Chapter 4: Penitence
Early May 1536, the Gard, Alicante
As usual, Simon was the last to know. Everyone else knew exactly the state of affairs by the time First Mass was over but oh no, it took until well after dinner for anyone to see fit to tell him.
"Do you think he'll pack her off to some nunnery? Or will it be some creaky old castle with a damp problem like he did with the last one?" Eric asked him as they walked back towards the Princess's rooms from their own meal. Simon just frowned at his fellow musician in the hope that would lead to an explanation. "We're taking wagers, me and the other boys. Matt swears she'll pitch herself out the Tower window before she'll let him send her away. That other boy with the harp swears nothing will happen to her at all, that's why she's locked up laughing."
"What in God's name are you talking about?" Simon demanded, his patience snapping.
Eric shifted the weight of his own lute on his shoulder and blinked at him in astonishment. "The English King? He's finally grown tired of that whore he insisted on crowning."
"Got tired of?"
"Henry has had his beloved Queen Anne packed off to the Tower of London hours after he sat beside her at a mayday joust! Now she's locked up there laughing and crying and we're all waiting to see what it is he's going to do with her. I heard he's already got another wife lined up."
"But he can't just lock up an anointed queen! She's his wife!"
Eric snorted "So was the last poor lady until he decided otherwise. She's only queen because he made it so, now he's making it not so. Such is the displeasure of kings. They're calling her witch and a whore and everything in between. A whole host of men locked up with her too." He peered at his companion suggestively.
Simon shook his head disbelieving, "That can't be true. He split from Rome and risked war with the Spanish Emperor to have her. He wouldn't go to all that bother only to set her aside."
"It's true" Eric insisted, wickedly mournful.
With each passing day Clary's rooms got more and more full, a growing inconvenience now that the court had moved into the smaller royal apartments of the city Gard. The two boys had to push their way through a crowd and wave their instruments to the men at the doors to her privy chambers to get past.
Now that Clary had been fully acknowledged by her father, she was becoming a very public person, which left her hard pushed to find places for all the young ladies who wanted a space in her train. And had her struggling to find reasons to push petitioners away. Her father had strictly commanded Clary to avoid all requests; while she was to be every inch the princess when it came to foreign policy and marriage prospects, the King did not want interfering in internal affairs.
Clary had borne the frustrating and contradictory request in silence, but Simon could tell she was seething. She hated having to pretend indifference when her mother's gruelling lessons had supplied her with a more than competent set of skills to help her deal with the troubles of her countrymen.
Today there was undoubtedly a subdued atmosphere among the women in Clary's inner rooms and it seemed that the uproar at the English court was the topic on everyone's tongue.
Simon moved to take up his usual position in the corner, catching Clary's eye with a nod as he waited for her command to begin playing. To his surprise, upon spying him Clary promptly laid the book she was reading aside and beckoned for him to approach her.
Laying down his lute with confused curiosity, Simon moved to follow his friend away from her attendants and to an alcove by one of the windows.
"You've heard?" she enquired once they had their modicum of privacy, "About Anne Boleyn, that is?"
"Only just. Why am I always the last to hear these damned things?"
Clary tutted impatiently at his irritation, "I first heard of it yesterday." Her hands drifted to smooth over the rope of pearls her mother had given her, Simon had noticed that in the past few weeks it had become a nervous habit of hers. But she seemed particularly agitated today, her white skin even paler than usual against the deep forest green of her gown and its gold embroidery.
"King Henry is going to kill his wife, Simon. He's accused her of having half his court and magically seducing him into an unjust union." She paused, nibbling on her lower lip in thoughtful apprehension. Then she loosed a brief, bland laugh that startled him, simultaneously beating out a frantic rhythm on the patterned carpet under her tapping foot. "That's what a woman's desire is to men, is it? Dark magic?"
"I'm sure Henry had his reasons-" Simon began uneasily, astounded at the strength of her feeling. He failed to see why she would invest so much anxiety in something irrelevant happening far away.
"Had his reasons?" Clary barked incredulously "You honestly think his queen committed the sin of adultery with five other men? She lived like me, Simon!" She flung an arm behind her, gesturing to the busy room surrounding them, "Where would she find the time, let alone the privacy?" Tugging at the stones looped around her neck once again, Clary suddenly sank into the window seat, the strength of her panic flooding out of her and heat pouring to her cheeks. "She lived like me". Clary repeated, her eyes boring into his.
