Chapter 5: Steps
Road to Chatton House, South of Alicante, May 1536
As the court began its summer progress, Clary came to realise that the perilous not-royal barge was not so bad after all. She would sooner take her chances in it than ever place a foot in the stirrups again.
She'd thought that her days of travelling would be over when she had reached the capital, at least until she would have to depart with a trousseau and dowry intact. But the King always spent his summer months on progress; touring his kingdom with all the pomp and ceremony his royal treasury would allow, visiting with some of his most favoured subjects. Given Clary held the coveted position of first lady at this court, she was expected to join in the expedition.
Now her thighs ached, having been clenched in panic around the sides of her mount for hours.
Not only was Clary struggling to keep her horse on course and herself on its back, but she had the honour of doing so right behind the King at the head of the train.
It was growing increasingly difficult to keep her tears at bay. Princesses do not cry! Her mother would have reprimanded, Never surrender your composure! But Jocelyn wasn't here, and the paltry letters Clary had received in lieu of her mother's presence were not worth dwelling on.
Didn't her mother understand how alone she was here? How her daughter needed her guidance more than ever before? Clary wanted to scream. However angry Jocelyn may be at her husband, did she not realise her daughter still needed her?
The court left Alicante and the order of the procession began to slip. As more time passed by, Clary realised that there was a notable gap growing between her father and herself. Valentine's attention had waned and seemed to have forgotten about her once again. Once the citizens of Alicante had caught the necessary glimpse of their princess there was no need to keep her quite so close.
The King's cunning companions and ever-opportunistic lords soon filtered in to take her place. Jonathan had gone his separate way, galloping off with a small group of select companions some half hour ago. Not that Clary would be sad to see him go. She could not think of her brother without thinking of that burning, and his fervour for it.
Valentine would likely worry about Clary and her brother again only when they reached their destination, Chatton House.
In a soft crunch of hooves, Lucian Graymark drew level with Clary. He had barely spoken to her since her arrival in Alicante. Their verbal exchanges had been limited to insisting she call him Luke and enquiries as to whether she had slept well or had enough to eat.
Luke did not seem to know what to say to her any more than Clary knew what to say to him. She had deduced he was a friend of her mother's and learned Luke had once been considered for her father's Lord Chancellor, many years ago. That had certainly held her attention. Lord Chancellor? The most prominent lord in the realm and her father's right hand, carrying the seal of state and issuing commands on the King's behalf? None of that seemed to fit with the dusty riding boots, untidy brown hair and kindly blue eyes.
Clary had not thought the prospect of Chancellorship was something one lost and managed to recover from.
She had tried to broach it with Luke, "Ah it was a long time ago" he told her with a sheepish laugh, "Valentine thought he was doing a friend a favour. But we were both very young, and I was entirely unequal to the task. The King's more senior advisors all told him so. So I agreed to step aside in favour of a more experienced lord and spent some years in Italy instead, making the most of my lost burden." Clary could hear the details being omitted, but she had judged it prudent not to press on with an interrogation.
As he greeted her with a nod and a smile Clary quickly motioned he ride beside her. She could do with the company.
"Fear not." He told her softly, "This court would test the resolve of a saint."
Clary surrendered to a pained smile, "Is it so obvious?"
"A little, but one could not blame you. It is best to remember that all of us here were new at a time. We have all made blunders we would rather not recall. For instance, I once put the elder Duke of Broceland's hair on fire at a feast when the Spanish ambassador was visiting, all because I was trying to draw his attention to a gravy stain on his sleeve. I'd wager you have not humiliated yourself so greatly."
"Perhaps not to that degree. " She admitted with a chuckle.
"Now that my dignity is gone you must tell me your woes."
Surprisingly this time conversation sprang up between them easily. Clary hadn't realised until she had started speaking how grateful she was to have someone who listened to her just because she wanted to talk. Even better, for once her mare seemed entirely content to march along by Luke's own horse without mishap, leaving her free to properly engage in the discussion.
Engrossed as she was in this easy new companionship Clary was nonetheless diverted from their conversation by a disturbance at the head of the train. "Is something wrong?" she enquired of Luke. "No, Your Highness I believe we are nearing a village. It is likely that some of the commoners have turned out to see the royal progress."
Sure enough, it was not long before Clary found herself drawing level with some of her father's loyal subjects lining the road. She had seen such folk before of course, laypeople had come to the convent often enough seeking employment, shelter or sanctuary. On her journey to Alicante, she had seen peasants hard at work in the fields, but this was the first time Clary had encountered such a mass of common country people. The sight surprised her more than it should have. The crowds applauded and called their approval as the royal party passed by. It sounded hollow.
On their departure from the city the roads had been lined with cheers and frequent cries of 'God save the King' amongst other blessings, but the crowd in Alicante had been comprised of plump merchants and thriving tradesmen with their wives, children and lucky apprentices. Now Clary moved alongside groups of men dutifully docking their dusty caps or rough straw hats, lowering their stern, smouldering gazes to muddy, hole riddled boots. Their women spread rough brown skirts and dirty aprons into the required curtseys. Bare-footed, filthy children scampered beside the procession in coarse, makeshift clothes that tended to be either too big or too small.
