Chapter 6: Smoulder
Chatton House, Broceland, May 1536
Because Simon needed both his eyes, he decided to look at Isabelle Lightwood the same way one would look at the sun: not for any great length of time and never directly.
So far this carefully distanced admiration had gone unnoticed, not because Simon was particularly subtle (he feared the opposite were true) but simply because Isabelle would never spare someone as lowly placed and mundane as a musician a second glance.
This indifference hadn't wounded Simon in any way. He'd grown to expect such treatment from the nobles. And even if she was a serving wench, he still wouldn't have had a chance. She was too beautiful.
He could now perform his set well enough to avoid investing any real concentration in his performance, which left him free to allow a fleeting glance at her now and again. Just watching her walk through the room was enjoyable, thanks to that sultry little sway of her hips. Watching her sew was even more agreeable, because she would lean forward in a manner that complimented-and at times accentuated- her bosom.
Not that Simon was entirely shallow, but what could he do? The girl was a mortal Aphrodite and Simon was a seventeen-year-old with eyes.
Isabelle's beauty was not all he liked about her. He had watched her going about her duties as Clary's lady in waiting for almost a month now and she had made quite the impression on him. She was no falsely mellow maiden like some of the others and her head was filled with far more than ribbons and dresses. If she had something to say, she said it. If there was something she felt needed to be done, she did it. Feisty, practical and quick witted: she was everything Simon liked in a girl. It was all perfect, save one small complication: there was more chance of an invading army of rabbits conquering Christendom than Isabelle Lightwood ever returning his gaze.
Clary had noticed within days, of course. She hadn't actively discouraged it or betrayed him by telling Isabelle, but she hadn't encouraged it either.
"You know she'll run you through if she notices" was in fact all Clary had sing-songed cheerfully on the subject.
As though she were one to talk.
She was courting the company of that handsome ass of a French ambassador too often to judge the inappropriate imaginings of others. And Clary had the audacity to call it good politics.
Simon refrained from being too harsh on his friend. When the news arrived from England that their former queen had lost her head, Clary received it in a grey-faced silence. All she'd said on the matter was that it was what she'd expected, but it was obvious that she, along with the rest of Europe, was struggling to believe that an anointed consort could fall so easily and so spectacularly.
Simon was willingly led out of his sombre reflections by Isabelle's briefly chiming laugh.
This was not the first time he had invested such admiration in a girl.
For just over a year, he had been choosing the most unobtainable girls he could find to admire. Any stranger at all would suffice for him to toss his attentions at, starting with that young novice Marie at the convent of the Holy Cross and moving on to Anna the baker's daughter from the village.
Anything that would distract him from the way in which Clarissa Morgenstern had obliviously yet utterly broken his heart.
Nearly fifteen-year-old Simon should have known better than to fall in love with a Christian Princess who also happened to be his best and only friend. Sadly, Simon never had been very good at making sensible decisions. On one of those long summer afternoons when Clary could to run through the forest with him, they had settled themselves in a patch of flecked, leafy shade and Clary had confessed that she had never been kissed. Simon had pointed out that it was hardly surprising, she had been raised in a convent, and he hadn't been kissed either. Clary had pouted then, her stern little rosebud mouth sulking with her insistence that she wasn't going to be a nun and she was sure all other girls her age had already had their first kiss.
So commenced the first of their afternoon kissing lessons. Well, they had been more explorations than lessons, neither of them had known what they were doing. Really there had been naught but an awkward crushing of lips, some mumbled apologies, severe laughing fits and on more than one occasion banged foreheads.
Last summer had passed much the same as all the others had, only now Simon was more aware of how Clary had started to grow into a woman's body. And occasionally their normalcy was thrown over in favour of another kissing session. Over the months there were more and more stolen moments, stolen kisses and in the end a stolen heart.
Only one.
By the time the last hay season was finished Clary pulled away from him and told him with a laugh and a blush that it was too strange, like kissing her brother. Simon smiled back with hasty embarrassment and agreed. And that had been that. As far as he knew Clary had yet to find another subject to practise on.
He had patched himself up as best he could and told himself it was better that it had ended before it had started; a doomed love. He decided to heal himself by falling in love with someone else as soon as possible. Admittedly, at one point in the distant past this flinging-his-heart-at-someone-else- who-wouldn't-want-it-any-more-than-Clary-had strategy had been a failed attempt to make her jealous.
Things had progressed (or regressed depending on how you want to look at it) from there.
On the bright side, now that he had a new beautiful and unobtainable girl to pine after he also had a muse, therefore he was bound to become a successful musician. Isabelle's sweet apathy could flavour his songs for years if he kept this up.