Eventually Simon understood and moved to the seat beside her, "Clary…" He didn't know what he could say to soothe or distract her.
"Oh, Henry Tudor has his reasons. She miscarried his son you know, less than four months ago. A queen is nothing without a prince. Nothing is easily disposed of. Her husband despaired of ever getting a son from her, so he invented some lies so hard to believe no one will think to disbelieve them.
'This is the woman he has loved to distraction for years, who he swore he would do anything for and promptly changed the world to suit her. Now he's going to have her killed and put one of her ladies in waiting in her place". She spoke rapidly over her friend's stuttered protestations, "There's no way Anne will survive this.
'What does that mean for me? She was the wife of a king, and they still destroyed her. What will make me safe, when I'm the wife of a king?"
"Clary, Clary!" Simon clutched at her wrists to stop her wildly wringing hands, "That could never happen to you! Listen to me; not every prince in Christendom is Henry Tudor! And Anne Boleyn is a friendless commoner, you are a princess by blood. No one would ever harm you for fear of insulting your father. Being locked away in these rooms isn't good for you. Come, walk on the green will clear you head. Come along.""
He had meant to calm her, but his comforts only served to inflame her further, she snatched her hands back from his immediately, evidently unconvinced by his assurances. "Being a princess by blood did not save Catherine of Aragon when her loving husband decided he could send her away and swear she had never been his wife at all. And there are plenty of men like Henry Tudor." She gave another shallow laugh. "You should take more heed Simon. One of those men they accused with her, Mark Smeaton? Another friendless commoner they're currently twisting a confession out of in the torture chamber? This time last week he was her musician."
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Valentine Morgenstern inspected the glimmering edges of the broach in the light filtering through the chamber's narrowly arched window. Lips slowly coiling into a smile he lowered the gift and nodded his mild approval to the young diplomat before him. "You must tell your master I express my sincere thanks for his gift."
Raphael Santiago bowed graciously in response, seemingly unfazed by the somewhat frosty response of the King of Idris and the presence of his apathetic son, who was thoroughly engrossed in what was happening beyond the window.
"Your Majesty, both King Maximillian and his brother the Holy Roman Emperor are eager for your friendship to continue to grow."
"And his supplies of gunpowder," Jonathan muttered under his breath, just below earshot of the Spanish Ambassador.
It was no secret that the Emperor Charles was primarily keen for a friend like Idris to assist in the latest of his protracted (and to Jonathan's eyes tedious) squabble with France over Milan and Northern Italy. Not that the threat of looming war was acting as a deterrent for the head of the Idrisian Church, Cardinal Enoch, who openly favoured the Imperial match.
"And we have so much in common already! Namely, the strength of our faith and our zeal in protecting it." Santiago reminded His Majesty silkily, with a pointedly subtle incline of the head to his ally in clerical scarlet.
Enoch's gaunt white face leaned towards his King with encouragement. He moved so quickly that the jewel crusted crucifix at his chest thumped the back of Valentine's throne. It clattered there with each eager breath the Cardinal took.
Jonathan seized the chance distraction to release the yawn he had been holding back.
He was weary of watching these diplomats dance around his father.
He was especially tired of watching them play the Catholic card as though it were not the ace that several other parties were also holding.
Jonathan could admit to a personal admiration for the Spanish methods of ensuring the devotion of their people to the Catholic Church. He openly relished the prospect of a similar Inquisition taking flight in earnest in Idris. But Santiago was failing to make the pursuit of infidels and heretics preferable to the observance of the group of young ladies currently filtering out into the greenery outside.
Seeing that the King's audience was coming to its natural, supercilious end, the Prince peered out the thick panes of the tower window once again in earnest.
His sister had finally made an appearance for the day.
Clarissa's stilted adjustment to life at the centre of court, albeit right at the heart of his kingdom, should be beyond Jonathan's interest. But he could not help but have his eyes follow her when she entered a room, monitoring her every move and waiting to see something he recognised.
The sister he had seen so little and heard even less of was one of the few enigmas in Jonathan's life. He wanted to crack her open like one of those new intriguing clockwork machines and survey the cogs within. Sadly, the opportunity had yet to present itself. The Princess still preferred to keep to herself and to her own rooms, even now that they had moved to the Gard.
