Chapter 2: Sins of the Father
Princewater Palace, Alicante, late April 1536
Clary hissed in frustration as the sharp silver needle jerked back from her finger. A single, despondent bead of blood welled up from the point of contact.
In a belated attempt to stop herself bleeding over her morning's labours, she flung the needlework to one side and raised her injured thumb to her mouth.
This had gotten ridiculous. Her obedient pursuit of the maidenly arts had done naught but turned her fingers into pincushions and her patience into shreds. Why in the name of God could she not manage to stitch in a single straight line?
Admittedly, her skill with a thread had always left something to be desired. But today the needle was spending even more time than usual in fingers instead of fabric. Clary couldn't seem to concentrate. Each time she managed to aim her attention at something useful it flitted back to the night before, to her encounter with the strange and beautiful boy.
She couldn't seem to push a pair of remarkably golden eyes and gentle lilting French accent from her mind. There was something about him that was almost familiar...
She tried to rein herself in; that boy may have had the face of an angel, but his devilish grin and appalling manners ought to be enough to knock her back to her senses. His arrogant sneer as he all but called her a whore still left her seething.
Yet the night remained a blur of conflicting images. The memory her hand placing a well-deserved blow warred with the feeling of a steady arm around her, halting her fall. Of course, the former recollection brought her far more satisfaction, Clary reminded herself firmly. That boy was trouble. It was already clear from their brief meeting that he was the not the sort to shower smiles on a girl and walk away leaving her reputation intact. Besides, she had bigger things to worry about than one cheeky cad. She had mere hours to make herself a presentable princess worthy of a royal marriage and with very little help at hand.
Dropping her hands back to her lap and swallowing against the tang of blood in her mouth, Clary found her eye meeting that of one of her ladies; the girl with the slanting features and the strange brown gold hair- Lady Helen Blackthorn- who was looking at her with too much sympathy to tolerate.
"All this sewing is such weary work! Perhaps we could take a break? A walk in the gardens maybe? Or I could read to you?"
She made as if to rise, and Clary had to resist the urge to tackle her back into her seat. The last thing she wanted was her incompetence flapping about on a flagpole for all to see when Helen kindly sought out some soothing literature.
The first lesson her mother had taught her was to hide any weakness. However embarrassing her failures with a needle and thread, her real fear now was that any more gentle consideration from the Lady Helen would have her publicly in pieces: and that could not be borne.
Mercifully, Clary was saved by the entrance of a herald. "May I present to Your Highness the Lady Isabelle Lightwood, daughter of the Earl of Adamant." Clary automatically straightened up in her seat and fixed what she hoped looked like a welcoming smile on her face as she beheld her newest lady.
The new girl, the latecomer, swept her way into the room and instantly commanded all attention.
The slender figure of Isabelle Lightwood paused for a moment in the doorway, eyes skimming the room in seconds before resting on Clary with a raw curiosity that wiped the frozen smile from her features.
Clary barely had time to take stock of the enviously narrow waist, and the bright halo of her hood pushed startlingly far to expose rich ebony hair, before Isabelle was approaching with confident strides and sinking into a very foreign curtsy with elegant ease before her.
Somewhere in her stunned mind Clary registered that chattering gossip of all the other ladies had been evaporated by the hot red of the Lightwood girl's gown, blazing through the modest pastel shades of Idrisian skirts.
From this angle there was no ignoring the fact that the French girl's plunging neckline bordered on scandalous. Clary struggled to ignore the too many inches of creamy flesh it revealed.
Then a pair of gleaming black eyes flickered up to hers expectantly and sent Clary reeling once again. She had been at court long enough to know that one's eyes stayed fixed to the floorboards when introduced to a superior and remained there until spoken to.
Clary realised she had let the silence stretch on into discourtesy and hastily blurted out a greeting, willing herself fiercely not to stutter. "Welcome to our court, Lady Isabelle."
"Charmed."
An unconventional reply for an unconventional girl.
"Almost as much as I." The reply escaped before Clary could bite it back, and sounded terribly dry.
The newcomer rose from her display of submission and assessed her new mistress shamelessly, although Clary noted there was now a slightly pink tinge to her cheeks. Around them some talk had crept back into the chamber in the form of low whispers amongst the other girls.
Isabelle Lightwood towered over her, but Clary refused to betray any signs of intimidation and kept her light gaze locked on the dark one.