Clary became more acutely aware of her new ivy coloured travelling cape and supple leather gloves at the sight. There was a perceptible hostility in the displays of submission, Clary was sure of it. Though the labour cracked hands now waved greetings and their bony limbs made no move of aggression, one glimpse at the seething eyes flipped her stomach. Upon noticing that Luke had pressed himself closer to her and a line of armed men in royal livery were currently forming a wall of flesh and metal between the peasants and the court members, Clary realised this was no paranoia.
She turned to Luke and murmured desperately, "What ails them so? What grievance could possibly warrant such enmity?" She had trawled through her mind to conjure an answer to her own question and could not find one, unless there had been a war or some natural disaster no one had told her of.
"Many grievances Princess." Luke informed her sorrowfully, throwing her a meaningful look to hint at a fuller explanation to come.
Indeed, once the village was behind them and roads were clear once again Luke cleared his throat. "A series of bad harvests, Your Highness. Not enough to cause any great catastrophe but such misfortune always precedes hardship."
Clary was not pacified, "Those were not the expressions of hardship. That was hatred."
Luke shifted uncertainly in his saddle and glanced over his shoulder. Clary forced her expression to thaw. "Speak plainly, sir. If I am to represent the needs of my country abroad then I ought to know what those problems are."
Luke seemed to start at her words, and to her astonishment he took one look at her set jaw and determined gaze and burst out laughing. "Dear God, you are the very picture of your mother when you look like that." He hastily recollected himself and smiled at her again awkwardly, "With respect you are to be a wife, not an ambassador."
"A wife can be far more effective than any ambassador in promoting her country's interests, I believe."
"Well said. And I quite agree. Nevertheless, I dare not speak to plainly, Madam." his voice dropped.
Clary was not for giving ground. Once the court halted for a brief respite, she swung her aching legs out of the saddle and cornered Lucian Graymark again. "Now we are quite alone" she stated, having waved away a groom with her horse, "And we can conclude our conversation without worrying of eavesdroppers."
"I realise I will know no peace until I relent."
"Correct."
"I must ask, my lady, that you refrain from having similar conversations with anyone else and exercise the utmost caution in repeating what I tell you."
Clary nodded impatiently at his warnings.
"As I said before, the harvests have been bad and the people find themselves with smaller yields. You surely know that agriculture is the cornerstone of Idris's wealth. The city merchants trade in what grows here and on what can be provided by the livestock that grazes in our fields. The lords live on the rents their farming tenants offer, that and the profits they can make on what grows on their land."
Clary cast her mid back to the dark, envious stares she had just ridden through.
"And regardless of what does or doesn't grow on their land, lords are not willing to make many concessions on how they live. They want the same lifestyle they have always had, the same lifestyle their fathers and grandfathers had."
"Why should lords have to sacrifice anything. Is it not the lot of peasants to live modestly and be grateful?" Clary demanded wryly.
"Exactly. It has been thus for generations. But with recent crop failures, things have grown more difficult. It is a matter of ensuring the lower classes have just about enough to get by."
"But why? For fur cloaks and a new hunting horse? That's despicable."
"I agree. But the maintenance of luxury is not the sole reason for this policy I fear." Her informant certainly looked on the verge of what he recognised as potentially a very bad decision. Clary blinked and waited. "On top of the rent there are taxes to the Crown. The ultimate insurance of poverty."
The new gold chain around her throat suddenly seemed to tighten its grip, as if to strangle her. "To keep the Crown in all its glory?" She asked in a brittle, cracking voice, swamped in guilt.
"Amongst other reasons. His Majesty is quite firmly of the opinion that repression is the best form of protection." Luke visibly struggled to keep his tone mild, she could trace the disapproval rippling underneath his nonchalant words. Careful Luke, Clary thought, you're lucky I agree with you.
He fixed that penetrating blue gaze on her once again, reading the appalled shock writ clearly there. If she wasn't mistaken his response was one of approving relief.
I have been tried in the balance and not found wanting.
"It has worked, of course. The peasants cannot bear arms, nor meet for anything other than religious services and gatherings are closely monitored. Every penny one can spare and even those that cannot be spared are scraped out for the royal coffers and no one pays any attention to how the figures so meticulously inked into the ledgers got there. If the result is another lowborn child starving to death, then it is no great tragedy. One less to worry about."
"And the Church? Surely with all their influence they could put a stop to it?" Clary demanded, thinking of how the nuns of the Holy Cross had never shirked from helping those in direst need, giving alms and taking in desperate families. She could clearly conjure the kindly face of the Mother Superior, extolling the need for Christian love and compassion to her novices and to Clary.
Luke shook his head grimly, "Those who receive sizeable tithes and donations from the Crown do not ask questions."
-0000000000000000-
The rolling gait of the horse underneath him was a welcome relief to Jace. After being stuck in that hulking Gard he would have been glad of any escape, but it was good to be back in Wayfarer's saddle. As though he too was relishing the new freedom, Wayfarer tossed back his head, powerful muscles rippling in his dappled neck. He truly was a fine animal; Jace suspected he had cost the Earl of Adamant a small fortune but when the time had come to send his boys away to the French court, Robert had insisted they needed good horses.
If Alec had ever been slightly resentful that his father was treating Jace on an equal plane to his true son and heir, he had never shown it. In the years they had grown up together Robert had often singled out Jace to praise his superior learning and swordsmanship, but Alec never spoke a word of dissent. He had certainly never done aught but encourage Jace's successes. The world needed more Alec Lightwoods.