If the King's court was the heart of Idris, then the Gard was the heart of Alicante. Clarissa showed no interest in any of that, or mayhap it was rather that Valentine had no intention in letting her have any interest. Watching her cross the green in swift, irritated steps, Jonathan decided to help the opportunity he had been waiting for present itself.
Raphael's dismissal and the Cardinal's tactful departure forced Jonathan back into his father's pondering.
Valentine rose and removed himself to the private rooms behind the presence chamber, tossing the gifted broach on the table before him with a soft scoff. Then he faced his son, who had followed him expectantly. "If we did not know better, that Santiago would be convincing."
Jonathan lifted a solitary brow, "Even with such shameless bribes?"
"And bribe he might as well! Now that Francois has allied with the Turks Charles will have a fleet of Ottoman ships causing him real trouble in Italy before the year is out." The fat, milky pearl on the table top shone despondently at the prospect.
"So, it is preferable to side with Francois and his hoard of heathens?"
Valentine spread his arms and leaned forward on the palms of his hand, stooping over the papers that had been laid out there for his attention. The King's mind never stayed on one matter for very long.
Nonetheless, his father lifted his gaze and scrutinised Jonathan at the comment "You have become most defensive of your faith of late."
Jonathan forced himself to return the stare with equal boldness, wondering if Valentine was being sarcastic. "At least France is willing to offer us a Prince." The King reminded him, "Whereas the Emperor is quick to involve his brother and would have Clarissa palmed off on his nephew instead. Apparently, Idris is not so desirable an alliance, and your sister is not good enough to for his own heir."
Good God. Of course not. Only a lunatic would presume that little Idris, who just about managed to hold her independence and monarchy would ever be regarded on anything close to equal footing with the might of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire combined. Only a lunatic like Valentine Morgenstern, it seemed, whose ambition clearly knew no bounds.
"Of course, it is preferable that we wed Clarissa to France. We would find ourselves in a position of power immediately, rather than having Clarissa play nursemaid until Maximilian's boy prince comes of age and of use."
The King fluttered the sheets before him with agitation great enough for Jonathan to refrain from commenting further.
After a moment, Valentine calmed slightly and continued to mutter to himself, only half speaking to Jonathan. "But we are not about to reject the Hapsburgs out of hand. They are, we must remember, the most powerful dynasty on this continent."
"But they have no chance?"
"Yes, they have a chance! Christ! The situation in Italy could change in a heartbeat! Or Maximillian could die within a month of the wedding, making that boy prince a King and your sister his Queen! That is much better than Dauphine!"
Jonathan shook his head in exasperation, "Clarissa's marriage will always carry risk, Sire."
"Every move carries risk! And with such high stakes…" Valentine trailed off into silence, leaving Jonathan stunned. Nothing more than an alliance hung on his sister's wedding, did it not?
Before he could make any inquiries, he was being waved away. Valentine seemed perturbed by his lingering presence, "You may go Jonathan."
"Go? We are finished for today?"
"Pangborn!" his father yelled in response, summoning the secretary from whatever damp corner he lurked in when he was not shuffling around in the King's footsteps.
Jonathan happily retreated to the door, wise enough to know better than to challenge this opportune early freedom.
Opportunity indeed.
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"I did not steal the horse, Princess."
Clarissa Morgenstern only scowled, utterly determined to see him persecuted.
"You did!" Came another shrill accusation, "He was my little ivory horse, with the carved mane and painted hooves and saddle. He was my favourite and I adored him, but you insisted on stealing him away."
Jace snatched in a brief breath and tried to embellish his defence, but she was relentless. Clary turned her proud cheek and pointedly focused on where some of her ladies were rambling with their puppies on the lawn. "I don't see how you can expect us to be friends when you refuse to admit that you stole my Snowy."
The ambassador rolled his eyes and ran his fingers over the fur trimmed edges of his coat, "If the best name you could come up with was Snowy, I daresay I did the poor fellow a favour."
That earned him another cutting glare, but at least it made her look at him.
"I must say, I preferred it when you were insulted by a real insult."
She scoffed, "Careful Excellence, you are far from forgiven for that. This is just another way you have wronged me."
She truly was in stormy spirits today. There had been similar taunts about his past misdemeanour ever since they had left Princewater Palace and the Princess recognised her old playmate. Today she seemed to truly be in foul temper.
The real cause of her upset had thus far eluded Jace, but Clary was certainly using his past grievance as an outlet. Unfortunately, he was not the only one who seemed to have noticed. That insufferable musician she seemed to take comfort from was immovable at her shoulder, albeit without his instrument, and the signs of her aggravation swiftly brought Alec gliding over.