Which is how Simon found himself gazing wistfully at her while she engaged Aline Penhallow in a not so lively game of cards one rainy afternoon. Isabelle adeptly shuffled the cards with nimble fingers before laying them out on the table. As she bent towards Aline each time she dealt a card, her bodice would meet the rim of the table. That the little gold and pearl crucifix dangling from her square neckline brushed the tablecloth, and plump curves of flesh were pushed upwards quite alarmingly.
Simon tried and failed to focus on the pendant. His fingers fumbled at the strings and then fell off them entirely. Beside him, Eric's voice quavered like a twelve year olds.
Guessing at the cause of their distraction, Isabelle's head whipped around. The dark waterfall of her hair rippled down her back at the movement and her eyes flared accusatorily. Dealing with the peril as tactfully as always, Simon panicked and flung his lute out of his arms.
What he intended to do next he wasn't entirely sure.
Throw his hands up in surrender and beg for mercy? Fling himself at her feet and worship her with his face squashed into the carpet and arms stretching across the floor?
Upon the unholy clang of his instrument striking the floor, the eyes of not only Isabelle but everyone else in the room were on Simon. He began to drown in a series of burning waves of embarrassment, falling to his knees and floundered after the instrument.
There was only one thing which could have made the situation worse and, naturally, it happened.
"I hope for your sake you play it better than you hold it. Otherwise, I would advise you to seek out an alternative livelihood."
Simon reluctantly lifted his eyes from a worn pair of boots to a distinctively superior gold gaze. Trying to quell the desire to warm the ambassador's head with the lute he had failed to reclaim at the cost of his dignity, Simon struggled against a scowl.
"I hope for your sake you speak to the Princess with more courtesy than you do me, otherwise you would need to consider an alternative livelihood."
Jace Herondale's eyes flashed dangerously, and Simon's attention caught in the silver hilt of the dagger that peeked out at him from the leather at the ambassador's belt. Before he could fully form an intelligible thought, or reach anything close to regret, there were a pair of hands at his collar and he was being pulled half a pace forward into the ambassador's face. "What did you just find the audacity to utter to me?"
Reliable as ever, when the danger got serious, Simon got stubborn. But, having filled his stupidity quota for the day, and recognising Herondale was much bigger than him, Simon's obstinacy stopped short of suicide. He remained silent.
To his surprise, Jace laughed at the lack of a forthcoming retort.
"Not as stupid as you look then. I'm afraid I don't have a moment to spare to knock some manners into you just now, commoner. If you think Clarissa Morgenstern's opinion of me will hinder any of my plans for her, you can think again."
"If you honestly think that the Princess will be mindlessly steered into anything she doesn't want, then you don't know who you're working with."
"Ah. The amusing little parrot has found his tongue again."
This is how it ends Simon thought dully as the fabric at his throat twisted.
Unexpected salvation arrived in the form of Kaelie Whitewillow. "Her Highness is not here," she informed the ambassador cheerfully, before realising her tone had been a touch to familiar and added "Excellency" a heartbeat too late.
Jace loosened his grip on Simon at the diversion and the musician managed to suck in a trickle of air.
"Where is she?"
"With the King" the little blonde informed him sweetly, "Perhaps I could escort you…?" The suggestion lingered in the air.
It was widely known in the Princess's rooms that Kaelie had an old and dying husband far away in some country estate. She had recently set her sights on a handsome young envoy as a substitute. As for Herondale, well Simon would wager he was hardly a model of either chastity or propriety and would happily succumb to such a dalliance. Having watched them flirt in these rooms when they thought no one was looking, Simon would even be willing to bet that they had already given into temptation.
A treacherous little corner of his heart rejoiced at the notion of Jace spending his sweet words and kisses on Kaelie, for then at least he wasn't Isabelle's sweetheart. Simon had nurtured fears to that effect ever since he had first laid eyes on the two gorgeous and haughty Frenchmen. Isabelle on his arm, Isabelle riding with him, pulling him into a corner for some passionately heated discourse; the sights had plagued him for weeks.
It would hardly be unexpected if it were revealed they had some kind of relationship. They had the same sort of fire about them. They moved and talked together as a team in a way none of the other diplomatic parties did, like they had been together for years. Which Simon had since discovered they had.
Nonetheless, there was something more profound than a political acquaintance between Jace and Isabelle and Simon simply prayed it wasn't romance. Now that the insufferable ambassador was courting another girl, that was no longer a serious fear. He still hated the man, of course, as it was plain to see that he thought himself God's gift to mankind and that Simon was just a piece of everyday dirt on his shoe. Being a nobody at court, Simon was used to being treated as barely tolerable, just one step up from a servant.
But the way that knave spoke to Clary? She was far from disposable, yet on more than one occasion he had watched his friend fly about her rooms in a temper because of something the ambassador had said or done. Simon knew how much Clary hated being treated as a bargaining chip that would be pushed from hand. That was exactly how the presence of the diplomats like Herondale made her feel. There was no need for Jace to so persistently add insult to injury.