Admittedly in the beginning there had been surly expressions and muttered curses, but within weeks of his arrival at Adamant Jace had decided to spurn Mayrse and Isabelle's willingness to cosset and nurture him in favour of Alec's solemn dislike. Over the following months it had gradually dissipated into a solid friendship. Years later, the two were just as inseparable. Jace was sure that Alec was the only person in this world he could unreservedly trust.
Presently that was truer than ever. He was in the King of Idris's train and surrounded by courtiers who, now that the surname 'Herondale' had leaked out, tended to squint at him as though he were some sort of exotic beast in a menagerie. Currently it was Lord Aldertree who was considering Jace with curious calculation. Realising his shameless observation had been noted Aldertree's lips lifted in a half-apologetic smile, though his watery eyes never left Jace's face.
Swallowing roughly and digging his heels firmly into Wayfarer's sides, Jace urged his mount to pick up the pace.
So far, the summer progress had not been very progressive. The court would be spending the summer months drifting around the countryside in order to avoid the plague and rising stench of human dirt that the summer heat brought to the city. They would visit the King's various country estates and those of the lucky noblemen whom the Valentine was willing to bestow a visit on. From what Jace had seen on their progress thus far, the cost of housing and entertaining a royal court could very easily bankrupt the family favoured by His Majesty's attention.
Attention that the French party were fighting hard to catch and keep. Valentine was far from a fickle man. Yet as far as his daughter's marriage was concerned, he seemed keen to hedge his bets. He never allowed his attention to linger on one diplomatic party for very long.
Mysteriously Alec's company was still very much in demand, today he was riding at the head of the party with the Morgensterns themselves. Jace got the feeling that Alec's cluelessness for the attention was somewhat affected. But he also knew pressing Alec would never yield any answers. He tried to stay confident Alec would open up when he was ready.
His worries were not helped any by the sight of Prince Jonathan approaching him at a sharp trot with Sebastian Verlac on one flank and Alec on the other. Jace sincerely hoped that the Prince could just ride by without a cutting comment or better still, pitch forward over the horse's shoulder and land spectacularly flat in the dirt. As ever, save bad luck Jace had none at all.
Riding obnoxiously close, Jonathan circled his horse by as though he were impatient to move away as quickly as possible.
"Herondale," he sneered with the usual lack of courtesy. "You'll be pleased to know I've finally found a use for you."
Struggling to refrain from sighing aloud, Jace waited. The Prince's companions lurked nearby, Sebastian Verlac looking bored and Alec looking apologetically awkward.
"I await instruction with anticipation." Jace offered dryly.
"Have you seen my sister?"
Jace raised an eyebrow in surprise "She was with you and your father at the head of the party last time I saw."
"She fell behind some time ago. My father wants to know what's delaying her. Go and fetch her for us, would you?"
Behind him Verlac snickered as though Jonathan's idea was some sort of genius. Even as his stomach burned and hands shook slightly with the desire to help the Crown Prince off his horse with his fists, Jace kept his face what was hopefully blank. It wasn't as though there was a small army of pages and servants in the train who could fetch the Princess, oh no, Jace was the one who had to degrade himself to do it.
Clever snub as always, Your Highness.
He could feel Alec's silent pleading and realised he could possibly work this prospect of seeing the Princess alone to his advantage.
"It would be an honour, sir" Jace said with carefully measured sweetness and turned Wayfarer to canter back the way they had come.
The soothing pound of hooves along the cropped green grass of the main road edging Broceland forest soon made Jace's temper cool. He could almost pretend that he was still at home in Adamant and taking the usual afternoon ride with Alec and Izzy. Pretty as Alicante had been, the rolling green fields of Idris were beautiful.
The kings of Idris may wear all kinds of jewels, but their real treasure was the fertile farmland they ruled. One glance at the abundant emerald glow of the surrounding fields was confirmation enough of how Idris had managed to prosper and hold its own as a European power despite its small size. Today especially they made a pleasant sight, the sky peeking playfully through the soft patches of cloud was a perky blue, and bright sweeps of sunlight wavered and danced on the hills in the distance.
Jace happily rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension of the past month as he revelled in the warmth of the sun on his back and the brisk breeze that bounced across his cheeks, heavily scented with the comforting scents of rain-soaked leaves, wildflowers and the rich tang of horse sweat.
A happy mood that could only deepen at the sight of a struggling Clary Morgenstern by the roadside. Her horse must have decided that it preferred the bordering shrubbery to the open road, leaving its mistress stranded and grappling with the plants pressing against her. Clary was in a state of disarray; her face was cast in the shade of an overhanging tree and there were streaks of mud on her smart travelling cape. Her cap was also crooked, and some leaves had taken up residence in her hair.
From the glimpses Jace had caught of her thus far on his travels she was not enjoying the journey half so much as he was. He spied her clutching at the reins desperately and feet floundering in the stirrups as she tried to stay on the horse's back. The horse, of course, only pranced and jerked at her lack of control, seemingly as baffled at her incompetence as Jace was.
Beside her Isabelle was barking some futile orders, cutting a sharp contrast to her mistress from her perfect poise in the saddle.
"Heels down, Clary! Down! That's more like it, now sit up straight!"
"I am!" the Princess cried, huddled in the saddle like a hunchback.
"No you're not," Isabelle informed her with unchecked exasperation, "I thought you said you could ride?"
"It's not my fault Isabelle! It's this stupid mule!"
"First off, the palfrey has been the chosen mount of noblewomen and queens for centuries. Secondly, it is not her fault. She's just excited to get fresh grass under her hooves. And thirdly will you please shorten your reins? They're like washing lines."