"Is all well, Your Highness?" Blue eyes scanned Jace and he discovered he was quite sick of accusatory looks.
"No. Monsieur Herondale refuses to admit to his malicious crimes." She declared, but she seemed to have moved from real affront to mirth once again. These mood swings were starting to make Jace feel dizzy.
The jest however, escaped Alec. "What have you done?" he spun on his best friend, "Apologise to the lady at once!"
Jace smirked in response, "Would that I could, but I sadly have no recollection of the horse theft."
"You. Stole. A. Horse?" Alec demanded in slow, dawning horror. Jace gave a sombre nod, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the Princess raising a sleeve to her mouth as she visibly fought laughter.
"I am thus accused," he corrected blandly, "I have no memory of the event. "
Alec looked as though he were on the verge of consciousness, "Holy mother of God! How drunk were you?" He snatched at Jace's arm and cast his eyes around for an escape route. "They'll hang you. And when Mother and Father find out I let it happen then they'll kill me. And then we'll both be dead because of you. Christ have mercy, why do you always get us killed!"
"Peace, my lord!" Clarissa choked out eventually, sympathy quenching her amusement, although her eyes still held a soft sparkle. "He only stole my toy horse. I cannot hang him for that."
Alec swayed on the spot and then looked at Jace as though he might strike him. Then, remembering he was in the presence of a lady he took a decisive step backward, although Jace's ears already ached from the future lecture.
Now that all nerves were suitably soothed, the princess was quick to return to the heart of the matter, "Admit it."
"I cannot remember any fault," Jace reasserted stubbornly.
"If I can remember it, you must be able to. You are older than I."
"You make it sound as though I am ready for a walking stick," Jace complained.
She snorted, "You're able bodied enough to steal my favourite toys."
"How do you sleep at night?" that damned musician interjected, somehow finding the audacity to narrow his eyes at Jace in affected disgust. On any other occasion Jace might have taught the insolent commoner a lesson for speaking out of turn, but as he stood beside Clarissa, and she was openly laughing now there was no possibility.
He wasn't going to spoil her mood again when they were now getting on relatively well, in between barbed words and subtle jabs. Jace didn't know if the two of them would ever like one another, but at least they were now only at each other's throats every other second.
It seemed that not only were his talks with the King finally starting to head in the right direction, but Valentine's positive consideration of the French suit also had the benefit of securing him more quality time with the princess. Time he was supposed to be spending filling her emerald sporting ears with good words on the heir to the Valois throne. However, more often than not, Jace found himself allowing the conversation to stray from the Dauphin and into whatever silly or interesting thing Clary had on her mind currently, which today appeared to be Snowy the vanishing horse.
Beneath their vantage point on the sloping stone steps the young ladies of the court laughed with delight as one of their carefully trained lapdogs mastered another trick. Their mistress showed no interest in frolicking about with them, which was probably a wise decision.
Isabelle, meanwhile, had found another kind of dog to play with. She was engrossed as she was in what was sure to be a fascinating conversation with Raphael Santiago, the Spanish Emperor's Ambassador. If Santiago was hoping to wriggle some information on the Princess's habits and personal goings on in her rooms, he could not have picked a worse informant. Isabelle had learnt from the best courtiers in Europe the most tactful ways to keep her mouth shut. She had been rehearsed in presenting flattering lies as soon as she could talk. But she was smiling prettily at Santiago throughout her evasion, so Jace suspected her interrogator would not be entirely disappointed.
As ever, he couldn't go long without letting his gaze stray to the hulking, bleak stone structure of what the common folk were in the habit of calling the Black Tower. Only its peak was visible from the lawns and buildings around the royal lodgings. The kings of Idris did not like to dwell on the fact that those who had been caught threatening their rule were lodged at the other end of the building, however brief their stay.
Of all the Gard's rooms and turrets, the Black Tower had the most morbid fame. It housed the most sinister criminals. It was well known that once you were a prisoner there you would only leave by way of the axe or sword. For the past three centuries it had held the worst of Idris's murderers and traitors.
Some twenty-one years ago it had held Stephen Herondale.
Jace wondered what it must have been like for his doomed father. He knew that as a noble the Duke would have been housed comfortably, though Jace couldn't begin fathom what it must feel to look out of your window every morning and into the courtyard where they were building your scaffold.