Watching him drift off after Kaelie's cheeky smile and flicking skirts, Simon felt a fresh surge of loathing. Angrily, he jerked his clothes back into place after the tussle and met Eric's wide-eyed gaze. Simon must have coped with the near death experience in a more admirable fashion than he had thought.
Sadly, now that the confrontation was over the eyes of Isabelle and all the other ladies had flittered back to whatever feminine task had occupied them previously.
Which left Simon to retrieve his instrument from the floorboards and slip back into obscurity.
Without a noble's attention he was just an instrument once again.
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Clary rushed up the steps to the great hall and anxiously brushed a stray curl back over her shoulder. She cast a final review over the flaring skirts of her best blue gown and tried to compose herself.
Late as she was, she knew that her father would hate for her to arrive looking flustered. Her mother had impressed upon her all her life that a lady always kept her composure.
It was, sadly, the lesson she had always struggled with most. Arithmetic and Catechism? Very well. Languages and History? Easy. But Jocelyn had once told Clary that her face never could hold a secret. And she knew that of late she had been letting her emotions run away with her.
It was dangerous for any girl to let her feelings govern her, but in a princess it could be fatal. So, praying she at least appeared to be the master of her features, Clary neared the entrance to the hall and gave a nod to the doorman.
She lifted her chin and walked into her father's audience in what she hoped was an acceptable manner.
Each of her footsteps echoed off the tiled flooring as she approached the King. She registered the extravagant flooring clicking under her heels as she moved. Such brightly coloured patterns underfoot must have been expensive, she automatically associated painted tiles with churches rather than houses.
Aside from the ancient rooms of the Gard where the Kings of Idris resided before state ceremonies and made a concerted effort to display their wealth and power, even the floors of royal abodes tended to be wooden or carpeted. She hadn't realised that the Carstairs family, the current residents of Chatton house, were so affluent or prestigious.
Curtseying to her father she merely had a second to appreciate the glimmering patterns beneath her that her artist impulse longed to properly study. Valentine's hands cupped her chin as he lifted her face and bid her to rise.
Her father smiled at her as she straightened up. Thankfully, her tardiness seemed to have been overlooked.
"Clarissa." he offered by way of a greeting, tucking her arm in his, "Come here."
Thoroughly curious, Clary followed his lead.
For the very first time she could remember, she was completely alone with her father, save the men at arms outside the closed doors behind her. There were no lingering servants or hovering clerks nearby. Clary wasn't sure she was pleased with their new solitude. Ever since that awful outing with her brother she had been approaching the King with an increased trepidation. She had learnt the hard way that she should have been exercising the caution her mother had urged her to from the beginning with these men.
"I wanted to keep you abreast of the developments of your marriage negotiations."
Your marriage negotiations Clary corrected mentally. You are the one who wants the marriage, who will arrange it to your benefit and desires. I'm just the bride. She didn't voice any of her discontent, of course. But she did feel the smile slip slightly from her face.
Valentine failed to notice, pressing on with whatever meagre details he felt it necessary to provide her with. "After Cartwright completed his portrait of you I had it dispatched to your most likely suitors. The response was good. Very good." He continued, brimming with noticeable self-satisfaction, and his daughter could not quite dispel the mental image of a smug cat licking its lips.
Cartwright must have flattered her if these lords were eager. Clary knew from her looking glass that she had not inherited nearly as much of her mother's beauty as she would have liked.
"Because of the pressures from reformists both outside and within our borders it will have to be a Catholic prince. We must defend our Church and maintain its influence." Valentine declared, confirming what Clary had already known.
"Therefore, I have narrowed the field to three. I have procured a portrait of each in return for you."
Now Clary was paying full attention. One of the three men in the paintings before her would be her husband.
The thought sent her stomach lurching and nervous expectation throbbing through her. The past two months had given her plenty of time to reconcile herself with having to wed a stranger, and she had heard the names of those vying for her hand hundreds of times. But that was all these men had been to her. Names. Today she would get faces.
Rationally, Clary had always known that her father's marriage plan was real, but part of her had been able to go on thinking it was just a game, a feint, a pastime. The small swarm of diplomats clutching at her skirts and trying to drop a good word or two about this prince or that lord had all been quite amusing. But it had all felt a play pretend.
Clary corrected herself. This was indeed a game, just one with alarmingly high stakes. She was simply a piece on an intricate board of politics and power. Insignificant as a person yet priceless as second in line to the Idrisian throne.
These men were real people, and they wanted to marry her.
The King was still talking but Clary had gotten lost in the pounding tumult of her own thoughts, until Valentine moved closer to the canvases and towed Clary along numbly beside him.