"You came from Adamant?" she said finally, to break the silence at least, and to gain some information from this curiosity of a girl at best. Adamant was a curious little French border province in the north-west of the country. From what Clary knew it was little more than a trading outpost between Idris and France, and also a region from which Idris kept a very close eye on her larger, more powerful neighbour.
Not unexpectedly Isabelle was far from forthcoming. "Yes. But I was at the French court before that."
Well, that explained the neckline.
Idris had no national tongue, the court nobility tended to fluctuate between French and German. In some pockets of the countryside the common people retained dialects of an older Idrisian speech. But the King's circle appeared to favour French, so Clary was fluent in the tongue. However, Isabelle's rapid, provincial French took some getting used to.
"What brought you here? Alicante can't be very exciting compared to Paris."
"Duty" Isabelle responded with a smirk. The bitter humour did little to mar her pretty face.
Clary felt her own lips tilt to a smile at their newfound common ground. She gestured to a seat amongst the other girls near her, which Isabelle took after executing another graceful curtsey.
Taking the needlework back into her hands Clary felt a small glow of satisfaction eat away at her frustration.
However beautiful and daunting Isabelle Lightwood might be, it was refreshing to have found someone who wanted to be here just as little as she did.
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The hubbub of the crowd's excited chatter swelled as the doors to the King's presence chamber opened tantalisingly, only to grow subdued again as the only movement beyond was that of a clerk scurrying away. It really was quite amusing to watch the massed people cluster around a doorway all trying to look the most important only to jump like excited schoolchildren at any kind of movement from the inner rooms.
Tugging at his sleeve slightly as he tried to disguise an ink stain Jace considered the matter at hand. Quelling his impatience, he turned to face Alec, "What do we anticipate this is about?"
"The royal marriage?!" Alec suggested incredulously, looking at Jace as though he had lost his mind.
"I concede that is the bigger picture. But I wonder what prompted these particular summons?"
Alec blinked, uncomprehending.
"It's barely been a week since we put Pangborn's nose out of joint. I doubt he recovered soon enough to pass on our introduction. The King likely asked for them directly himself. Now I wonder what could have prompted such immediate action."
He looked over at his friend's startled expression. "Not just a pretty face," Jace declared sardonically.
As though the mention had conjured his presence the doors swung open once again to release Pangborn, who turned to the French party with a pained sniff. "His Majesty will see you now."
Without further ado, the two young men rose and- after throwing one another a hasty glance to exchange confidence- made to follow the brisk secretary. But Pangborn raised a hand with a half- heartedly apologetic expression. "Just the ambassador for now. Although you have been invited to join His Majesty in the gardens later with the other lords, Lord Alexander." Pangborn did not attempt to disguise his disapproval of the invitation.
He left a tangible pause before he decided he had not offended them nearly enough. "You are the Earl of Adamant's son, yes?"
"Yes." Alec responded tightly.
Silently Jace unleashed a stream of violent curses. It was bad enough he had to do this at all, now he had to do it alone. But he wouldn't have Master Snuffly Pangborn see him perturbed. "Pray lead on, sir" he invited with a sharp nod, "We shouldn't keep His Majesty waiting."
He turned to Alec once more and read a distinct do not destroy this on his features as he stiffly walked after the King's secretary.
They passed through to the King's presence chambers and Pangborn lingered by the entrance while Jace was announced.
Bracing himself, Jace took a deep breath and a step forward. There was barely time to appreciate the rich surroundings and golden pillars that lined the room before he was lowering himself into a deep and respectful bow before the raised dais.
"Ah. Your Excellency. Rise." The cool command rang out by way of greeting.
Obediently, Jace straightened up and faced the King of Idris.
King Valentine the Second rested on a huge, gilded oak seat, cutting quite the regal figure. He wore no crown and dressed completely in an immaculately cut black, but no one would mistake him for anything but regal. His placid and proud ,demeanour held the assurance of a men man who had been born to power. A man used to issuing orders and getting what he wanted, from his nursery days. Valentine still sported a neatly trimmed white beard, which served to add a sense of wisdom to his perfectly composed features. His relatively unlined face was that of a man who had yet to cross fifty. The only jewels he wore was a chain of dark rubies, and the sapphire ring of state on his right hand.
His dominating presence was only accentuated by the tapestry that hung behind him. The crowned angel exploding from the waters of the blessed lake, brandishing a sword in his right hand and a jewelled cup in his left. Here to remind all who stood before this man that the Morgenstern line could boast a heritage shrouded in myth and legend. It was said the blood of heaven itself ran in their veins.