Had Stephen squinted out from the mere slide of heavy glass onto the stage provided for his death and thought of his wife and unborn child? Or were his thoughts in his final days devoted to the King he had once called his friend?
More than anything, Jace longed to stop dwelling on his father's demise but he doubted that a single day in his life had gone by without something drawing his attention to his parents in some way. Only in his earliest childhood had he been ignorant of their spectacular fall from grace. Stephen's treason was the inescapable guilt Jace had been born to and could never grow out of. The waters smudged on his brow at baptism may have washed away original sin, but they could not cleanse him of his cursed name.
Staring up at the tower Jace felt the usual chill creep over his skin. He wished to God he would soon far away from this godforsaken place.
An unexpected disturbance amongst the girls on the green jolted Jace back to the present. The ladies were hastily rearranging themselves and donning their most becoming expressions as they each sank into their obeisance.
They parted to reveal the form of Jonathan Morgenstern striding across the neat grass towards the small stone parapet his sister had placed herself on.
He gave her a bow and a smile before sweeping an unimpressed glance on her companions. "Clarissa." He spoke softly and sweetly before reluctantly turning his attention aside, "Lord Alexander Lightwood" he lowered his chin slightly in acknowledgement "and Monsieur Herondale, isn't it?"
Jace managed a terse agreement, deliberately holding his most bland expression, "Highness."
"Nice for us all to be together again, is it not?" Jonathan proclaimed, full of apparent joy. " Here I am, a king in waiting while Clary's a royal bride in waiting and you- " he paused for dramatic effect, teeth flashing as he smiled at Jace and as dark eyes danced over bright, "well- a diplomat. A French one, no less!" He shook his head in satisfied disbelief, "Whoever would have guessed?"
He directed the last remark at Clary as he reached out to grasp her hands and pull them toward his chest. Creating the perfect tableau of the Morgenstern siblings at play. Jonathan continued with his ardent praise of his sister and Jace was left trying not to glare too obviously at the Prince's scarlet clad back.
Message received: There is us by the throne and then there is you, in the dust.
"Come now, it is wrong that we should live under the same roof and see so little of one another." Jonathan lamented to his sister, who was looking up into her older brother's face with curiosity.
Jace supposed it must be strange to come face to face with the brother you remembered so little of after so many years. He quickly quelled the beginnings of any pity he felt for her. Even if she did feel she deserved it, having been flung into the midst of strangers who were going to plan out her life for her, Clary Morgenstern would spit in the face of his pity.
As though his thoughts had reminded her of his presence Clarissa tilted her head to the side as her attention flitted between the prince and her other companions.
The Crown Prince did not spare them a second glance, "You can leave us now." Jonathan's imperious dismissal rolled of his tongue and over his shoulder with ease, smacking Jace square in the chest.
That was one of the things about Jonathan Morgenstern Jace had always hated most: he seemed to constantly forget that he wasn't wearing a crown yet.
He had no option but to remove himself. Their small party reluctantly descended into the yard below. The lute player lingered at the bottom of the steps. Jace kept moving, pulling Alec with him on his hurried journey onward.
Forever failing to escape the shadow of that tower.
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The barge surged over another swollen wave. Clary felt her hands fly out to the smooth wooden sides to steady herself.
"Are you alright?" Her brother asked her with a half-smile.
"Yes. I am just not accustomed to water travel." She muttered back past her mortification. Clary wished she could recline back on the embroidered cushions provided and look every inch the royal the way Jonathan did, but she was too preoccupied with her imminent drowning to make much of an effort to look stately.
Thoroughly unconcerned with their vessel's distressing rocking, her brother flipped a corner of the barge's curtains aside to peer out onto the river. "Forgive the secrecy, but our father would be beyond displeased if we were to be spotted. Well, if you were to be spotted."
Thus they struggled downtown with the tide in what was not the more comfortable and probably safer royal barge. Jonathan insisted it would be immediately recognised.
"Why all the secrecy?"
"Because His Majesty likely has a whole state entrance planned for you. Just as he has everything planned out for you, sister. Father won't have a second of it done otherwise."
Clary blanched at the mention of a state entrance. To her mind that entailed a great deal of people staring and many opportunities for her to fall flat on her face and disgrace the whole family name.
