Chapter 7: Two Birds, One Stone.

Chatton House, Broceland, June 1536

Walking through these colourfully opulent rooms and hallways, it was not hard to see why this house had been the seat of power for the Dukes of Broceland.

After the first Morgenstern king, the current King's grandfather Jonathan VII, had seized the throne the remainder of the deposed Herondale family had happily departed the capital with a Dukedom. For the next century, they continued to live like princes in their palatial home here at Broceland. A king's ransom had been paid to dissuade any of the royal cousins from making a bid for actual kingship, money Jace's ancestors had happily gobbled up like the greedy fish in the garden pond. Mouths constantly gaping open in the hope of more.

Honestly, Jace could hardly blame them. What manner of man refuses the chance to enjoy the lifestyle of a king without having to shoulder any of the responsibilities? Archaic luxury in huge carved fireplaces and bare stone walls in the older parts of the building blended with modern decorations; patterned rugs, panelled walls, and pillars shrouded in gleaming gold leaf latticework. It made Chatton House every inch the palace.

If only it weren't so filled with ghosts.

Despite all of the tasteful comfort, Jace had only managed a handful of restful nights since they had arrived. His restfulness only accentuated by a troubling conversation with the house's present resident, Lord John Carstairs, the Earl of Chene.

They had been wandering the gardens after one of the King's meetings and Jace had politely stopped to admire the craftsmanship of the nymphs and other creatures carved straight out of myth and into the huge stone fountain at the front of the house. He had made the mistake of broaching the topic of the Carstairs's residence here.

"We are the guardians of Chatton House," the Earl had corrected him with a smile "We do not live here. I have my own house, Hendonne, just south of here for my family. The house my father built. Though my wife oversaw the recent refurbishments here, we never stay at Chatton here unless as a part of the court. To do otherwise- it would not feel right, nor honourable."

"Naturally, it is a royal palace." Jace had agreed quickly, sure that comment would close the conversation.

"Yes, but it is more than that. No Carstairs would pretend entitlement to what belonged to a Herondale."

Jace battled with his shock and finally managed a laugh. Better he made out Lord John's words were ludicrous. If he exhibited any approval, he would condone a statement that was dangerously close to treason. Jace needed to find the dark humour in it all or he'd go to pieces, "Surely a wise decision, since it is filled with dead men. Perhaps Chatton House is haunted. Most things belonging to the Herondales are. It is one thing to lose a crown, quite another to start losing heads. Divine will cannot get any clearer than that. Chatton is much better of with the master it has." Valentine.

Lord John's expression had held disappointment the. But what was Jace supposed to say? An excellent idea sir, let us seize the house and then launch a rebellion! For Herondale, the rightful King, hurrah! The thought alone was deadly.

Even forcing himself to stride confidently to the Princess's apartments later that day, Jace suspected he wasn't seeing what people expected him to when he looked around the timeless grandeur of the palace.

He did not see what he had lost, nor did he see something he might hope to gain. He merely saw everything he had been running away from for the past eleven years, evidently not fast enough.

Nodding to the guards at the doors, he stepped into utter chaos. There were women flapping about everywhere, carting dresses and jewels and furniture about and trying to stuff too many things into their trunks. One of them even flew past dragging a tiny, ferociously growling dog on a gilded lead. Jace hoped she stopped short of trying to squash it into her trunk as well.

Amid all the shrieking, arguing and fighting with lids and locks, the Princess herself seemed completely calm. She was perched atop trunk that had been successfully sealed and completely engrossed in the battered pages in her lap.

Jace approached, knowing better than to wait for a herald in this anarchy, and cleared his throat before her.

It took another cleared throat and then a lengthy wait during which the ambassador's limited patience was sorely tested before a pair of green eyes were raised to his.

"Excellence, I have it on good authority there is no room for any of your own gowns amongst my belongings."