Clary wrestled frantically with the strips of leather between her fingers. In return the pale grey mare released a tremulous whinny against the bit clattering in her teeth and tried a half-hearted rear, lifting her forelegs a few inches in the air. It wasn't enough to unseat the Princess, but it was enough for her to emit a breathless yelp that only startled the poor horse further.
The beseeching look on Isabelle's face and the white fear on Clary's made Jace draw Wayfarer to a halt.
"It does indeed seem that I did Snowy a great favour. It would be a favour for any horse to be liberated from your care." He called over.
"So, you admit you stole Snowy!" Clary retorted through gritted teeth. Jace was both impressed and frustrated in equal measures at her unwavering pride.
"Kick!" Isabelle rang out another command upon despairing of Jace's assistance and Clary flapped her legs obediently but uselessly. She loosed another little shriek as her mare lurched forward a stride, only to swiftly change her mind and retreat several steps. The mare's pearly rump pressed dangerously close to Isabelle's bay whose nostrils flared warningly. The two horses churned against one another for a dreadful moment until Isabelle managed to steer her steed away before it could buck.
"Are you going to help or not?" Izzy snapped at Jace, eyes flashing with fearful anger.
"I thought only to mock and gloat, but since lives are clearly in danger…" he sighed and edged Wayfarer closer to the Princess, where he was astonished to note that her eyes had taken on a glossy quality and her lower lip trembled marginally.
For Jace there was only one thing he sought to avoid more keenly than a girl with the pox, and that was a girl on the verge of tears. It was almost enough to send him in the opposite direction at full gallop. Then he recalled this was not the first time he had seen Clary cry and continued his resolute approach. Once upon a time he gladly tended to her scraped knees and dried her tears.
"Go away!" she ordered, but the venom was significantly diluted by her obvious distress.
"Princess-" he started.
"I don't need your help!" The words were poorly punctuated by a sorry sniff. Jace guessed it wouldn't be long before the tears she was barley holding back started to fall in earnest. For the first time Jace looked at her and stopped seeing Valentine's precious and haughty daughter. He started to see a bitter and frightened young woman, just weeks off her seventeenth birthday.
She'd just been thrust into a cut-throat game of power with no preparation and no friends, where she was nothing more than a prize.
Jace drew close enough to see how brightly the copper flakes of her freckles stood out against her blanched cheeks, and that there was a red rim around her eyes. He leaned over Wayfarer's neck and took a firm hold of her reins, stilling her horse momentarily.
Clary sniffed again defiantly and refused to meet his gaze.
"Stop it" he told her gently but firmly, "You are starting to sound like Pangborn."
Despite herself, she laughed shakily. Then she sucked in a breath and lifted her head, fixing Jace with a now dry-eyed stare. "I don't need your help," She repeated, this time more steadily. "I've given up. I'll walk."
"Your Highness, I fear I must tell you that Chatton House is miles away and you don't know the way."
"I'll just follow the court."
"The court is long gone. In fact, I suspect at this rate you've even missed the baggage train."
"Then I'll…let the sun guide me"
Jace merely raised an eyebrow. "Madam, much as I am willing to obey your every wish, I am not only here to provide you with the treat of my company. Your brother sent me. His Majesty is waiting for you."
He thought for an awful moment she was going to remain obstinate, but the stubborn set of her shoulders finally slackened.
"Come on." He urged her, in the same firm but encouraging way he had helping Max Lightwood find his seat on a horse. "Sit up, shoulders back. Just as you would at the dinner table."
She stared at him incredulously.
"They may not have taught you how to ride but I know they taught you how to sit like a lady."
Slowly, she mimicked his command. Clary unfurled from her curled position, an uncertain flower blooming.
"There we go. Now relax, Princess. Your unease makes your horse nervous too." Tentatively Clarissa released the tension in her small body and gradually the horse's fidgeting subsided.
"It worked!"
"No need for that amount of disbelief. I always know what I'm talking about." Jace released his hold and drew Wayfarer back. "Now, no big kicks, she's a gentlewoman's pony not some beginner's plodder. Just turn your heels in, quickly but sharply. That should get her going without startling her."
Complying, Clarissa managed to successfully manoeuvre her mount forward a few paces without catastrophe. With only a few more words of encouragement and advice he managed to persuade both horse and rider back onto the road to where Isabelle waited. "Thank God!" she greeted them, sweeping a low hanging branch out of her face in irritation as she trotted over to them. "I was beginning to despair of you in earnest!"
"Never an ounce of faith" Jace muttered under his breath as they made their way down the road, the princess bobbing along tentatively and flanked by the French.
Jace suspected if Santiago or any of the other ambassadors saw this they'd have fits. The thought thoroughly amused him for a time, then he really began to feel their agonisingly slow pace and the impatience set in.
He sensed that Isabelle felt the same way, mostly because she voiced her frustration. "Why didn't you just tell them you couldn't ride in the first place? They would have happily supplied a litter you know" she paused to let her words sink in before adding in a not altogether quiet undertone, "Then we'd be at dinner already."
"I can ride!" Clarissa retorted. "At least I thought I could" she stated sullenly.
"And that means…?"