To her relief Jonathan laughed, "I am joking, Clarissa! About the state entrance, anyway. At least I think I am." He muttered the end of the sentence a touch sourly and allowed the curtain to fall back into place. With them drawn, the interior of the barge was coated in a greenish light.
"Call me Clary." She requested on impulse.
"Why?"
She wanted to say Because only the King calls me Clarissa and I do not think he much cares for me. But she felt that would be inappropriate, so instead she shrugged and replied, "Because I've always been Clary."
"Clary," her brother sounded it out experimentally.
"Why does the King have so many plans for me?" Jonathan would know, for he was always with the King when he was at court. And during his absences, he would have many friends to fill him in anything he missed. The King's heir was probably the best informed person at court. He would be an excellent source from which to glean what might await her.
"I know not." Jonathan deadpanned gloomily, much to Clary's surprise, "He insists it is all done to find you a husband." He looked so bitterly downcast that Clary trusted he was telling the truth. "Personally, I fail to see why he is making so much of a daughter he's going to pack off in the next few months."
Blunt as his speculation was, and flatly as he stated the prospect of her imminent exile, Clary knew it all to be true. Once they found her a suitable foreign husband she would be sent to live with him. And it was unlikely she would ever return to Idris. "Perhaps that's why he wants to make such a fuss, because he is sending me away. This could be the last he'll ever see of me. "
Clary realised that the possibility of never seeing Valentine again unsettled her. He was both the biggest and smallest part of her life; she had always been the daughter of the King of Idris and that had decreed how her life would be lived from the second she had been born. Yet he had barely spent more than a few hours total with her in sixteen years. That was what made her most uncomfortable; the thought of leaving without ever really knowing her father, or he ever truly knowing her.
"Perhaps." Her brother sounded unconvinced. "I think it's because you remind him of Mother. He has a portrait of her that he keeps to himself in his rooms. It must have been painted soon after they married, for she is not much older than you in it. And you are an almost perfect likeness."
Now that was a surprising titbit of information. Jocelyn had refused to ever speak of Clary's father at the convent, she avoided touching upon him in conversation, she did not keep any portraits or letters from him. She had stripped their lives of Valentine as much as she feasibly could, so Clary had assumed the King must bear a similar animosity. That he would have his palaces swept clear of any signs of Jocelyn's existence.
Could he love her still? Was Valentine's ceremonial embracing of their daughter intended as an olive branch? Was all this some elaborate scheme to reconcile with his wife?
If that was his hope Clary feared he would be sorely disappointed. When Jocelyn truly turned her heart against you nothing in the world could make her turn it back. Yet somehow the possibility made her father seem more human.
"Whatever his reasons we can't resist him." Jonathan closed the subject with far from cheerful resignation. Then the dark cloud over his mood lifted and he grinned at Clary again with devilish conspiracy, " Well at least not on the bigger matters.".
"Would he be terribly angry if he found out we left the Gard?"
"Yes," her brother told her simply "Which is why we must take care that he doesn't find out."
Despite herself Clary couldn't stop smiling back. This forbidden excursion reminded her of the times she and Simon had pilfered the orchards surrounding the convent. It brought the breathless, swelling excitement of previous mischief flooding back to her.
"It is a far greater crime to keep such a lovely girl cooped up!" Jonathan continued, "For even the loveliest of birds will lose its nice plumage if it is not allowed to stretch its wings every once in a while. It would be a terrible shame for you to see none of your capital before you must leave it."
Clary wholeheartedly agreed. After weeks of being locked up looking at the same faces every day she was desperate for some kind of diversion. She couldn't settle into her new life of noble idleness. All through her girlhood at the convent she'd always had some kind of task to carry out for the nuns, or had lessons overseen by her mother. Now that there was none of that to occupy her, Clary struggled to find any contentment in the menial occupations a woman of her station was supposed to pursue. She could feel her brain shrivelling up with every line she stitched.
It hadn't taken much persuasion for her to plead a headache to her ladies and disappear into her bedchamber for a 'lie down' only to creep out again minutes later with Jonathan. She supposed she would suffer the rather treacherous voyage in what was not the royal barge for a few hours of freedom in the city.
Her optimistic spirit fled, and Clary started once again as the barge collided with something solid.
"Be calm! We've just docked!" Her brother reassured her with some amusement. Clary nodded and swallowed her heart back into her stomach.
She stood up and quickly brushed down her skirts. Beside her Jonathan also rose from his seat. After a short consultation with the boatman, he offered her his arm with another pleasant smile. "Let's go see our city."