Jace rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. Honestly, the damn women sapped away more and more of his professionalism every day. He needed to reclaim it and learn how to retain it around her if they were to pull this off.

"What are you reading?" He asked her.

She flipped over the book to allow him a look at the worn title page of Mallory's Morte d'Arthur.

"Ah, you seek courtly love, chivalry and romance?"

"One must find it somewhere."

"Your own courtly experiences are not what you expected, then?" Jace grinned.

"On the contrary Monsieur Herondale, they have been exactly what I expected," Clary peered up at sagely before snapping the book shut. "Anyway, I fail to see how the events at Camelot embody the spirts of either chivalry or courtly love. A queen unfaithful with her husband's most trusted knight? How romantic. Where is the true love supposed to be anyway? Guinevere and Arthur? Guinevere and Lancelot?"

"Even Guinevere did not seem know the answer to that."

The comment made the Princess laugh, bright little head dropping forward with mirth. Jace took a hasty step back and halted the spread of an accompanying smile of his own. He wasn't supposed to enjoy the sound of her laugh.

Her merriment subsided and she laid the beloved copy on the trunk beside her, folding her hands over her stomacher and made a show of appearing queenly. Jace had to stop the progress of another smile.

"So then, Your Excellence. I doubt you've come here to discuss the work of Thomas Mallory. You got my message?"

"Yes." Jace confirmed, bemused. He prided himself on not being easily shocked, but being cornered by Isabelle first thing in the morning and told that the Princess wanted to see him as soon as possible was unexpected. Not the King, the Princess.

"Forgive me the makeshift summons, I couldn't find an official messenger to spare." She flashed him another proudly impish smile. Both of them new perfectly well the last thing the princess was permitted to do was hold audiences, especially not with foreign envoys. "But I doubt there will be a better time," she gestured to the surrounding tumult of bickering and cramming, "This way I doubt we'll be overheard, everyone is far too preoccupied to even realise you are here." She sounded far too pleased with herself for Jace's peace of mind.

"You're interfering," he informed her, "How unacceptable."

"He says having responded. I must also note that you are still standing here."

"Curiosity is an exquisite downfall."

The Princess tucked a strand behind her ear and nudged the curved headdress in the process. She must still be adjusting to the business of jewel studded half-moon hoods. Clary struggled to hide a wince of pain and rolled her shoulders back, chin lifted. "I have a proposal with regards to your proposal. Or rather, that of your master."

Jace raised an eyebrow, inviting an elaboration. "I am seeking an alliance, and where better to look than where there is mutual benefit?" Now all traces of amusement were gone. The ambassador was drawn in earnest to whatever schemes the girl had hatched. Jace was on a never-ending journey of discovering what exactly lay underneath those pretty, russet curls. He feared he'd never complete the voyage to his satisfaction.

"What I am about to say must not go to your head, Herondale. Take it from me, that is quite big enough. And you are not solely responsible for my opinions."

"I am listening meekly, Your Highness."

"I favour the Duke of Brittany. Now, I am not stupid enough to presume that what I think or what I want in all these negotiations matter. But I fail to see my insignificance as a suitable reason to exclude myself from the proceedings entirely. I thought I might turn to you, the person who is King Francois's voice in all of this. The person who has, besides myself, the most to lose or gain from this marriage." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Just think, Sir Jace, a nice chateau in Normandy, coveted rooms at court…."

"Promising." Jace conceded, his inner haggler taking the reins, "But not convincing."

The Princess of Idris straightened up and appraised him. "Mayhap Lord Herondale then. And a chateau in Brittany to accompany the one in Normandy."

"And a town house in Paris to accompany my new coveted rooms at court."

"You know I don't have to agree to any of this. You'll make it your business to bring about the Dauphin's success with or without a Parisian townhouse."