"It would appear my mother only ever sanctioned the most reliable of mounts. The kind that struggled to go at any sort of speed and preferred to just trudge along reliably. She likely sought to minimise the risk, keep me as safe as possible. My mother was like that. Is like that." She corrected herself abruptly. "Now that they've given me a horse that isn't mindlessly obedient," her horse accentuated her point by veering off the road to seize a mouthful of the hedgerow before Jace caught hold of the bridle and pulled it back, "I can't quite manage" the Princess concluded sheepishly.
"Well at least now we have the opportunity to fully appreciate the Idrisian scenery" Jace pointed out.
"Yes. Just look at all those fields. Extraordinary. It is hardly as though they look just like every field in France, or indeed Europe!" Isabelle enthused with her usual sunny temperament.
Jace had no choice but to respond with all the pretentious humour of an older sibling. "They are not like every other field in Europe. In truth the fields of Italy and Spain are not nearly as green."
Isabelle threw him a disdainful look, "I'm sure to be eternally grateful for the knowledge."
The Princess's mount swerved rapidly of course again, effectively cutting off the rising argument. Clary, who had previously been watching the banter with a strange curiosity blushed fiercely. "I am sorry for… this" she volunteered with evident mortification as she had to be rescued once again.
"Fear not, Your Highness, if the King asks what kept you so late and you are too embarrassed to recount this tale, you can always tell him Monsieur Herondale pulled you off your horse and dishonoured you in a ditch." Isabelle smirked with pitch black humour.
"Isabelle!" Clarissa coughed out with deepening horror.
"That isn't funny," Jace told her sharply. Her only response was a pert little shrug, but she did fix her gaze straight ahead and lapse into silence.
The discomfort stretched on for some time as none of the party endeavoured to speak, until at last Jace cleared his throat again and sighed, "Well if we're going to be here for a while. We may as well make some use of it-"
"You may not have me in a ditch" Clarissa interrupted before he could proceed.
Jace's head whipped round to look at her in disbelief, only to see the usual challenging gleam had returned to her eyes. Her lips flickered in the beginnings of an expectant smile as she regarded him.
"Of course not. A lady of your position must have standards. How about behind that tre-"
"Your Excellence, I do not think it is in your best interest to complete that sentence." Clary was truly back on form. Then she uttered an airy little laugh, "Very well. There will never be a more opportune moment, I suppose."
Jace spared a second to consider whether a 'Lucky tree' comment would be fatal. Thankfully the Princess pushed on herself before he could make a truly detrimental decision.
"Tell me all about your Prince. Not the things I usually hear about my suitors, how much land he owns, how politically strong and masculine he is. I want to know what he is really like. What his interests are."
"Ah the Dauphin. Francois, the Duke of Brittany. Well for a start he is only a year your senior, and I do believe you have much in common."
"Like expert horsemanship?"
She managed to startle a genuine laugh out of Jace at the last comment and seemed pleased with herself for doing do.
"As it happens you do! Francois is not much of a sportsman, although he is skilled enough to be so. He prefers his studies. An avid reader. A bookworm like you. He had a difficult childhood but has grown into a very strong and serious person. He is not a complete dullard, neither is he vain or frivolous like other princes his age. He is well read, well informed and a good debater. He listens well and is not too proud to allow himself to be dissuaded or swayed by a good argument. He cares what those around him have to say. That is important in a Prince. I believe he as all the makings of a very fine king, but also a good husband."
"And he's handsome" Isabelle informed her mistress "Even more handsome than his father, they say, and they speak true. He's tall and sturdy, with blue eyes and golden-brown hair. He has a rare but a nice smile, the sort of smile that makes you want to see it on his face again and again. He's the joy of his parent's lives, and he is kind to his stepmother. People who ought to know say that is something to look for in a prospective partner."
Clarissa grew increasingly thoughtful as they spoke.
"You know him well?"
Jace considered the thoughtful but charismatic young man and the nights they had spent sitting up into the small hours, enthusing and critiquing their latest reads.
"Would it surprise you to learn that we are friends?"
"Somewhat. Then I trust you will answer my next question honestly with the happiness of a friend in mind: do you think we would be a good match?"
Unexpectedly, it was Isabelle who answered, "I think you could love him. And it's quite possible he could love you. He is the sort of boy it would be easy to love, if you were willing to open your heart to the possibility. I think he would be faithful in wedlock, because has seen was his father's hordes of mistresses have done to his stepmother and heard what they did to his mother. He would not do that to his wife."
The Princess nodded, slowly absorbing their words, only the little crease between her eyebrows betraying how she was likely tearing apart all they had said for a deep analysis of the man who could be her husband.
The man whom Jace was determined to make her husband, he reminded himself.
-0000000000000000-
There was only the lonely thump of hooves on the path and the occasional chirp of wind as the dreary trio trudged toward Chatton house.
With every passing minute Clary stayed stuck in the saddle, Chatton sounded more and more like a paradise. All she wanted was a warm bed and a hot bath to soothe her aching limbs.
But there was still no sight of the manner.
And with every passing minute the silence grew heavier. Clary almost wished for her horse to start playing up again just so that someone would speak. She suspected that Isabelle had dozed off on her dawdling horse. The ambassador wasn't going to talk to her.
For Clary, the amount of time she had been left stuck inside her own head was becoming unbearable. Lately, such periods of reflection sooner or later lead to her reliving those terrible moments stood over the stakes. The stench of burning flesh and sound of dying screams rolled around and around in her head and echoed in most of her nightmares.
"You seem unwell." The envoy's voice chimed through her inner tumult, "What's the matter?"