Jace could feel the judgements being formed as the sovereign surveyed the young man before him. One dispassionate scan swept up and down Jace's body. Jace hated the cresting longing to do better, be better that sharp black gaze brought up. The impulse to do something, anything that might tempt a single word of praise from this man.
He wished the feeling were unfamiliar.
All these years he had tried to convince himself that he didn't care what anyone thought of him and now here he was; a simpering idiot like all the others. Ready to fling himself down and hone the purpose of his existence down to Valentine Morgenstern's every whim. Again.
There had never been anyone in Jace's life for him to call 'father.' Valentine was the man who had been left responsible for raising him. And Valentine had done so, with a certain diligence, until he had tired of the task and dispatched his titleless, fortuneless young ward to the care of an old friend in Adamant.
"Jonathan. It's been so long," Valentine offered a thin smile, "Too long."
"Your Majesty" Jace forced himself to say calmly, meeting the stony gaze. Inwardly Jace recoiled at the use of his full name. Outwardly he returned the smile. "Yet the reunion is a pleasure."
The King's smile stretched but grew no warmer. " The pleasure is ours. You are no longer a child, I see."
Jace saw no point in a reply. Thankfully Valentine decided to change the subject, "You think the Dauphin of France will make a fitting bridegroom for our daughter?"
At last, chartered territory.
Jace had been rehearsing these arguments repeatedly in his head since the very moment he had received his commission. In fact, he suspected that through perfecting existing points of persuasion and wracking his brains for new ones, he had become so well acquainted with the strengths of the French prince's suit that he had begun to recite them in his sleep. Now enduring the king of Idris's scrutiny, Jace gratefully seized the opportunity to take some command of the conversation.
"Indeed. He's close in age to the Princess and ready for a wife. There is much an alliance with France can offer you. King Francois extends his friendship, naturally, and your countries already have so much in common. Such a match will be especially advantageous to you, a Catholic King who has the Protestant German states pressing your kingdom's shoulder. It makes sense to ally with your powerful Catholic neighbour."
"All of this I know" Valentine extended an arm to signal the rooms beyond and the people who waited without, "But there are other Catholic suitors."
"None that your Majesty shares a border with." Jace blithely countered, "Why not secure your friendship by sharing a set of grandchildren? And we have not even begun to discuss the economic benefits. Just think, France has started not only started to trade with the Asian nations but also stakes a claim in the New World. Think of the influence Idris might gain through such an alliance! Consider the growing market for Idrisian goods such trade connections would create."
Valentine leaned back in his chair and raised hand to his mouth thoughtfully. "All true. We shall consider your suit Jonathan." Somehow, he made it sound as if he were saying 'I will consider you Jonathan'. Jace struggled to keep his expression nonchalant. The next words provided a welcome distraction. "Which is why I am throwing a feast tonight, so that you and the other embassies may see Clarissa for yourselves."
None of the other envoys had lain eyes on this girl either? She truly must be hideously deformed, Jace thought dejectedly. But it mattered little; France would wed her for her bloodline and her connections, not her beauty. Although, Jace admitted a fair face would have helped hurry proceedings along.
He could also see the King was withdrawing from the conversation. Another wave rose in Jace, this time one of resentment. He felt he was being sent to bed without supper again. Banished while he still had so many things to say. So many questions for Valentine.
And yet, Jace knew he would never say them.
Too many years had gone by. Jace may have been raised at this court and by this man, but Valentine evidently did not feel he owed Jace anything. If he had, he would have sent for him sooner. Or sent a letter.
Kings explained themselves to no one save God. Not even to their children, or those who were as good as.
The King of Idris was not going to acknowledge Jace as akin to family, he was not going to extend any of the privilege or protection that may come with such an acknowledgement. By now, Jace had stopped wishing for it. He had learned to make his own way in the world.
He knew that his elevation to Ambassador had not solely been on the basis of his skills. The King of France had hoped Jace's personal connection to the King of Idris would sweeten their suit. That some vestige of paternal fondness from Valentine may gain Jace and his party some preferential treatment.
Judging from this reception, this was unlikely to be the case.
Jace had expected as much. If anything, the opposite was to be true of Valentine. He was twice as hard on his own.
Jace knew a dismissal when he heard one. "It would be an honour to attend, Your Majesty" Jace bowed again and began to back out of the room.
"Oh, and remind the Lightwood boy to attend later," the King called over, already beckoning for Pangborn to fetch someone else.
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The river walk was beautiful.
The preoccupied mutter of the Princewater river as it curled around the palace walls and then rolled into the city carried over to the narrow path Clary strolled upon.