"You don't have to buy my willingness to promote the French cause to your father, that is true. That is merely the immediate future. What happens once you are successfully wed and can call yourself Dauphine? You will find yourself at a foreign court where everyone is so very suspicious of your accent and the different way you dress. I could well be a lone voice of support for you then, Princess, and the closest thing to a friend you have. You may find yourself wishing I had a lordship. The higher I am in the pecking order, the more my opinion matters. The more useful I become to you.

'And, as Your Highness has agreed, I am quite capable of bringing this about by myself. I have the friendship of the Dauphin already, and with it the likelihood of advancement. So why would I require your assistance, Princess?"

Clarissa Morgenstern nodded pensively, "Your success is far from assured. I could help with that. The more lords in the Council chamber sympathetic to your cause, the better."

"You don't control a single lord." Jace deadpanned.

"No, but I do influence their wives and their daughters." Clary sent her eyes gliding around the room to punctuate her statement. "Moreover, you make the fatal male mistake: never underestimate the power a woman can have. Yes, the Dauphin will advance you but how far? He might give his good friend a knighthood. A bride whispering in his ear could guarantee his good friend a chateau. Or several."

"And a townhouse." Jace insisted instantly.

His new ally lifted the corners of her mouth in a placating smile, "Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen."

Jace nodded, grinning at the girl dictating orders and playing princes from her perch on a trunk of dresses. "You may enlist my help."

"We may enlist one another's help." Clary clarified briskly, jumping to her feet. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must go ensure my Cicero is not abused by this manhandling."

"Cicero?" His stunned question exploded as he whirled to face the dainty woman shouldering past him, "How the devil do you go from Camelot to Cicero?!"

Clary beamed at him. "You didn't imagine my thoughts were entirely devoted to knights in shining armour and damsels in distress, now did you?"

"Not for a moment," The ambassador muttered to himself at the sight of her fleeing to the defence of her Latin, shaking his head and making good his escape before Kaelie could corner him.

Jace's interest in her coy smiles and increasingly shameless vies for his attention was rapidly waning. All attempts to let Kaelie down gently thus far had been hastily surrendered in the face of her insistence, but Jace knew that sooner rather than later he would have to properly break things off between them. What he had seen as a harmless flirtation she had been viewing as a serious courtship. She didn't expect her husband to survive the winter, and she hoped to have a new one by Spring. Too late, Jace realised that she had caught sight of him and was dumping what seemed like a jewellery box on a nearby stool and was starting to hurry towards him. Jace turned on his heels and all but bolted for the door.

-000000000000000-

"Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen? Those are the exact words that were spoken by my sister to Jonathan Herondale?"

Aline Penhallow nodded, fidgeting on the spot before her Crown Prince. Even here, in the quiet corners of darkened hallways, one had to be careful what one said and to whom. The girl knew it well. The mixture of the cool, shadowed air and tension had her trembling faintly. "Yes, Highness. But there was a lengthy conversation, that was just the part I heard."

Jonathan Morgenstern was already striding away, "Believe me, my lady, you heard enough," He threw over his shoulder, beckoning impatiently for Sebastian Verlac to leave his cousin's shoulder.

Sebastian hurried to Jonathan's side, the feather in his cap bobbing along with his hasty movements, "I told you what she heard was useful!"

"The usefulness will depend on what we do about it, naturally."

Verlac waited, dark eyes fixed on the Prince's eagerly, "So what are we going to do about it?"

Jonathan and his companion marched out into the courtyard where their mounts waited, lowering the brim of his hat against the patches of sunlight breaking through the clouds. There was the unmistakable heaviness in the air and trace of rain in the wind that warned of a coming storm.

Jonathan paused by the side of his great bay stallion, mind whirling. This had to be done quickly and effectively. He doubted he'd get a second chance. Jonathan had two birds to strike and only one stone to hand. But he was beginning to see a way the field could indeed be cleared in one fell swoop.

