her petticoats, and you are his own blood and not under serious suspicion. Furthermore, you blame her for Jonathan. Had he not been left an angry, confused little boy who grew into adulthood wondering why his mother never loved him enough to stay, had she not left that boy with a man like Valentine who plays such emotions as easily as Simon plays the lute, then perhaps he would not be… as he is. Well, all I can say on the subject is that of that has occurred to her too."

Words did not come to Clary at all, they totally eluded her as she stared at her friend. Then, after permitting only a moment of that stunned, affirmative silence, Isabelle broke out a laugh and reverted to her old, infinitely amused self. Just not as easily or convincingly as she once used to.

"There you have it. More than merely a pretty face."

Clary forced a smile in return. "Evidently. Are you quite certain the applause of it is not enough to convince you to stay with me and talk?"

"You do not need to talk, you need to think about what I just said and decide what to do about it. At any rate, all conversations I have with you these days sooner or later turn into you whining about how awful and uncomfortable being pregnant is. And you have only been pregnant five minutes."

"Some three months," Clary corrected, feeling unjustly slighted, "Three very long months."

Isabelle smiled and reached over to pat her cheek. "I love you, but not enough to hold your sick pan. Not again."

The Duchess laughed, a little less queasily than before, "I love you too."

"Ah. Speaking of love, your husband approaches. We will speak later, properly, should you wish it. For now, I leave you in his capable hands and go saddle up. Someone has to exercise that lovely palfrey of yours." She fired her friend a teasing wink and then darted away.

Clary squirmed again, trying to get comfortable as best she could and resist the stream of unflattering, unbecoming phrases she could apply in lieu of "lovely" to that creature she had been threatening to sell to the knacker's yard for over a year now. She did not have long to dwell on it, for true to Isabelle's sentry skills her husband clattered up the steps next and sprawled himself across the cushions opposite, smiling over at her lazily. Clary might have promised devotion and submission of her body, but now she was aware that submitting her body had gotten her into this situation of tiredness, crabbiness and an uncomfortably active bladder in the first place. And now she had to survive the long hours that lay ahead of her being swayed and jolted about in this glorified box.

It all promoted her to kick at his languidly sprawling ankles now. "What do you want?"

Jace started to sigh, then seized back the sound of exasperation. He no longer rose to her grouchy jibes or complaints of him. On the sole occasion he had lost his temper and snapped back, she had broken immediately into hysterical, unstoppable tears and scared him half to death. The whole calamity had culminated with him begging her forgiveness on his knees though her wicked tongue had started it, which had only served to make Clary cry all the harder. Henceforth, he bore her sniping in relative silence. "I merely wanted to see you were comfortable, my love. We have a long journey ahead of us."

"Some of us longer than others," Clary reminded him coyly.

"I will not be far from you," Jace assured her gently.

"Hmm. You say that now, but I know that once you have your feet in the stirrups and feel the wind on your face you will gallop halfway to Garrotway before you have another thought of me."

Jace gasped theatrically, "What vile slander!"

"Harsh truths," she insisted drily.

"Well since I am so uncaring and so poorly cared for, I suppose this will be unnecessary." He drummed his fingers against the flimsy cover sheet of the book he untucked from under his arm. "I do not think my poor bruised heart can bear the sight of it being flung from the litter behind me."

Clary's hands twitched forward, "I am repentant. Utterly."

Jace flashed her a half smile and tossed the book into her lap.

"What is it?"

"Petrarch, sonnets. For my own heartless beloved."

"I am not heartless." She protested, with the beginnings of a laugh scratching at the back of her throat. "Not truly. I felt the stirrings of sympathy for Jonathan mere moments ago."

"Jonathan? Good God. Let not your compassion stray into madness Clary."

She shrugged, dipping her voice a little, "I said stirrings. Nothing dramatic. But to think no one warned him…" she gestured to her stomacher, slightly jutting outwards.

The vague merriment swiftly melted from Jace's face. He spoke with quiet but solemn intensity, "Warned him of what? Why should anyone warn him of anything? As far as he is concerned, as far as anyone is concerned, our child is the heir to a duchy and nothing more."