Downriver the waters would be filled with the busy traders carrying their wares into Alicante, and with the stylish barges of nobility as they drifted between the court and their townhouses on the daily tides. Here however, on the narrow channel that brushed just under the ledge of the queen's apartments, the shallow waters were peaceful and private.
Although she had a choice of summer gardens, Clary preferred to take her daily outing here. Something about the rich greenery fringing the Princewater reminded her of the thick trees of Broceland forest that had kept her sheltered so long.
On the clear waters a single swan bobbed along, the haughty arch of a snowy neck and calmly gliding figure on the glossy waters concealing the furiously paddling feet Clary knew must churn beneath the waves.
Hearing footfalls behind her she turned. Clary immediately felt her face brighten with a smile. The other benefit of this walk was being able to see Simon. Much to her dismay, she'd seen and spoken very little to her friend since she'd arrived. He had been in her chambers often enough, but always behind his lute, and that left little room for conversation. After all, Simon too was here for a purpose; to finally make something of himself as a musician.
That meant he spent most of his time amongst the other court musicians, trying to make some valuable friends that might help him get forward. Very soon she would have to do the same. It was essential that Clary integrate herself with all the nobles. Worse still, she would have to endear herself to the envoys who would be scribbling word of her every move back to some foreign prince, who would then decide whether or not to keep her for the rest of her life.
But here, during the few hours after dinner in which she managed to escape the confines of her rooms, Simon almost always managed to make their paths crossed. His earnest brown eyes lit up as they met hers and he sketched a comically sincere bow, sweeping off his hat in an over-dramatic flourish that left strands of dark hair standing up at strange angles.
Pressing her lips closed on a giggle, Clary lowered herself to a similarly mocking curtsey. She could always rely on Simon to bring her some good cheer. Often, as she lay in bed racked with homesickness, she found herself wishing that she could invite Simon in, so that they could curl up and fall asleep together like they had as children. But that was beyond impossible; a young lady in her position had to be above all virtuous, and the notion of her sharing a bed with a boy to whom she was not wed was unthinkable, even if she had known him all her life and it was completely innocent.
Clary could not afford even a smudge of scandal on her reputation, especially not now. Not ever. Her name was all she had. And she hadn't tempted fate beyond last night, when she stupidly took advantage of a tardily unlocked door to risk venturing past her sleeping maid and seeking Simon out. She'd never reached him, of course. She'd spent most of her illicit outing cowering in the dark with that rude stranger.
"Fancy our meeting here!" Simon cried, coming forward to walk by her.
"Indeed. How are affairs in the cut-throat world of choir boys?"
"I am not a choir boy, Clary! Although they are a ruthless pack of little wolves, you'd be torn apart in an instant. I would not cross one."
"Now I can imagine their holy robes flapping around their feet as they beat you senseless to a te deum."
"Senseless? Be fair, they're less than twelve."
"A sound match for your maturity."
Her friend rolled his eyes. "I'm ignoring that. Instead, I'm going to direct this conversation to the real matter of interest."
"Which is?" Clary enquired tentatively. Simon began to speak, then his attention darted to one side. He stumbled on some incoherent word for a moment before abandoning it altogether and turning a wide-eyed gaze to their left. "Who-who is the dusky beauty?"
Clary followed his gaze to the ladies walking behind her at a respectful distance, though she feared she already knew the answer. As anticipated, Isabelle Lightwood was hurrying out from the under gateway to the palace, arriving late from God knew what to walk by Aline Penhallow.
"Ah our fleur de lis!" At the confused reception, Clary sighed and tried to elaborate. She picked up the pace a little, keen to ensure they were out of earshot before continuing. "That's Lady Isabelle Lightwood. She's the daughter of some French Count and she's here with King Francois's embassy.
"Why does she have a place among your ladies?"
"Because His Majesty told me to give her one. Well, I'm sure my father would have done of he'd cared to consult me." She shrugged and lowered her eyes to the butter yellow hem of her dress grazing the grass, eager to avoid the look of sympathetic outrage that was sure to be in her friend's face. "Anyway, she has a place at my court, whatever the circumstances. Perhaps it is sign that I am to go to the Dauphin." She glanced back up at Simon, only to find his focus thoroughly fixated on Isabelle.
"Simon!" she summoned him back to her sharply.
"What?"
"She'll gouge your eyes out if she catches you staring."
"Really?"