Carpe Diem as his old tutor Master Starkweather was fond of muttering as he shuffled about in dusty robes, looking incapable of seizing anything. Appearances could be deceptive, for all his apparent harmlessness he was possibly the greatest mind in the kingdom and so Valentine had gone to great lengths to get the man firmly in his pocket. Starkweather, now advanced to the post of Lord Chancellor, was the ideal man for the job. He had all the genius to put the King's ideas promptly into action, and none of the integrity to voice any complaints.

That considered, Jonathan should really have known better than to take his sister at face value. The supposedly innocent and fragile maid hid her ambition and scheming well. Perhaps his sibling was not unlike him after all.

"My father has already departed, yes?" he demanded of the groom still clutching his horse's reins.

"Yes, Highness," the boy yelped in response.

Jonathan pushed his foot onto the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse's back with practiced ease. He gestured to Verlac, "You are going to find my sister and introduce yourself as her escort for the journey south. Then you will locate and send the French ambassador to me. We are going to divert our course slightly. Let's show my little sister the scenic route. I do think she's missing out, fond as she is of shortcuts. Clarissa ought to be in the care her brother anyway. One must be careful on the roads in these turbulent days."

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Oldcastle, Broceland Forest, June 1536

Hours later the stench of the soldiers still hung in the air. The reek of trailing smoke, churned earth and cluttering dust was far from unfamiliar to seven year old Tom, who had been dreading the visits for all of his short life.

There were still those who remembered a time when life had not been snatches of feeble peace between the army's calls, like Old Tom, his grandfather and namesake, who was constantly muttering about how 'it never used to be like this.'

But Mama was forever shushing him, and telling her youngest son she'd smack the living daylights out of him if he repeated so much as a word of the old man's grumblings. In Tom's seven years times had always been hard. It had gotten worse since Papa went off in search of better work in the city and never come back.

Mam had tried to keep things going as best she could. But she couldn't work the fields by herself, and none of the boys were old enough to help her. They'd been forced to let the land go and move into Old Tom's crumbling cottage. Mam had even swallowed her pride and gone knocking at the shut door of the Church, knowing that occasionally during the worst days they could be persuaded to give some relief. Not even Tom's sallow, grimy face and his mother's pleas had been enough to prompt anything beyond the excuse that "Times are hard".

Times were always hard.

Now, crouched as they were in the woodsmoke filled gloom of the small cottage, the family could only wait, foxes in the surrounded den, for the worst of it to pass. The soldiers were long gone, but the dust stirred up in their wake showed no sign of settling.

Mama poked the flames in the grate, trying to warm the usual gruel over them and making no attempts to quell Old Tom's mutterings. "They have us half dead as it is. If they start coming during the hungry months, soon they'll have no one to beat the taxes out of!"

His words drew another sob from Tom's elder sister, Sybilla, who huddled in the corner tearfully, her baby pressed to an empty breast. She cast another terrified glance at her husband beside her, who was stiffly pressing damp rags on his bleeding and swollen limbs. This visit had taken the last of what they had. By winter there would be another family crammed in the hovel.

The hungry months spanned the weeks between the crops of the last harvest rotting or running out and the beginning of the new one; they were the worst days of any year.

The soldiers knew that, and the King knew that. They should have known there was never any point in scouting out grain or money from the people in these months. Even if they did have anything, they'd need it themselves.

"Oh, but they need a dowry. To hell with us, the Princess needs a pretty wedding dress." Sybilla's husband croaked angrily, The courtship of kings and emperors is a costly business, see. Clarissa won't be leaving Idris with anything less than the fortune her new husband demands."

"They can't take what people don't have!" Tom started at the unprecedented savagery in his mother's tone. She never raised her voice or complained, no matter how bad things got.

"And I hear they tried to burn the mill! Seems those who won't pay their dues have to pay in other ways. Businesses that won't contribute enough soon find themselves out of business."

"Things will get good again when Papa comes back," Tom piped up to console poor Mama.

"Your Papa isn't coming back Tom," his mother told him bluntly, slapping her spoon against the side of the worn pot, "Even if he did, we couldn't feed him."