"Have you ever seen someone die?"
Jace Herondale blinked at her, his gold eyes darkly curious as he weighed up her question. Part of Clary wanted to reel the words back in and insist she hadn't meant to speak at all, but the larger part of her genuinely wanted an answer. She wanted to scratch the surface and see if this boy truly was vanity and arrogance the whole way through.
"Princess, I have seen hundreds of men die." Jace Herondale told her after a considerable pause.
Her breath caught at the admission, she didn't know what she had expected, but it certainly hadn't been that. "What?"
She watched his throat bob as he swallowed. "I was at Gavinana."
Clary wracked her brains, trying to recall the history and politics lessons her mother had given her, frantically mouthing Gavinana to herself as she tried to place the familiar name. "Gavinana! Yes that was- outside Florence was it not? Several years ago."
Jace's brows raised, surprised at her knowledge. He coughed rapidly to clear his throat before continuing. "It was. Six years ago."
"You fought at that battle?" Clary echoed with shrill disbelief, "But how- I thought that it was fought between the Spanish Emperor's army and people of Florence themselves! France promised an army yes, but to the best of my knowledge it never arrived. So how could a Frenchman have fought at that battle?"
His amber eyes flashed. Mayhap from a mixture of astonishment at her knowledge and offence that she'd all but called him a liar.
"I spent hour after hour being versed in the politics of Idris and all the other main European powers. Such events have been carved on my brain. Do not presume to spin tales to try and impress me."
Her response struck at a hollow silence. Then the ambassador's inflamed temper sparked up. "You know your battles; I'll give you that Princess. But you do not know my story and I'll thank you not to presume you do." Upon conclusion of his snapped reply, Jace turned away from her in a rather sobering parody of her own demonstrations of offence from the previous weeks.
There was something about his very sincere and quiet umbrage that made Clary check herself. It was as though he'd opened the doors just a crack to her and her haughty response had made him slam them shut so abruptly she could practically hear the bang.
Quelling her pride and shifting uncertainly in the saddle Clary tried again. "Perhaps if you-"
"Perhaps if I what? Would you have me tear open my clothes and exhibit the scar across my chest I earned there for you, and you could study it and decide on its authenticity? God help me Madam! I have been many things, but a liar was never one of them."
The bitter anger swelling and all but spinning off him promptly sealed Clary's lips.
"I am sorry." She said quietly, only half expecting him to hear her, filled with humbling guilt.
He laughed bluntly, "Never fear. I ought to be used to the prejudices by now."
Clary decided to file that comment away to think on later and she spoke again, this time with greater care. "Why were you at Florence? And what was it like?" His expression grew glassily pensive and just as Clary was beginning to despair of ever receiving answers he began to speak.
"The Earl of Adamant sent me. I was with one of his men and we were supposed to be meeting with some bankers. You'll find quite a few of those in Florence, the city's famous for them." He couldn't resist a little sly humour before continuing his tale, "I was just a boy. The timing was terrible: the Roman states were at war and the city fell under siege at the end of the month. We did not get out in time."
'The man who was supposed to be supervising us fell ill of a fever and expired after five months. After that it was just the two of us, Alec and I. Two boys who were not supposed to be there; two boys alone and trapped in a city under siege.
'You cannot imagine what it is like, in a siege. At first there's that air of stubbornness and defiance; that determination that they will not take your city. Then the food starts to trickle out. Now it's the waiting that becomes hard, interminable in fact because now you're hungry and you just want something to happen. This builds until the anticipation and the desperation hangs thick and heavy in the air like a putrid smoke.
'It's bad enough being trapped in a city like that but when you're foreigners? Worse than that you're French. You're one of those lying, faithless bastards whose king fills Florentine ears with promise of an army and aid and soon but never delivers. Soon we were scared to unlock the doors at all.
'The Prince of Orange gathered an army. When someone knocks on your door and offers you a sword and the opportunity to prove yourself it's hard to refuse, especially when you've longed for this to happen for so long. Almost ten months we were locked in that city. We marched out with dreams of glory and a real life game of heroes.
'I was fifteen years old.
'I can still feel it now, you know, the unforgivable heat of the sun and the jostling and swearing of the men around me. Because they don't care that you are the son and the ward of the Earl of Adamant when you're French, so they sent us out with the infantry along with common labourers and the lowly tradesmen.
'There's a reason they call what they teach noble boys in the practice yard swordplay. That's all it is: play. The real thing is just blood and fear. Blindly swinging a weapon and praying you aren't destined to die among foreign dust and the blood of strangers. At one point a fellow soldier spotted me and my reluctance. "What's the matter boy? Scared to die?"
"No" I told him. "Just scared of dying here"
"Why, where's better for you? What have you got that's so worth living for?"
'And I couldn't quite answer him. There was no great reason for me to want to live, other than fear of what lay or didn't lie on the other side for me. And this profound sense that I couldn't die before I had found a reason to live.
'In the beginning we were winning. Apparently. I was barely more than a child and terrified out of my wits. Then reinforcements came for the Imperialists, and we started losing. In the end there is no honour in a warrior's death. Men die pleading for mercy, or calling out for the Mother of God. Mostly they call out for their own mothers. It's pitiful and its plaintive, though by then you're wading through gore and guts trying to avoid the same fate and you can't spare too much sympathy.