"Really. I almost lost a page yesterday whose eyes lingered a little too long upon her bosom. Her fury was really quite unfair to the lad. You'd expect that with that much flesh willingly displayed she wanted attention."
"You don't like her?" There was a strange sort of curiosity in his tone.
"I have yet to form an opinion. I hardly know her."
"But you must think something."
"Well then, I suppose I find her… interesting if not a little intimidating."
"Why?"
Clary caught her lip between her teeth, chewing slightly. "I suppose that's how I find all other noble girls my age. It's a very boring and very female story. Let's talk about something else. What was the matter you wanted to discuss first? And I swear Simon, if you are about to ask me to hear another of your new friend Eric's poems, I will throw you in the river."
He threw his head back and laughed, "No. But do not give me ides. I was going to ask you about tonight's presentation."
Clary groaned, "I've changed my mind. Send for Eric, I have a sudden longing for his verses."
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Alec narrowed his eyes at the target, his whole body as taut as the bow in his arms before he finally let the arrow fly loose and plunge into the board. It was met once again by the polite smattering of applause amongst the assembled lords. Slowly he lowered the longbow and turned to face the king and his companions.
"Aha! Trounced again Blackwell!" The Marquess of Edgehunt clapped enthusiastically as he bellowed with laughter.
The King on the other hand merely nodded, an equable smile balanced on his features. "Yes. You shoot well Lord Alexander."
Alec dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment, still straining to calculate what exactly he was doing taking part in an archery competition with the King's inner circle. Then he moved on to fretting that having the audacity to win an archery competition against the most influential lords at court was a very bad idea.
He reminded himself that he was supposed to be making a good impression on these men. He'd had decided upon doing so by showing them he was something to be reckoned with. His father had always told him that while the French appreciated charm, Idrisians would only acknowledge a show of strength. Besides, his skill with a bow was one of the few he had. Alec couldn't quite bring himself to hide it.
Lord Blackwell set his jaw, visibly trying to disguise his fury as he extended a reluctant hand to shake in an empty show of good sportsmanship. For the hundredth time, Alec found himself wishing Jace were here. He would be sure to make some asinine comment so insulting that Blackwell would instantly forget about Alec and turn all his animosity on his best friend instead.
That was how their friendship worked: Alec cleaned up Jace's messes, and in return, on the rare occasion of Alec making a mess Jace would deliberately make an even bigger one to distract all attention That was how they had done it since they'd been adolescents together in Adamant.
Yet King Valentine had requested Alec, alone.
Alec wished he knew what it was he had done right. Although he tended to stay as quiet as possible at the back of the group, Alec was nonetheless aware of the cutting contempt of this realm's peers. Both he and Jace were after all, in the eyes of most of the court, a pair of upstarts. An assumption not helped in the slightest given his apparently immediate grant of royal favour.
Moreover, he dreaded to think what they would say of Isabelle when the Princess was introduced to the wider public and his little sister stood in her train. He knew all too well that she had no intention of floating along with their father's plans like 'some inane piece of driftwood' as she had bluntly told their parents on the eve of their parting. Alec flinched from the memory of Robert's reply; that this plan was the last piece of driftwood she had to cling to, and that she ought to be thankful he had saved her from the shipwreck of her reputation in France, and even more thankful for God's mercy that word of her behaviour had not spread as far as Idris.
The King whipped him out of his worries with a crooked finger, beckoning for Alec to follow him as he moved away from the game and the bragging lords. Pretending he was blind to the indignant glowering of the gentlemen, Alec obediently crossed the green to stand by Valentine.
"Majesty?"
"Walk with me Lightwood. We have much to discuss where there is no one present to hang on our every word." Swallowing roughly past his apprehension Alec waited for the king to continue. "You write to your father, I suppose?"
"Yes, sire."
"Good. It is important for sons and fathers to maintain a bond." Alec nodded in silent agreement, pondering the strange direction of the discussion. In his experience when a king wanted to talk with you it more often meant that a king wanted to talk to you. From what he had heard of King Valentine, it would be necessary only for him to listen attentively and to make noises of agreement where he felt they were required. Inwardly he tried to decode the last comment, wondering if this was some sort of indirect reference to Valentine's own son.
The Crown Prince was out of the capital presently, doing some kind of tour of the northern country and his estates there, although he would be expected in Alicante in the next few hours. Arriving just in time for his sister's presentation.
Alec had heard Prince Jonathan was an unspeakable disappointment to his father. Valentine kept him out of the city as much as possible. How that connected to Alec's own relationship with his father was beyond his comprehension.