Tom stiffened and his grandpa prattled on. "But then what can you expect other than greed from a usurper!" A week ago those words, had Old Tom dared to speak them, would have been greeted by a horrified shushing. Today the silence that followed the outburst was one of grim agreement.

In the shadows cast by slumping walls and a patchy roof, all pairs of eyes glittered shared anger.

That was the danger of leaving people with nothing left to lose.

Last winter Tom had lost his little sister, Lott. He glanced around at his starving family, his weak siblings and the limp nephew Sybilla so desperately clutched. He wondered which of them would survive this winter. If any of them would.

The frantic beat of running feet outside broke the spell.

Mama seized up the poker and Old Tom struggled to his unsteady feet, the younger Tom diving behind him in fear. The battered door creaked open to reveal their neighbour Henry, peering inside and breathing hard. "Riders!" He panted out rapidly, "To the North."

"Dear God!" Sybbie whimpered, "Not again!"

"No! Not the soldiers. It's her. The princess."

For the longest time no one spoke, the quiet only pierced by Henry's hard breathing and the faintest whimper from the baby. The hatred surging within the room pounded in even Tom's young body.

Hours after her men tried to scorch the town, she thought she could parade through and showcase the pretty jewels and gowns Valentine's subjects were starving for? Without consequences?

"Bitch." Sybilla's husband spat with utter loathing from the floor.

Then he threw the rags aside and got to his feet.

-000000000000000-

Today seemed to be the day for Morgenstern sibling surprises. Watching Jonathan warily from the corner of his eye, Jace adjusted his weight in the saddle so that his elbow bumped against the hilt at his waist. He hoped it was an imperceptible movement.

Being this close to Jonathan would have been a frustrating and uncomfortable experience in any circumstance, but when the Prince was treating him nicely Jace just about managed to surface from his astonishment enough to want a sharp blade in his hands. Unfortunately, riding alongside the heir to the throne with bared steel was at best impolite and at worst illegal. Considering the King's unyielding determination to maintain his family's supremacy, Jace suspected that the latter of his assumptions was probably true. His hands would not move from the reins however much they wanted to.

Ever since they had set out from Chatton House earlier in the afternoon Jace had felt niggling unease like a fishhook in his gut. The bad feeling alone was enough for him to well and truly put his guard up. Being his own primary protector since birth, Jace had long ago learnt to trust his own instincts.

Oblivious to his companion's suspicious discomfort, Jonathan continued to chatter on about the various tutors and servants they'd had as children. "Do you remember that ass, was his name Midwinter? He used to try to teach arithmetic."

"No. He never taught me." Jace replied tightly.

As the two boys had gotten older their rivalry had intensified into true animosity. Nips in the nursery had turned into broken bones in the weapons yard. After an eight-year-old Jonathan had broken Jace's wrist for the second time in two years, the King had decreed they were no longer to share lessons.

Jonathan had been pleased. He'd always resented having to share his governesses and tutors with the traitor's son. Especially when Jace was in the habit of showing him up in front of those tutors, mastering the more advanced lessons the Prince was taking despite being younger.

Jace had made no effort to endear himself to the Prince's playmates either. Upon reflection, that was because he had always been alienated from the group of other young noblemen in the making who had been selected to be the Prince's companions. Jonathan's games had always been rough, oftentimes borderline sadistic given the things he could bully his acolytes into doing. Jace had preferred to be alone with his books. Besides, by that time the alternative of little Clary was there, babbling along beside the two older boys who fascinated her. While Jonathan had been quick to brush off his embarrassing, clinging little sister, Jace had significantly more patience for her. She'd adored him for it.