'After a few hours I was cut down. Remarkable I lasted that long. Devil's luck cut off by a knife right across my chest. Alec was nearby, we had stuck close together through the whole fiasco. He had my attacker dead and was at my side in seconds. The last thing I remember of the field is Alec grasping my hand and forbidding me to die in that superior manner of his. He staunched the blood with his own hands and got me back to safety. How he did it I'll never know. He saved my life.
'For the next few weeks we lay low, I was quick to become Idrisian again and Alec became my cousin. Thankfully no one looked twice at the two of us. It was nearly another month before I had recovered enough for another of the Earl's men to get us out of that godforsaken city and home to Adamant."
Once his story was complete, Jace seemed to struggle join Clary in the present, shaking himself slightly as if waking from a bad dream and regarding her numbly, as if he couldn't quite believe he had just told her all he had.
Clary couldn't quite believe it herself, staring at the troubled young man before her with stunned ears and new eyes.
Perhaps he had not been the only one to draw an incorrect conclusion from their first impressions of one another.
Jace dipped his head for a moment, as though trying to collect himself. Clary could only stare at him, struggling to come to terms with the fact that her old playmate may not have grown up into the conceited and blindly ambitious person she had thought he was. But she didn't know this scarred young man any more than she had the last one.
Then Jace lifted his head and his mouth was balanced into a more familiar sarcastic half smile, only now she had a glimpse at the effort required to put it there.
"Shortly afterward I decided to dedicate my life to diplomacy. It is marginally less dangerous."
"Even serving me?" she inquired faintly, determined to play along for now and try and decode Herondale later. Jace exhaled beside her quietly.
"I did say marginally, Your Highness."
Unable to muster any kind of witty response, Clary fell back into silence and let the click and crunch of hooves on the empty road fill the noiseless evening once again. Although now that they had turned a corner Clary thought she could see the glimmer of lit windows through the growing gloom.
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The flames danced on the gold band of his signet ring as Jonathan slowly let the reflection of the firelight slide off his ring on its return journey it to its rightful place on his right index finger.
He cast another bored glance over his shoulder to where his father was seated behind the huge beech wood table from which he was conducting the Crown's business for the duration of their stay.
With each passing year Jonathan found himself sitting in on his father's meetings more and more. Receiving an increasing number of dull lessons in kingship. All of this was truly unnecessary in his opinion. Jonathan did not need to learn how to be a prince. He had been born one. That was the point.
Valentine swiped his quill over the current document, etching in his assent with a flourishing signature. "You will ride to Alicante as swiftly as possible" he informed Alexander Lightwood who was stood on the other side of the desk with his usual grimly sombre expression and his legs planted a few feet apart. Bracing himself for impact.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Upon arrival you will give this" he passed the freshly sealed letter over "And the accompanying package to Magnus Bane and only Magnus Bane. As we discussed."
"Yes, Sire." The Lightwood boy bowed and began to back out of the room before halting a few paces from the door and peering up at the king as though he had something to say.
"Is there a problem, Lord Lightwood?"
"Not at all. I merely wondered if your Majesty was sure I will not needed here."
"Oh no, Alexander. I can spare you for a few days. It is hardly a difficult task. When you return you will still have a place amongst us, although what that place will be depends on the outcome of this little mission."
"Of course but I-"
"You," Valentine interrupted behind the rim of his raised glass, "Work for me now. For as long as you reside under my roof and follow in my train you defer only to me. You make yourself mine to command and in return I extend my friendship not only to you but your entire family. That much you remember Alexander." The King's words were perfectly airy, but they had the dark edges of any brewing storm cloud. Clearly, they were sufficient for Alec to absorb the magnitude of what had just been said. He dipped into another bow and swiftly completed his retreat.
Jonathan didn't bother to turn and watch him go. He remained lounging against the carved mantelpiece, drumming his fingers against what looked like a lion engraved into the warm stone. Only the rapid scratching of nib on parchment told him that his father had resumed shifting through his various documents. He wondered how long he would have to stand here waiting for attention. Then he wondered if something had happened. He couldn't think of any reason for his father to be displeased. Jonathan had fulfilled all the duties he had been given, even the especially boring ones. More or less.
Perhaps it was praise then. Aldertree had complimented his zeal in protecting his faith of late, mayhap Valentine wanted to reward Jonathan's newfound religious fervour. Although it was of little consequence to Jonathan, he would burn heretics with or without his father's explicit approval.
"Jonathan." the King spoke at last, rising from his seat and beckoning for him to approach. Jonathan moved away from the fireplace and crossed the room to where Valentine waited. As the natural light crept away through the windowsill, the light supplied by the freshly lit candles grew and bathed the room in a soft golden glow. Their light caught the green and gold in the patterned tapestries over the walls.
"Look out there. Tell me what you see."
Jonathan peered through the thick glass pane. From here he had to admit the view was quite impressive; he could see out onto the stretching lawns and gardens down to the road they had arrived by earlier.
That was when he saw what he assumed his father intended to draw his attention to, through the huge stone gate his little sister was plodding home with that idiot traitor-spawn Herondale on one shoulder and the much more pleasant form of Isabelle Lightwood on the other. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the fine form of Isabelle in a rather figure-hugging velvet riding habit.
However easy that was on the eye, Jonathan doubted it was what had snared his father's interest. This was to be about Clary then. Everything these days was.
"My sister is home safely. Thanks be to God. You could not possibly be here to complain that I didn't fetch her back myself. Clearly the escort I sent completed the task sufficiently."