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The next few hours passed swiftly, as only time thoroughly well spent could.
Clary couldn't remember the last time she had enjoyed herself like this. It made a pleasant change to walk down streets where no one knew her name or stopped and whispered when the saw her.
They wound their way through streets of wood and stone, watching the sun sink behind the thatched roofs and stony steeples, looking on the boundless variety of people. Clary's ears were filled with the noise of horses clopping, women gossiping, men brawling and dogs barking. Vendors fearlessly hollered their wares over everyone else's noise. And then there were the bells of so many churches, a seemingly constant chiming, a soaring song of city life. Clary's eyes darted between the modest homespun garb of servants and workers and the glamorous colours and cuts of more costly garments, all blending together on the streets. Her head swung back and forth like a pendulum.
Meanwhile, her nostrils were assaulted by the smells of sweating horses, human filth and the appetising aroma of some of the bakeries and food sellers. Seeing her enthrallment Jonathan bought her one of the pies, so hot and fresh that it burnt her fingers and tongue, but melted delightfully in her mouth.
Her brother then hired them a litter and took her to Angel Square to see the huge statue of their supposed ancestor Raziel catch the light in his tarnished bronze surfaces. Jonathan pointed out the steeple of St Mark's Cathedral, where the kings of Idris were crowned and laid to rest. He even took her by the river to see the alabaster and marble curve of the buildings where the Clave would sit to discuss and pass the King's laws. Jonathan proved generous too, laughing at her heated decline of his offer to take her to the tailors and instead bought her a selection of sweetmeats and indulged her request to visit the printers, where he purchased for her some promising love poems she spied.
This afternoon was the closest she had come to being carefree in what felt like a very long time, and Clary found it possible to pretend she were just an ordinary girl on the cusp of seventeen enjoying a day out shopping and sightseeing with her brother, a brother who was not the future King of Idris. She could even forget about the fact that in the very near future she would have to leave this country and marry whichever king or prince had been chosen for her. It all just seemed like a surreal and distant dream, while there were the more immediate and tangible events of life in a lively city playing out right before her.
Jonathan, who had just been engaged in an animated discussion with a solemn looking man, returned to the litter and beamed up at Clary, a new excitement iridescent in the charcoal depths of his eyes. "That was one of Blackwell's men I just spoke to. I know it's getting late but there's one last thing I wanted you to see and we're in luck. One last stop at Domaine de Cendres."
"Domaine de Cendres?" Clary echoed the strange name. Jonathan merely nodded with another mysterious smile, shot out more orders and then they were on the move again.
Even with her limited knowledge of the outlay of Alicante, Clary could see that their destination appeared to be on the edge of the city, where the buildings gave way to what looked like some sort of green, not unlike the one in Gard. Only much bigger and much more crowded. She dismounted the litter with some assistance from Jonathan, who hastily paid for and dispatched their transport.
"We're late." He remarked with some disappointment, hauling Clary by the arm, "No matter. Come on"
"Late for what? Jonathan, where-" Clary was ignored, Jonathan towing her none to gently after him through the crowd. The assembled people were just as impatient as her brother, shoving and cursing around Clary. Thankfully, Jonathan's grip on her was as tight as shackles. He caught the eye of a stout, bald man, who gave the Prince a thrilled wave and beckoned for some men at arms to assist them. Soon they were surfacing from the throng.
Clary greedily gulped in a lungful of fresh air as she was steered onto a kind of makeshift platform.
"Your Highness! I was led to believe you would not be attending."
"Aldertree." Jonathan greeted their new companion with a brisk nod, "I happened to be in the area, too close to miss it."
"Excellent, my lord" Aldertree enthused, his attention turning to Clary as she knew it eventually would. "And who might this lady be? I am sure you look familiar my dear, I just can't place a name."
"It doesn't matter who she is" her brother interjected, staring off with an expression of obvious impatience. "It should have started by now."
As if in response to his complaint, the crowd before them coursed forward with renewed vigour, chanting and bellowing.
Clary strained her eyes trace the epicentre of the commotion. She had a moderately clear vision of what seemed to a series of poles. Three of them, assembled in a rough circle, surrounded by rubbish and spare bits of wood.
Comprehension sank through her as an icy weight, spilling a chill through her tightening chest and into her stomach.