"Firstly, we have Maximillian Hapsburg, nephew to the Holy Roman Emperor. He is not the Emperor's heir, but he is a Hapsburg- a member of the most powerful family in Europe. Any connection to them would be beneficial for Idris, both financially and politically. His father is King of Hungary, Croatia, Bohemia and Archduke of Austria." Valentine emitted a soft laugh, "One day the boy will have an impressive inheritance."
Father and daughter paused by the sketch of a young, round-faced boy trying very hard to look important.
Clary had to sink her teeth into the tender flesh on the inside of her lip to stop her bubbling laughter. Her father drew her onwards after a silence that had likely been intended for a moment of serious contemplation while Clary struggled not to double over cackling.
It seemed that in the King's eyes his daughter was better off only learning of the pros of each suitor. No matter, Clary knew the cons herself.
Maximillian, for instance, may be from the dynasty that ruled most of Europe. What her father neglected to mention was that a marriage to him would also mean a marriage into the Emperor's recently rekindled wars with France; a military expedition Idris would doubtless have to help fund at least, or worse, actively participate in if their snubbed neighbours in France decided to retaliate and send troops into their new enemy Idris. Clary hoped her father knew better than to provoke the powerful nation that they shared a border with. That wedding would virtually wage war on France, and that was not a war little agrarian Idris could hope to win.
Nor had it escaped Clary's notice that Maximillian was nine years old. She hoped her father had addressed this alliance first because it was the least likely; she had no burning desire to marry into the role of nursemaid. There was no way in Heaven or Hell she could take the Hapsburg suit seriously.
Clary was diverted from her amusement by the much more series threat of the slender, grave-eyed and bearded man in the next portrait. "King James V of Scotland" Valentine introduced him as, "As King of the Scots, a marriage to him would immediately make you a queen."
Weak case Clary reflected, without pity. True, she would be a queen but of a faraway northern country where she heard the weather was miserable. Moreover, James Stuart was constantly poking at his neighbour Henry of England by sending swarms of Scotsmen over their border. Meanwhile there were the rumours he was more seriously courting a French princess. Not that this was to be unexpected or even discouraged. There was no reason for James to exclusively pursue Clary when he too had other potential allies to consider. It would also be hypocritical of her to condemn him for it, as she currently perusing three potential husbands.
But unlike the youthful and charming Spanish and French ambassadors, the Scottish representative was a small, grizzled old man whom she struggled to understand when he spoke to her in his densely accented Latin. Plus, he smelt strange. He was not the sort of man that could make the prospect of living out the rest of her days in draughty castles and enduring harsh northern winters appealing. Clary was sure she did not want to be Queen of Scotland.
So that only left… "Francois de Valois, Dauphin of France, Duke of Brittany."
Clary allowed herself to look at this portrait properly, Isabelle's words floating back to her. "Very handsome," She'd said, "Easy to love."
Clary was not naïve enough to look for love in a political match, but a girl of almost seventeen could dream. She needed to hope for some happiness and affection in her marriage. Otherwise she would pitch herself off the battlements.
Before her was indeed a pleasant looking young man with broad shoulders, gleaming armour and what looked to be clear eyes and an honest gaze. He seemed regal, naturally, but not unapproachable. Until now, Jace Herondale had been the face of the French suit and Clary found herself scanning this strange prince's features and silently lamenting that he had a weaker jawline than Jace. Nor could she help feeling disappointed that his eyes were a boring and ordinary blue and that his nose was shorter and more snub than Herondale's longer, aristocratic one. Her prospective husband was nowhere near as handsome as his ambassador.
Clary took a quick step back from the oil painting. She was being ridiculous. Of course he looked nothing like Jace Herondale, why should he?
Francois de Valois, she mouthed to herself instead. She connected the name with the young man before her and banished any thoughts of Jace. She found that it rolled off her tongue quite nicely, befitting the detached but not altogether cold face that regarded her in return.
"As the eldest son of the King of France, he will one day inherit his father's kingdom, one of the most powerful on the continent. He is eighteen years old, just a year your senior. With his lands bordering ours and our faith and interests much aligned already, this alliance would be of mutual benefit. " Valentine paused again to allow the completion of her review.
Clary considered the unspoken drawbacks to the match. This marriage would still bring them into war, and the King of France was notoriously faithless in alliances. She'd lost count of how many times he had jumped between England and Spain over the last few decades. Not that he was to be especially blamed for only honouring a treaty when it was of immediate benefit to him, Clary suspected most kings acted thus. Francois was just more obvious about it.
Tearing her eyes away from the Dauphin's, she scrutinised the King. "Your Majesty, if I might ask, who do you favour?"
Valentine's lips quirked into a smile, "At the moment, I pledge myself to none of them."
Still anyone's game then, Clary pondered, but did not drop her gaze or the question. "You must have one you consider more closely than the rest."
"Not necessarily," Valentine remained evasive as he tucked Clary's arm back under his. "Is there one you suspect as being preferential Clarissa?"