He pushed the hair flopping into his eyes back and shrugged, his eyes wandering from hers. He may be looking out at their courtyard, but Clary felt he was not seeing the horses, lords or grooms. His voice when it sounded again was little more than a murmur, for her ears only, "A blind man could see your brother would make a terrible king, a dangerous one even. I can agree with Valentine on that count at least." He turned back to his wife and offered a small, yet still serious half-smile, "But we needs must have a king." A trace of the unapologetic ambition he had learned from her father darted across Jace's sombre features briefly. "Why should it not be our boy?"

That fearless, insistent ambition she had tasted just yesterday that refused to allow anything to make what she wanted look unreasonable had definitely fled from her now. While Clary agreed with him that Jonathan was unfit to rule responsibly, she could not accept so easily that was sufficient cause to unmake him the rightful heir. She failed to see how Valentine could overlook the natural order of things. Even should he succeed, the King's doing so could set a precedent and soon everywhere heirs could be denied their rights on any whim. What would become of the world if the divine chain of being were overlooked? Once the established, traditional structures were abandoned the world was plunged to anarchy. No one could have any certainty. Who was to stop the child selected today from being discarded tomorrow? Clary's hands fluttered down to her stomach alongside her thoughts, fingertips skimming the gentle curve of her belly, as they did so often since she had first detected the tiny bump of her growing child.

It still astounded her, that the tiniest of protrusions in her abdomen was the result of the little life already growing so quickly inside of her. A baby, another person! She was busy coming to terms with that, whatever Jace may think, and she had not cast her mind that far into the future. Not besides yesterday's flash of what she now deemed lunacy. Just another of her condition's wild fancies. She was preoccupied marvelling in the miracle of the present.

She supposed it was easier for Jace to think of the years to come. The reality of the baby had yet to strike him mayhap, facilitating his ability to play with ideas of what their child might become.

Guessing at her wandering thoughts, Jace smiled a touch sheepishly, "But your father's plots are his concerns. Not ours and certainly not yours."

"Because I am but a woman? Who need only produce the child and promptly pass it over to others?" She demanded, slyly.

Jace shook his head slowly, "In so far as you are the one carrying the child, yes. What you need to do for now is rest and keep yourself calm. Forget Idris,I need you safe and healthy- both of you."

The last of her irritation slipped away. She could not do other than brighten when he said such things. She smiled at him in a manner that was sure to look pathetic to the outside eye. Jace leaned forward for a swift, chaste kiss on her lips, "I fear I have lingered long enough. The King is likely waiting for me."

"You had best go then." Clary admitted reluctantly.

With an ironically flourishing bow he dropped down from the litter and tugged on the lining curtains. "Open or shut?"

"Shut," Clary declared, "I think I will try sleep awhile." She was seldom well rested by the time the unignorably strong nausea roused her for good these mornings and it was catching up with her. Jace nodded obediently and retreated, "Fare thee well for a while at least, my beloved Laura!"

Scoffing fondly at his antics, she waved him away again. She would be sure to demand some love poems off him later, wherever they stopped for dinner, she thought to herself. Yet once the litter was in motion and the grand procession of nobles began to sluggishly chug their way out of Chatton's gates, she found herself dissatisfied again. Despite the shade of the curtains the rocking of the litter proved to be less lulling than she hoped. On the contrary, Clary was certain she felt every stone on the road as they jerked forward at no great speed whatsoever. Furthermore, once sleep established itself unmovably in opposition to her she wished she had left the curtains be so that she might have a final glimpse of her home. She was determined to establish the house as such in her mind at any rate. Rather than hopping from one great estate to another in the King's train it had been nice to live the same walls for more than a few weeks.

That was not to say it did not make her miss the graceful architecture and the gentle lapping of the river outside her window at Princewater, but she had enjoyed being mistress of her own household. She had taken to it quicker than she had expected, ordering the servants around, observing the rotations of the dairy, commissioning the meals- it had half convinced her that she had been born to be a country gentlewoman rather than a princess. She could quite happily spend the rest of her days running Chatton, with Jace out in the fields or in the counting house and she had the feeling that he would gladly never see the court again either. For the first time, they had both started to feel settled. But she doubted she would see the warm honey coloured stone of its walls for some months to come. Much as she may have liked him to be, her child would not be born under Chatton's roof.