"Jonathan," she turned to her brother, her voice strained, "I don't want to-" She trailed off as she realised her brother was utterly deaf to anything she had to say. He was focused entirely on the grotesque scene unfolding before them.
The clamour of the crowd peaked as there was some movement around the foot of the stakes. A group of rough soldiers hauled the guilty forward while the crowd fidgeted in a violent frenzy of weeping, swearing and jeering.
There were three of them, shapeless sacks in the substitute of clothing covering their starved and broken limbs. Each had their heads pitifully shorn. Two had the appearance of being male but the third- oh dear God- the third was a girl, scarcely older than Clary.
Breathlessly bordering on hysteria, the Princess clutched at her brother "Jonathan!" she pleaded with a quiet wail.
"Be quiet! He hissed at her, shaking her arm off anxiously. Clary's stomach capsized, but her eyes couldn't be wrenched away.
The accused were briskly secured with ropes. As though they could run, none of the poor wretches looked fit to stand unaided! One of the men was frantically muttering to himself what in what must have been prayer. The other wept unashamedly and with complete abandon. The girl was stony eyed and utterly silent as she was bound.
By now Clary was shaking all over, "I can't watch this. They can't do this!" a strangled protest finally escaped her stinging throat.
Knowing that certain practices happened and witnessing them were two very different things.
"They are heretics who have denied the authority of the Church in Rome, my dear." Aldertree told her cheerfully, "The flames give them a taste of hell. A final warning for them to repent before they perish."
"They're lighting!" Jonathan announced with dark glee. The surrounding kindling caught fire. Clary tried to avert her gaze, only to have her turn away hindered by Jonathan's hands, grabbing at her face. "Watch!" he commanded, "Look upon it well. What becomes of disobedience. Heresy must be dealt with like any other pestilence! You burn it out!" His fingers bit into her soft skin. Clary struggled in vain, feeling her stomach twist painfully once again and the sugared fruit she'd eaten earlier rise as acid bile in the back of her throat.
The cries of the dying seemed to excite the crowd more than before and they surge together, bodies packing tight and, blocking from Clary's sight all but the tips of the heretic's heads and the glow of the climbing, punishing flames.
But the thick press of bodies could not drown out the screams.
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Upon return to the Gard, it transpired that Clary's absence had been noted.
Letting herself back into her bedchamber Clary encountered Simon, halting mid-pace to frown at her, "Where have you been?!" he demanded, striding over to her and contradicting his angry words with a tight embrace.
For a long moment Clary just clung to him, revelling in his familiar soap and resin smell.
"I was out with Jonathan," she stated numbly when she trusted herself to speak.
"Without so much as word?" Simon shook his head incredulously, "Clary we've been beside ourselves! We didn't know what to do or say! We were sure a report to the King would buy us a guaranteed trip to the gallows." A guilty glance confirmed his story, poor Rebecca certainly looked as though she'd been crying.
"I am sorry," she apologised feebly "Jonathan told me not to tell anyone or we would surely be caught." She reached for Rebecca's hand and gave it a despondent squeeze. Rebecca squeezed back, quick as ever to forgive.
Simon was still studying her with puzzled concern. It was times like these she wished he didn't know her so well. "Clary, what happened?"
She looked at Simon and thought of him lighting his Sabbath candle where no one could see, saying his prayers where no one could hear. Simon, whose people were all supposed to have left Idris decades ago under royal decree. Simon and his family, who had always loved Clary like their own, however contradictory their beliefs.
They weren't a pestilence. They were just a people.
And yet the church courts would make no distinction between Jews and Lutherans. Heresy was anything beyond the boundaries of what the Cardinals and the King believed.
"No. Nothing happened. I'm just exhausted."
"I had some supper saved for you, that should see you somewhat revived" Rebecca said, running her hands over her cheeks once more to dry them before striding out in search of food. Clary swallowed her protest that she wasn't fit to eat a bite as she watched the door swing shut in her wake. She managed to deflect Simon's further questions about the day's events while they waited for Rebecca's return and settled herself reluctantly at the table, decisively sitting with her back to the fireplace.
Minutes later, the elder Lewis sibling returned bearing a plate. Clary lifted her cutting knife only to pause mid-air. On any other occasion the tender cuts of brown meat would have looked delicious. Well-cooked, slightly burnt even, exactly as she liked it. Tonight, the smell of the charred black edges sent a wrench to her gut.
Clary just about made it to the privy before she emptied the contents of her stomach.
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