"It has been many years since I last saw the Earl of Adamant. Remind him of my gratitude for all his years of good service in your next letter."
"Service?"
Valentine's unreadable black eyes flicked to Alec's and he realised that he had voiced the query out loud.
The King's raised his hand brushed his fingers to his beard. On anyone else it would have seemed like a nervous gesture. "True, your family are first and foremost the subjects of the King of France, but I fear I must speak plainly in order to fully explain our association."
Alec gave a vague expression of consent, although he doubted he was in a position to refuse. He also doubted Valentine Morgenstern ever spoke plainly. Still, he was curious.
"After your grandfather's disgrace and death, Robert found himself in quite a predicament. Instead of appealing to King Francois however, he accepted an invite to attend me at my court. While he was here, we came to an agreement. I believe it was the only way Robert could afford to keep his estates and save face with his own sovereign."
There was a pause during which Alec felt himself colour slightly. He had been raised under the pretence that his grandfather's fall from grace was a well-kept family secret, so discovering the King of Idris knew all about the whole shameful affair did not settle well with him. Struggling to keep his courtier's face free of any discomfort Alec kept walking, following the king onto a pathway covered by a canopy of bowed sycamores.
"How has your sister settled at court?"
This caught him even more off-guard. There were more twists and turns in this conversation than in a sailor's knot. "Quite well I believe. She is very much taken by the Princess Clarissa," He responded courteously.
"I hear she is a great deal like her mother." It was no surprise that the king would speak highly of his mother, Alec tried to reason, she was after all Idrisian and had served at Valentine's court before she married Alec's father.
"She was my mother's lady in waiting and later my wife's" His Majesty continued, echoing his thoughts, "It was I who arranged your parents' marriage, you know. Lady Mayrse was quite the catch for him. The only daughter of the Earl of Lielle and a valuable heiress. I thought that they would accord well together." Alec forced himself not to wince and held his tongue. His parents' current marital discord was surely beyond the interest of the King.
Sadly, it appeared it was not. "I am sorry to hear that no longer seems to be the case."
Alec could take it no more, pausing long enough to catch a breath and mentally piece together his words he plunged right in, "Your Majesty's concern is too kind, I thank you for. I only wish I could understand what a family as humble as mine could have done to warrant it."
The King laughed, though it was a sound of mirth edged with acute pleasure, "Spoken like a true courtier. I see you learned your trade well from Frenchmen. Well, suffice to say that your family has done much to warrant my concern and I hope will continue to do so in the future." He accompanied his speech with a rather meaningful look at Alec. The unspoken promise was obvious: I have done much for the existing Earl of Adamant and I could do even more for the next one, if he could do much for me.
"As ever, you are too kind." Alec said carefully, suddenly eager to keep his response ambiguous. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know what kind of service his father had rendered this man over the years, much less commit himself to a similar arrangement. He quickly tried to assure himself that there was no reason to accept given he was not in the position his father had been. Not quite.
As he and the King of Idris regarded one another, the first few heavy raindrops of what was sure to be a pouring April shower began to fall. "Let us return to our party," Valentine finally said, clapping Alec on the shoulder. "We are all surely keen to avoid a downpour." As they turned back the way they had come Valentine gave Alec another of his signature profoundly empty smiles. "I expect you and I will be seeing a great deal of one another, Lord Lightwood."
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The petite blonde smiled up at Jace, peeping at him from under her lashes. Her charmingly affected modesty was making this entire flirtation game all the more fun. He shot her a daring smirk over the rim of his cup before taking another mouthful of what he supposed in passed for good wine in Idris.
He was accustomed to a much heavier French drink, and he feared that he was on the verge of having consumed too much of this light, sweet liquid. As the thought of such reckless behaviour tended to attract his best friend, Alec appeared a few paces away, shooting Jace a warning look. Ignoring him, Jace dropped his new acquaintance another compliment and gestured to a serving boy for another drink.
Like a hawk, Alec swept over as the fresh cup arrived. "Forgive me Lady-?"
"Kaelie," the girl supplied casting an unimpressed eye over Alec's plain apparel. Apparently not even a royal presentation was enough to persuade Alec to set aside his solemn black clothing, although Jace sighed inwardly as he noted his coat tonight was a little worn around the sleeves.
"Lady Kaelie, I'm afraid I must borrow the Ambassador for a moment." As his friend began to steer him away Jace tossed a wink over his shoulder at her in recompense for his sudden absence.