"No Jonathan, I am not going to complain of you. On the contrary, I am glad you sent the escort you did." Valentine said enigmatically.
Jonathan waited, watching the trio approach with the falling dusk. If he was about to hear how great a son Jonathan Herondale had been he was also about to lose his temper. He glanced at his father to say as much, but the King's expression made him hold his tongue. Half of his father's face was shrouded in the evening shadows. There was no way Jonathan would risk uttering a syllable of speech until he felt he could predict his father's reaction.
"Look closer." Valentine commanded.
Jonathan tried again, "I see my sister surrounded by the French. I suppose I can assume that she is to go to the Dauphin. From what I hear he is the most likely suitor. I had half assumed that anyway."
Valentine smiled to himself as though he had just been told something amusing. "A worthy guess Jonathan. But not what I wanted you to think. Perhaps you need some more direction. Tell me about the line of succession as it stands today, this very hour."
Jonathan frowned. "I am your heir, first in line to the throne."
"Yes, and then?
"My heirs."
"At this very hour" Valentine repeated crisply. "You have no children. Meaning that your heir is…?"
"My sister." Jonathan stated slowly, speculating to himself what would follow and hating what he presumed.
"And who then follows Clarissa? Who is third in line to the throne of Idris at this very moment in time?" Valentine demanded.
Jonathan gritted his teeth. "I haven't thought that far ahead."
"Liar. Speak, for you know it as well as I do. You think on it more than I do."
The Prince offered a disinclined shrug, "Then I suppose it would have to be the Herondale boy."
"Yes." Valentine said shortly and sharply, "You suppose correctly." The King pointed out the window again to where the small party of latecomers were on the edge of their field of vision. "So I want you to think of him as he is right now, at this second: quite simply one, short step behind your sister."
An incredulous laugh burst from Jonathan, "He is supposed to be a threat to me? To us? Not since we lopped off his treacherous father's head. We have degraded him so much that now he comes to us as a glorified messenger, practically a serving boy. He is a nobody!"
"He is a Herondale." Valentine corrected his son briskly. "Never forget it."
"The Herondales haven't been a force to be reckoned with for almost a hundred years."
"Yes, but they share the same blood we do. Ithuriel's blood, the blood of his great dynasty. King's blood. After all this time I suppose we are overdue a Herondale that will prove a decent threat.
'Oh, you have heard the stories too Jonathan. You know all about the Herondales, how they with their golden smiles and their golden charm sat on thrones while our ancestors trekked the muddy war fields of Europe. The Herondales, with their famous beauty and their famous honour. How the people loved them.
Believe me, Jonathan, that boy is not his father. He will not be dispatched so easily. Jonathan Herondale is a contender for our throne by sheer virtue of his surname, and a serious contender because he inherited every ounce of the Herondale nature along with the name. For that there are many who would raise a banner and unsheathe a sword. He may be a glorified messenger now, but your great-grandfather was a glorified soldier, one who got lucky in battle and killed a king. Then got even luckier and persuaded a Council to crown him.
'The Morgensterns have a crown by conquest and the common folk have little love for us. There will always be those who mutter that their crops grew better, or their hens laid more when the coronet rested on the brow of Ithuriel's other heirs."
Valentine drew in a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders as though the speech had been weighing on him. "You see, my son, now my greatest fear is that there are those who will become accustomed to seeing Herondale around the throne. So accustomed that they may begin to think of him being on the throne." He paused for affect as the last slice of daylight disappeared from the room. "You know what they do to deposed kings and their families." Valentine concluded with soft dread.
"That will never happen" Jonathan vowed in a low growl, dropping his hand to where his sword hung on his hip. "Besides, soon you can conclude this whole marriage business and pack him off to France again."
Valentine scratched at his beard on again, moving back to settle himself in his huge chair. His eyes grew clouded and thoughtful as though he hadn't heard his son's last words at all.
Jonathan tapped his fingers on the metal hilt impatiently, "If Herondale troubles you so much why not just get rid of him?"
Valentine slammed his goblet to the desk with a bang that set the whole structure quivering. "Did you hear nothing of what I just said? Why must you always be full of ignorant wrath boy! Have I taught you nothing? You must learn to think before you strike!"
The prince flinched at his father's anger and then scrambled to make some kind of amends. "I hear you!"
"Then answer your own question. Why is Jonathan Herondale still breathing?"
"Because there are those who would draw swords for him simply because of who he is." Jonathan began, trying not to stumble on his words. "He could persuade them to do things they would never have done if it were a Morgenstern who had asked them. That could be a valuable weapon. He could be a valuable weapon."
Valentine simply nodded to himself, suitably pacified. He lowered his chin and propped it up in his hand, brow furrowing. "The boy has crawled away from the doors of death more than once. I once thought that if I could simply orchestrate a case of the boy being in the wrong place at the wrong time, God would favour our family. Instead, the Lord saw fit to deliver him. Jonathan Herondale is evidently a weapon God intends for us to have. But how to use that weapon…" Valentine mused in an undertone to himself. After a long moment his eyes rose to Jonathan's once again. "I am the King of Idris. Some of my subjects love me and some of them hate me, but they all obey me. You know why that is Jonathan?"
His son nodded, looked Valentine squarely in the face and recited the first lesson he had ever been taught, the one he knew as well as the Lord's prayer: "Because they fear you, Majesty. And fear is more effective than love when you want to encourage obedience."
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