"The Dauphin." Clary answered immediately.
"How so?"
Clary tried to order her thoughts, unsure if she could explain them, uncertain that she should. Was her father really the sort of man who would take her personal feelings into consideration? She doubted it, but a little thread of hope began to unfurl inside her.
Clary did like the French suit best.
There, now she had admitted it to herself she could act on it.
"You have had several audiences with the French ambassador this week, more than you have had with the other envoys. You favour Lord Alexander and keep his company. And geographically speaking, the advantages to that match are more immediate." And he is the one closest to me in age, and closest to home, and I already speak the language. France is the most similar to Idris. Please don't send me far away to a country whose customs and people I will not understand.
Valentine's only response was to nod as his smile grew. "A girl with her eyes open," he mused. "Each possibility brings its own profits Clarissa," he added at length.
Then he turned away from her, back to the row of princes.
"We shall have these removed to your presence chamber" he announced, peering at the portraits with a secretive smile, as though there were some joke here that he alone knew the punchline to. It certainly set his daughter on edge again, Clary could feel the waves of foreboding tugging at her as she contemplated her father's contemplations.
"And we can dismiss the outstanding diplomatic parties. We only need these three to proceed."
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Thoughtfully, Jonathan Morgenstern tipped his weight on his elbows and pressed himself against the smooth marble balustrade. Peering down from his vantage point on the balcony he watched his little sister scurry along the gallery on the King's arm, inclining her head upwards to catch whatever it was Valentine had to say.
The young prince watched the duo's progress with a peculiar sizzling in the pit of his stomach. Meetings with Clary and not me, Father? He brooded as Valentine's silver head and Clary's copper one slipped out of his peripheral vision.
What on earth could his father have to say to her that was so important it had to be done in complete privacy behind closed doors?
Rattling his fingertips against the creamy stone and delving deeper into his turbulent musings, Jonathan discovered he was struggling to keep his temper buried. That would never do, the King was always so critical of his rages.
Why then does it take an explosion of wrath to get your attention father? The best reaction I can hope for from you is exasperated disappointment before being banished back into exile.
Jonathan's father had always seen discouragement as the best method of encouragement. In many cases, it worked. Valentine had curbed the discontented mumblings of the commons, and the well-used scaffold on the Gard's green kept the nobles reluctant to engage in any hostile action.
If only that policy could have claimed the same success with his son.
In recent years Jonathan had decided to give up bending over backwards for the parental approval that would never come; if his father would never be impressed by his pathetic bids for a simple gesture of approval then he may as well indulge in the savage satisfaction of watching Valentine's anger. The end result was only ever going to be displeasure and condemnation. Jonathan may as well be damned for being himself rather than the faint ghost of the heir his father wanted.
The heir his father wanted.
Valentine had always hated him, and Jonathan knew it. But until recently, he had lived happily in the bubble of thought that the King's personal hatred would never touch his position at this court.
Until a month ago, Jonathan had believed his title was unassailable, his person completely untouchable. He was Crown Prince of Idris by virtue of his birth. Nothing and no one could ever change that. Whether Valentine loved or hated him, he was his one and only son. Only Jonathan could succeed him as king. That was his birth right.
His father had never been one to let his lovers or enemies dissuade him from the course of what he perceived to be his duty. He had gone to great lengths to impress upon Jonathan that the Morgenstern name and legacy was paramount. It was Valentine's duty to preserve and forward his line, namely by ensuring that when he was called from this world his crown of Idris rested on the brow of the only surviving male Morgenstern.
Besides, what other option did Valentine have?
Until now, the only other living Morgenstern had been a forgotten girl.
Forgotten by King and Council, mayhap, but never by Jonathan. He had held fast to his garbled recollections of a little freckled face demanding to go wherever he went. He had allowed himself to nurture the hope that his sister would prove to be another Morgenstern disappointment, that they would have this and much more in common. He would never admit as much out loud, but he had been so sure that when his sister came to court, he would at long last have someone who properly understood him. Someone who would be just like him. That he would no longer have to weather the storm of his father's disillusionment alone.
Again, foolish. For weeks Jonathan had felt the imposed distance between himself and the King grow. Each time Valentine's eyes rested on him with a preoccupied glaze, or he was tactfully swept out of a royal meeting, Jonathan could practically feel hundreds of potently indifferent hands shoving him away from the throne and his future.
Do you really hate me so much father? The Prince questioned of no one, leaning over the stone barrier and contemplating the ornate ceramic floor far beneath him.
Then he grinned to himself, holding back a bitter chortle. I suppose there is no limit to your hatred, not for me.
After so many years, Valentine's cold abhorrence of his son left Jonathan burning.
It seemed his father had recovered of late, having found the perfect consolation in the form of his reclaimed daughter. It must be thoroughly thrilling, having Jocelyn restored to him through in some way. Thrilling enough for him to schedule unannounced meetings and sneak off to see Clary in secret. God knew what they had to discuss. Jonathan was willing to wager it was not the weather.