Even as a child, Jace had recognising that anyone else the Prince disliked was a good candidate for friendship. He had welcomed Clary's attentions, made up stories for her and invented games she could play on her own while the boys were studying. Perhaps friend was too far. In those days the age difference between the little girl and himself had allowed him to make her more his minion. He snickered to think of it now. While Jonathan Morgenstern had been surrounded by a crowd of adoring young men who would grow up to be the most powerful men in the land, Jonathan Herondale had a single supporter; a girl.

He still considered Alec to be the first real friend he'd ever had. Encountering another boy close to his age who had never met Jonathan Morgenstern had been a most heartening experience. Without the Crown Prince around to ensure he was only regarded as the court pariah, Jace had managed to secure himself a friend. As time progressed, Isabelle had managed to replace little Clary to an extent. Although, being slightly older and sharp tongued even then, Izzy had never matched Jace's previous standard of crony. Little Max would prove a far better worshipper as the years went by.

Jace's relationship with the Lightwood children had been the first thing Jace gained by himself. The first thing in his life that could not be taken away from him in a heartbeat on a whim of Valentine's.

Mayhap it had left him complacent. He was not blind, he saw the way Jonathan looked at Isabelle, as though she were a chunk of meat he wanted to devour. Nor was Jace oblivious to how often Alec had been at the Prince's shoulder in the days before his departure on a mysterious mission of the King's. Jace had been naïve to think there were things in his life that Valentine couldn't take.

Jonathan had given up any attempts at conversation by now. He urged his mount in a clipped trot onto a side road. Jace turned Wayfarer to follow without a word. In a corner of his brain, he wondered if Jonathan's separating the two of them from the rest of the court was stage one of his cunning scheme to assassinate Jace. Killing someone out of sheer dislike and a history of childhood quarrels was a real blow below the belt, even for Jonathan.

Jace bade himself not to be paranoid. Considering the rugged grey of the sky and the restless rumble of thunder in the distance, the leafy shelter of the alternative route was simply an attempt to avoid the coming rain. The Prince was sporting a rather magnificent hat, it would be a shame to see it ruined.

Jace loosened the muscles of his left arm and stretched the fingers on his dominant hand as subtly as possible. Even if this was a sinister plot and it came to a fight, he fancied his chances. Thinking back on the vicious blows exchanged in their swordplay practice Jace knew he had been a match for Jonathan then. He was surely a match for him now.

Eventually the path widened onto a hill with impressive view of the town beneath. Oldcastle, it was called, the largest town in the area. Named for the stone ruins of the ancient castle just a few miles away. Today the town was just a cluster of wooden buildings surrounding a squat stone chapel.

Not far from where they had halted the river Durre cascaded past the form of what could well have been a flour mill, currently cloaked in billows of black smoke.

"What happened there?" Jace demanded.

Jonathan ignored him, "Do you know why you are here Herondale? In Idris, that is." All traces of the previously affable companion were gone.

"Surely you have some idea of what my ambassadorial duties entail, my lord?"

The Prince laughed; his white teeth bared in what became more a gesture of hostility than amusement. "Let us try another question, shall we? This one I am sure you can answer adequately. Who stands to inherit the throne after my sister, in the absence of an heir from either of us? Suppose the two of us die today."

Jace's stomach jolted. Had he really been brought all the way up here to have his family disgrace rubbed in his face once again? "I suppose then it would pass to the last of Ithuriel's old dynasty bloodline. The Blackthorns?" Jace had never given much thought to his other distant cousins. They were far enough removed from the House of Herondale not to have been troubled by the Morgenstern rise, both politically and geographically, tucked in their estates around Lake Lyn. Unlike the remaining Herondales, the Blackthorns had never caused the new reigning family any bother.

"No Blackthorn has sat on the throne of Idris, and none ever shall." He pointed out to Jonathan frankly. The only cause your father could have for complaint is that Andrew Blackthorn has plenty of sons where he does not.

"Not the Blackthorns," Jonathan returned equally brusquely, "you."