Thankfully, slowly as they moved, they were not challenged or threatened. The mood of the shires, though by no means cheerful, was no longer openly hostile. Clary tried not to think about how that was because all the dissenters were dead. Widows and orphans did not stage revolts. Jace had started to sow the seeds of reparation in their counties, but she knew it had not been nearly as much as he had hoped for. Another reason for him to return to His Majesty's presence with great reluctance.

Eventually giving up on a nap she struggled somewhat upwards on the cushions and tried to rearrange them. God help her, if this was only the early days of pregnancy she dreaded to think what the later months would entail.

She let her thoughts stray wherever they would, welcoming the quiet and privacy to let them roam in peace. One benefit of this transport was that she could screen herself away from the omnipotence of her father and his spies and live without fretting that her thoughts could be easily plucked off her open face like berries off a hedge.

Soon she could not tell if it had been hours or minutes of their journey had passed. Her restless eyes roamed her interior surroundings, taking in the beech and heron insignias patterning the roof. The tree had been Stephen's badge, she remembered, attempting to stretch her cramping legs. The litter itself had been hastily dug out from some dark, forgotten corner of Chatton. Clary tilted her head and properly contemplated Stephen's personal insignia. It did not suit Jace- not at all. She remembered having read somewhere that it was supposed to symbolise resilience and grace. While her husband possessed plenty of both, the tree seemed inadequate for him. Trees were too easily overlooked, too inanimate. Everything about Jace Herondale demanded attention.

He was a true leader of men, noble by character as well as name in a world of wretches devoid of honour, out only for their own gain. All of whom would gladly see him fall, or be the instrument of his destruction. She shuttered her eyes and tried to imagine how he must have looked that day, when he had charged out barely armoured into a force of rebels hundreds strong and commanded their loyalty. He must have displayed a truly regal courage, become defiance and hope made flesh. In that case, he appeared only as he was: a man who had fought every day he breathed for his freedom and would never stop fighting. Someone the rest should never forget to fear. He had been tested over and over and each time he prevailed. What she wanted most of all now was to to give him a reminder him of that. Her love had always struggled to see himself as anyone of worth, so she ought to show him how he could look through the eyes of others. To remind him how difficult he was to cow.

Jace might wish to play cordially for the time being and make friends where he could, Clary meanwhile failed to see how they could overlook their enemies. The Cardinal, Jonathan, Pangborn, these were just a few of those more forward with their antagonism and had only been temporarily abated, uncertain of how much influence this new player really had, or how much he wanted. Thus the Duchess deduced that a show of strength was needed.

Captivated by her own vision, Clary instantly felt the longing to put charcoal to paper and sketch more desperately than she had for months. She let the glowing vivacity of the image take form in her mind's eye, scarce believing the clarity with which the vision had come upon her, or the force with which it kept her in its grip. Claws even. Feeling the corners of her mouth curl, she marvelled at the subtle, uncompromising power and might in the untamed, majestic beast that prowled behind her closed lids.

If Jace really meant his refusal to allow another to pull the strings of his destiny again, then he needed a banner that was all his. One fit for a prince. She could give him that much. Together they would configure a way to keep the rest of the jackals at court in check.

Mayhap they could retain the traditional Herondale blue. But the age of the weak sapling was over. Now Broceland would have a lion.

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A/N: The ending was weak, I know, but there comes a time to accept you suck and let it go.

I also can't be the only one who wants to wrap Magnus in a blanket, feed him cookies and warm milk and shield him forevermore from the world he's too good for. :'(

Thank you so much for reading! This time when I promise the next chapter will arrive in the near future I (hopefully) voice a promise that I can keep this time! Meaning I have the guts of it. on paper. And oh boy is shit about to hit the fan my dudes. With that happy pronouncement I leave you for now! xx