Drawing him into a quiet corner of the crowded hall Alec pinned him with a penetrating look and reached for his wine cup. Jace pulled away to preserve his lifeline. He moved rather sluggishly, and Alec successfully prised the drink from his fingers, some spilling over Jace in the struggle.
"Was that really necessary?" He demanded, shaking the droplets from his hand impatiently.
"Yes. I swear by all the saints Jace if I deem you to be too drunk, I will not hesitate to drag you out into the stable yard and dunk your head repeatedly in a water trough until I deem you sober enough."
Jace groaned at the prospect, he could already feel the water clogging his ears. It was a threat Alec had carried out before. "I'm sobering up already."
Alec gave him a knowing smile.
"I note that your new friend the king has yet to make an appearance tonight. I hope he does soon, firstly because this is his event and a pivotal point in our embassy. More importantly because I am starving. The sooner this is over, the sooner we get to go back to our apartments for supper."
Alec stopped scanning the crowd and followed Jace's gaze to the empty dais, where an empty but dignified throne ruled, flanked by two smaller chairs on either side of it. "He will soon. I told you, he's going to present the Prince and Princess together. And Valentine is hardly my friend."
"Really? You were with him most of the afternoon!"
"Not because he likes me." Alec snapped, twisting the family ring on his index finger in frustration. He looked at Jace, suddenly appearing contemplative as though he were making an important decision. "When you spoke with the King, did he mention your father?"
Involuntarily Jace stiffened and sent a flashing look over his shoulder to judge who was listening. Thankfully the other guests were immersed in their own conversations, speculating about the princess mostly he guessed.
"Of course not."
"Hmmm" Alec grew thoughtful, "And the Princess? You really don't remember anything about her?"
"I've told you before Alec, no. I don't remember much of it. I was just a child."
"In the royal nursery! You were practically one of them!"
"No," Jace corrected shortly, feeling the last of the alcohol's warm glow drain out. "I wasn't one of them and I never felt that way. Certainly not after I learned what my father had done."
The sincere compassion in the returning gaze made Jace impossibly more uncomfortable.
"How did you find out? Did the King tell you?"
"I don't know Alec. I can't remember," Jace answered curtly, "And I certainly don't think of it anymore."
That was a downright lie. Jace could perfectly remember the moment he had learned of his father's downfall.
He couldn't have been much more than four years old. He'd been playing with Prince Jonathan. They got into a scuffle, and Jace made the mistake of sinking his teeth into his royal playmate's arm. The watching nurse swooped in instantly, hauling Jace away from the Prince and clawing him onto his feet. Her face twisted with anger as she leaned in, spittle flicking him as she hissed the words that would end his innocence. "How dare you, you filthy little traitor's bastard!" Then she'd served him a ringing slap and towed him off to the King.
Jonathan had been beaten too, of course, because he was always much rougher when they played. And the two of them were always punished physically, even Jonathan. Other princes had whipping boys, but the Crown Prince of Idris was personally punished for his own misdemeanours, though only ever by the King's hand. A little boy who was going to be God's chosen ruler of his country was a sacred person and so could not have a hand laid on him. Not by anyone other than his father.
Jace took that beating like he took all the others; in utter silence, refusing to let so much as a whimper cross his lips. It had been much later, when the baby princess was put down for the night and his aching limbs kept him awake that Jace had crept down to where her nurse was seated by the fire.
He had always preferred her. Where Jonathan's nurse was a vicious vixen, Clarissa's was always kind to him. She had spotted him lingering in the doorway and had instantly pulled him onto her lap. Back then he had loved her more than anyone else in the world. While all the other nursery attendants were wary about touching him, save of course the Prince's nurse who only ever did so to deliver a painful reprimand, Mrs Lewis had no such qualms about lavishing affection on the little boy who was utterly alone in the world. As she held him, he had finally asked the question that had been burning in him all day: "Why did she call me that?"
There was no need for the nurse to enquire what he was referring to because she had watched the whole fiasco helplessly. "Poppet, you know that your father died before you were born, and that your mother died bearing you?"
Little Jace had nodded, gazing up into her loving nut-brown eyes. "What was said to you today was cruel, but Lady Ravenscar was referring to your father's death. Do you have any idea how he died?" He had shaken his head, desperate now for the truth he had been protected from for so long. He could remember the feel of her chest swelling as she drew in a deep breath and then launched into her tale, the words pouring out in a forceful flood. "She called you a bastard, which was wrong of her. A bastard is a child born out of wedlock. Your parents were married, but your mother was not your father's first wife, who parted from him and joined a convent. Some people feel he should not have married again but he was, in truth, free to do so. He wed your mother in view of a bishop and of God. The King arranged and approved the match. Their union was lawful and true.