Having despaired of finding a kindred spirit in his younger sister, Jonathan was now keen to see her packed off with a ring on her finger. Preferably as far away as possible from their father's guilty affections. But the thought of Clary as someone's wife far away was no longer as comforting as Jonathan would have liked.
The image of her perched on a foreign throne was not a pleasant one, especially when one contemplated the nameless, faceless monarch at her side. What man with an ounce of ambition cherished a wife breathing down the neck of an unpopular heir and did not think about giving his beloved bride an encouraging shove forward to claim him another crown?
Jonathan's hand flew to his waist and gripped the hilt of his blade. In that unhappy turn of events, he would be reliant on Idrisian reluctance to be governed by a foreign power to lend support to his own cause.
Yet with all things considered, Valentine was hardly rushing to get his daughter to the altar. Jonathan had lain awake for many nights trying to decipher what it was about all these marriage negotiations exactly that made his hair stand on end and sent his gut twisting.
Something wasn't right here; he could sense it.
Adding to these worries was the reappearance of Jace Herondale in Alicante. Now the previously undisputed succession of Jonathan Morgenstern was shadowed by the return of both Valentine's adored daughter and his once preferred son. The observation set hot, stinging envy writhing through Jonathan's system and his temples pounding in the quiet of the empty gallery.
No one drifts out of relative obscurity at twenty-one to take the frontline on negotiating a royal marriage, even if they were technically a native. Suspicion had been forefront in his mind since he'd first glimpsed Herondale's head bent over Clarissa's petite hand for the necessary kiss.
Jonathan had been right. Smoke equalled fire, though today's discovery had given him absolutely no satisfaction.
The Prince decided to seize Valentine's discreet meeting with his daughter to deploy his own investigation in the King's abandoned rooms. During his search through some papers in Valentine's cabinet he had found exactly the sort of thing he had been looking for and prayed he would never find.
A letter from France, marking a willingness to adhere to the wishes of the Idrisian King which were so explicit: Jace Herondale, ambassador in Idris by special request.
Jonathan clenched the fist that wasn't resting on the harsh metal of his knife. What the devil was his father playing at? And why in hell did it all leave him floundering in dread?
The only reason he could command wealth and live a life of pleasure-the only reason he could command the company of dozens of well-bred and rich friends- was his royal inheritance. It would all be worth it then, his mother's absence and father's hatred. Jonathan could excuse and bear it all, if it meant that in the end he had some great destiny. That he would rule.
Without the crown Jonathan would have no followers, no admiration, no future. For the boy so completely alone in the world and loathed by all those who ought to love him, the promise that he would be King was all he had in the world.
He would do anything to ensure it.
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Canal Street, Alicante, May 1536
Alec wasn't sure what it was he had been expecting, other than it had not been this.
The name Magnus Bane and the reputation of the person who was said to be the richest man in Alicante conjured the image of a grey bearded and stern-faced old man who had committed his life to making a fortune and was determined to keep it all in his miserly twilight years.
That was the sort of self-made man Alec was accustomed to. So to find his barge bobbing and scraping to a halt outside a magnificent townhouse and struggling to find a place on the crammed waterfront to dock was, to put it mildly, a surprise.
On closer inspection it seemed that every window in the house was illuminated, and each pane tossed out coins of glimmering, dancing light on the surface of the trembling inky canal water.
From the open doors a raucous cacophony of laughter and shrieks echoed into the stars, a racket abundant in the kind of hedonistic mirth that only the very wealthy can afford.
"Right Midas this one," the boatman muttered himself as he worked furiously on the ropes.
Alec longed to order the barge to turn around and take him back to where the horses waited and then to gallop back to the court at Broceland and forget the whole endeavour.
He dared not. He pressed his right hand to his belt, where the letter and package from His Majesty sojourned in his purse.
In his present state of mind there were two kinds of scenario Alec wanted to avoid. The first, and one that had always been the case, was any kind of social gathering. With his awkward fumbling phrases and perpetually surly face Alec knew for a fact he was never to be the life and soul of any party. He had long ago committed himself to sticking by Jace's popular shoulder and letting him exude enough charisma for both of them. Generally, Alec clung to the outlined etiquette and kept his interactions strictly, he was a brutally honest and shy courtier. Irony was not good to him.
Secondly, given his current and secret dilemma the last thing he wanted to deal with was anyone as disgustingly wealthy as Magnus Bane and this party guests.
He supposed he could come back later when the place wasn't crowded with drunken revellers, but it had taken a great deal of self-bullying for him to summon the will to come here at all tonight. Moreover, he was on a time-sensitive mission. King Valentine had instructed him to re-join the court in a matter of days. Not to mention Alec dreaded to think what sort of trouble Isabelle and Jace could get up to in his absence. The sooner he got this little mission over and done with the better.