'But your father had to die because he tried to kill the King, who God has given the right to rule over us all. Regicide is one of the greatest sins of all. That is treason. It is the worst crime of all, the punishment is always death. Those who do such things are called traitors. Your father had to be put to death."
"But why would he act against the king, if it that is the worst sin of all?" Jace had demanded, uncomprehending how his father, who had surely been a good man, could have done such a terrible thing.
"We are all of us sinners, sweeting. We are all weak to temptation. Some are weaker than others." The nurse had told him, holding him close, as though her love could wash away all the hurtful truth.
Jace had been quiet then for a long time, and eventually she had assumed he was asleep and carried him back to bed. It was only as she tenderly tucked the sheets in around him that he had turned his head on the pillow and asked his final question quietly, "How did they kill him?"
Mrs Lewis floundered for the words to blanket the horrible answer. In the end, she found none. "They cut off his head. But it would have been so quick that I doubt he felt any pain."
And that had been the last Jace spoke of it to anyone. Even in the months afterwards, every time he awoke screaming from the same nightmare and Mrs Lewis would sit on the end of his bed in silence until he fell asleep again, neither of them would acknowledge that they both knew the horror he dreamed of.
Jace hastily shook himself a little as he attempted to bring himself back to the present. Over the years he had become accustomed to the knowledge although he would not go as far as to say that it had become bearable.
He had no reason to mourn his father. Stephen Herondale had made a foolish decision that had sent his head rolling across the Gard's green when Jace had still been in his mother's belly. His mother had failed to do much better. Jace heard she'd been miserable in the months after her husband's arrest, and bitter about having to bear a child that had once been heir to the greatest dukedom in Idris and was now to be born to absolutely nothing. She'd decided her heartbreak was too great a burden and had begun to make arrangements for her child to be taken in by some distant family, rather than raise him herself. Why keep the taint of treason under her roof a moment longer than she had to? She hadn't had much time to grieve for her lost fortune, or to deal with the traitor's spawn. She'd had perished in childbed soon after her husband's shameful demise.
Nonetheless, like the wounded who insisted they still felt the limbs they had lost, Jace had always been aware of the aching gap in his life were his parents had been. However selfish or foolish they had been, at least they would have been his parents. Not the King of Idris who begrudgingly agreed to take him in so he could keep a close eye on his enemy's son, or the Lightwoods who, however much they felt like family now, had agreed to take him in the first place because of the generous sum of money they were offered to do so.
Thankfully the swelling fanfare of trumpets drowned out all talking and further thinking. King Valentine himself made his entrance, mounting the steps onto the dais and standing before his throne.
"Welcome, my good lords and ladies!" he called out, his face a perfect mask of pride and happiness as he became the loving father, finally able to revel in the joy of having his children with him. "I thank you all for your attendance here today. There is much that I could say, of course, but I do not wish to prolong the waiting." He donned a pleasant smile, gesturing towards the rear door of the room. "May I present to the court, my children: Prince Jonathan and the Princess Clarissa!"
The crowd instantly parted like the red sea, making room for the royal duo to walk down the hall. With the sudden urgency of pressing shoulders Jace found himself pulled back a few steps.
Initially, all he was able to see was the distinctive white-blond head of Jonathan Morgenstern. Then the line in front of him shifted and he finally caught his first glimpse of the princess.
And it felt as though Alec had shoved his head into a trough of cold water after all. All Jace could do was stand there staring dumbly, stomach lurching as he stared. It was not, as it happened, his first glimpse of the adult princess.
Tonight, she looked entirely different. Someone had persuaded her out of her nightgown and into a tight moonlight blue dress, a bodice accentuating her narrow bust and hips, her skirts blossoming out around a golden kirtle. But Jace would know her anywhere, even now as she transferred a little hand from her brother's grasp to her father as he helped her up the steps and steered her onto the dais.
Under the curving French hood her hair flowed unbound down her back in waves of molten copper. Jace knew the eyes now determinedly meeting the assessing gazes of the applauding crowd would be a serious and shining green. Carefully with a nod and a smile to her court, she turned and settled herself into the seat on her father's left.
Clary. Short for Clarissa.
"What is it?" Alec demanded, looking over at his friend's frozen form in alarm.
"Horse fucking shit!" Jace eventually choked out.
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