Tightening his shoulders brusquely, Alec paid the ferryman and stepped off the boat.
He marched up to the nearest door trying to make himself look as purposeful as possible and brought his knuckles firmly to the wooden frame. It veered open upon the contact.
Apprehension rising, Alec nudged his way around the unlocked, open thoroughfare and encountered who he supposed to be the doorman, slumped against the wall. Drunk, with a wineskin drooping in his hand and leaking pattering, garnet like drops onto the floor. The poor fellow slurred what could have been a greeting, but Alec did not linger to converse, pushing his way further into the house before he lost his nerve altogether.
It seemed the entire house had been constructed to mock him. Everywhere Alec turned affluence struck him. His feet encountered exotic looking rugs, the walls were panelled with glossy wood and gaudy plaster, and at one point Alec turned a corner and found himself face to face with a painting he could have sworn was a da Vinci. Each table was piled with pewter plates and every candelabra his eyes touched upon was towered with beaming candles, the base of every one of which was draped with jewels, real jewels. Pearls, diamonds, emeralds, rubies and gold and gold and gold.
Not that the ostentation of Bane's glorious hacienda could have known the dire state of the Lightwood family finances, but it nonetheless felt a personal slight that anyone could go so out of their way to prove that they virtually breathed wealth. Stomach rolling alongside the wild climbing music, Alec struggled through the tide of eager guests and forced himself not to gape like some peasant boy encountering money for the first time.
Although the life of a peasant boy may well be his future.
Stop that he chastised himself, untangling his body from a very determined and very drunk young women who clung to his sleeves and spilled her drink all over him. All could still be well. His parents had managed to conceal the growing canker of their poverty thus far.
But the facts remained; his mother's inheritance was running out, while his father's debts to the King of Idris were growing. With his wife no longer speaking to him, Robert could not hope for her intervention with her native monarch. The Lightwoods were dangerously close to desperation and the last thing they needed was Valentine Morgenstern calling in his loans.
Hence Alec had been informed of their plight and told that he needed to accompany Jace to Idris. The heir to Adamant needed not just to prove himself useful to the King of France, but to curry the favour of Valentine too.
For more often than not, the kind of royal goodwill that came with a successful marriage alliance was followed by advancement. And with advancement came lands and much needed money.
If only Alec could confide in someone, anyone. Tell his sister why it was so important she make a respectable marriage to a wealthy husband, and soon. Or to enlighten Jace as to why he was adding to the pressure on him to bring the desired royal wedding about. No, his mother had been most clear: the easiest and most effective way of keeping up the pretence that all was well, was ensuring the rest of the family genuinely believed all was well.
God. Alec needed to find Magnus Bane and get out of here quickly, before he lost all integrity and started to smash up the exquisite furniture or cram his purse full of the scattered jewels and bolt for the exit.
Finally cornering a man with a deplorably crooked cap who seemed to be the closest Alec would get to a sober person on the premises, the young lord gave him a firm shake. Raising his voice above the clattering and cackling of the senseless celebrations, he announced "I'm here on the King's business!" He waved the royal seal on the letter before his acquaintance's alcohol clouded eyes, " I'm looking for Magnus Bane."
"Over there," the fellow gestured with a tremoring hand, "Don't expect him to be receptive, he won't want to talk business mid-party."
"He'll talk business" Alec insisted gruffly. He strongly suspected a man with Bane's economic success had a nose for money. And everything about Valentine's assignment smelled of a large payment. Shouldering his way back into the fray, Alec crossed the room to where he had been directed.
He finally got a glimpse of the mythical Magnus Bane.
From all that he had heard in the tendrils of gossip surrounding Magnus Bane, Alec had dismissed over a half of it as pure fantasy. The man seemed to have made his fortune through a number of worthy investments, trading in spices, wool, strawberries, silk and much more. The eclectic mix of merchant connections with a number of indistinct dealings with court nobility had evidently paid off.
Paid being the operative. Magnus's sudden soar to money and influence had captured the imagination of Alicante's population, Alec had heard of Bane's links with several murders, dozens of spells and magic, and many illicit and financially beneficial affairs.
The man now lounging in front of Alec was both extremely ordinary and extraordinary in equal measures.
Long limbed, dark haired and tanned, there was nothing about his basic appearance that suggested this was the man who had so many tongues wagging on the city streets.
Then again, extraordinary because he was a man that could not have been more than halfway through his second decade. He was dressed in an extremely bold shade of pink, lengthy limbs draped languidly across the armrests of an ornate chair while long, tapering fingers glittering with coloured rings played with a chain of opals and gold around his neck. He appeared to be in the middle of an intense struggle to dislodge the beautiful young women resting in his lap. She was not wearing anything other than a pale chemise, smooth white shoulders coated only by her light blonde ringlets.
"Magnus Bane?" Alec questioned, abruptly self-conscious that his dull black attire stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the guests. He averted his mortified eyes from the lady's state of undress.
"Depends on who's asking," The host answered in perfect French, with the edge of an accent Alec could not place.
"The King of Idris." Alec tried to declare confidently.
A single dark brow rose and a gold and green flecked eye glittered. The dancing hazel gaze fixed on him sent a peculiar fizzing through Alec's veins.
"Not unless he has drastically changed his appearance in the last year."
"Er- no." Alec blundered, "I- you- we- no." He forced some air into his lungs and tried again. "I'm the King's representative."
Magnus Bane smiled in response, showcasing a set of unusually gleaming white teeth, though there was no trace of mockery in the grin. "I know that. I also know that I am not in the habit of leaving a perfectly good party to talk about work. They say mixing business and pleasure is a grave mistake." He waved away Alec's protestations before he could voice them, "But then again I am helpless against the allure of a grave mistake. And for those blue eyes I'm more than willing to make time."
Alec's breath caught in his throat and heat pooled in his cheeks. Thankfully Bane did not seem to expect a response.
Instead, he nudged the girl in his lap, "Shoo, Camille. Hear you not that I have important work to do? And you are making the king's man uncomfortable. I fear no one here is interested in what you have to showcase."
The blonde made no move at all, "You'll regret this later Magnus," she claimed in an amorous voice, trailing her arm down his.
"Later is later. I'll deal with it then. I daresay you will find another victim for your attentions somewhere here."
Camille rose from her perch with a surprising amount of grace considering she was half naked and pirouetted to face Magnus once again. Alec longed for the sweet embrace of death upon the very personal conversation the couple continued to have in front of him. "You cannot expect me to come running back next time you find yourself in an empty bedchamber."
"I know, it is just that I no longer care."
The affronted woman spun on her heel, gliding off after a single predatory assessment of Alec. Probably in search of what Magnus had aptly termed another victim.
Once she was gone, Alec struggled to recover from the mortification of what he had just witnessed and fought against making eye contact with Magnus, painfully aware of how far he had infringed upon the man's privacy.
"Fear not." Magnus told him in a low rumble, fetching a wineglass, filling it and then passing it over. Alec took the offering gratefully. "Lady Belcourt thrives on the drama of it all. And, if we are to be honest, I am not averse to the attention either. Her only regret from tonight will have been that she did not get a larger audience for her latest grand exit from my life. Hopefully this performance will have appeased her enough to keep her away for another five years. One never knows with her. It truly is exhausting, all of this breaking and never mending anything."
"Lady Belcourt?" Alec had no recollection of having encountered her at court.
Magnus gave him a vulpine grin. "Not of the kind of lady you are used to."
Alec refrained from mentioning he was not used to the company of any lady, nor did he ever expect he would be. He didn't know what to say beyond that which would be grossly inappropriate (more so than parading around in one's undergarments) and also had the possibility to stir up a great deal of trouble.
He retreated to the safety of his duty and handed the letter and package over. "From the King. I believe it is some kind of payment?" Bane barely glanced past the wrapping before nodding to himself and turning to the letter, "And my next charge." Then he tossed them both to one side and fixed his attention back on Alec, "If I might ask the name of the messenger? Charming as Blue Eyes is it is a tad too casual for one I do not have the honour of knowing."
"It may not be worth knowing" Alec said with a nervous laugh, completely unaccustomed as he was to this sort of attention from any man, especially one as good looking as Magnus Bane, "I am, as you say, just the messenger. But Alexander Lightwood. Alec."
"Well then, Alexander," God his name sounded so exciting, so sensual on Magnus's tongue. "You can tell whoever is returning to His Majesty that he will have all he asks for, as ever. My southern abode is at his disposal, as he requests. I will leave tomorrow and ride there in order to make the necessary preparations for his stay."
"You're heading south? To join the court?"
"You didn't read the letter?" Magnus sounded genuinely surprised.
"Of course not. It was addressed to you!"
"There are very few people that would have stopped. My God, a courtier with a sense of honour, who would have guessed?"
Alec fidgeted slightly, "I only meant that if you are going to join the court's progress then we could travel together." He felt hot colour bloom in his cheeks, down his neck and into his doublet. "I am going that way too. I am the person riding south. I'll understand if you do not want to-if there are other…"
Magnus smiled at Alec as though his stammering and embarrassing attempts to gain his company were somehow endearing.
"Alec, I would be honoured."
Alec spared a moment to wonder how he was supposed to keep up an entire journey of conversation when simple sentences confounded him, but then some words from earlier came floating back: Later is later. I'll deal with it then.
He was so sick of fretting about every potential consequence. He thought, for once, he could try living in the moment.
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