Jace's body seized up as though he had been flung in an icy river. "Me?" His own voice echoed in his ears, heart pounding in his chest like a hammer at an anvil. "That cannot be, Your Highness. When my father died-"

"When the axe fell you forfeited your lands and title, not your claim. The charge of treason gave the crown the right to absorb your title and take away your duchy, but not your name. And not your bloodline. No one can deny you the blood that flows in your veins. King's blood."

He graciously gave Jace a moment to recover, who could well have looked ridiculous staring back at the Prince in shock and dread. "So let me ask you again Herondale. What are you doing here?"

"None of that matters," Jace finally managed gruffly, struggling to speak as tactfully as possible, "I have both you and your sister ahead of me, so it will never matter. Once I settle your sister's marriage to the Dauphin, as I intend to, it will matter even less because soon- God willing- she will have a son for France and Idris to succeed her if the need ever arose. Which it will not."

Jonathan chortled again, steering his horse towards the thin trail that led towards the town. Carefully picking his own way down the treacherous slope after the Prince, Jace failed to keep at bay images of his conveniently mangled body at the bottom of the cliff and Jonathan's oh-so sorrowful face as he addressed the King, "A most terrible mishap, Sire. Fell right off, neck broken instantly, there was nothing I could do."

Jace had to admit the fall was likely not dramatic enough to provide firm foundations for that fear. By the time he had fully mentally embellished his untimely death, they had already survived the descent.

Yet the ride into the town had no positive impact on Jace's threadbare nerves. Weaving through the streets as the rain started to fall, Jace noted a chilling emptiness and drawn shutters. His fingers twitched, still gripping the reins and longing for a blade in hand.

Something was very wrong here.

"Your Highness-" he began to voice his unease to his companion, but Jonathan quickly waved him back to silence. Now Jace could hear an ominous commotion up ahead. The noise he had mistaken for thunder was in fact a stormy din of stamping feet and yelling voices, punctuated by the occasional screech which could have come from a human or a horse.

Pulling up to another unanticipated halt, Jonathan stood in the stirrups, yanking the brim of his hat out of his eyes and staring down the broadening street with pure concentration. Jace noted that this must have been the main thoroughfare and passage through the town, his companion had exhibited uncanny foresight in choosing the alternative route.

A moment later the figure of Sebastian Verlac approached at speed, his cap askew and his ragged coat slipping down his right shoulder. As he drew closer Jace spotted an ugly black eye and bleeding lip. Sebastian was clutching his reins in one hand and flapping about a strange metal contraption in the other.

"Verlac," the Prince snapped, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Mobbed," the young lord gasped out through gritted teeth, "Like a pack- of rabid dogs- the lot of them! Run mad."

"You were mobbed? Then where are the rest of you? Where is my sister?" Jonathan demanded shrilly.

Sebastian tried to form a reply.

Dismay sank its jaws into Jace's heart.

Clary Morgenstern was caught in the midst of rioting peasants. A shrieking, braying mass that had lords in ripped clothing staggering and riderless horses currently galloping past Jace and Jonathan in a frantic bid for the open road out of the town.

Wayfarer danced anxiously under Jace; he turned his heels inwards to drive the horse half a stride onwards.

The arrival of a heavy hand on his shoulder made him whirl round to face the Prince so fast his neck muscles wrenched with objection.

"Leave it!" Jonathan snarled, black eyes flickering between alarm and something that seemed a mere stone's throw from elation. "Herondale, your embassy is over. Reconcile yourself to the fact and do it quickly, for the love of God, before the rabble is on us."

"We can't just- she is your sister! They will kill her!"

"Not necessarily." Morgenstern spoke swiftly and with intensity, shortening his sentences with urgency, but never once stumbling on his words. Almost as though they'd been rehearsed. "Abandon your current ambitions, for this opens the way to new ones. All they need do is dishonour her and my father is one heir short. With her virtue gone, Clary will get neither husband nor crown. She'll never be a queen. This forces Valentine's hand. You'll be acknowledged, titled probably. Your days of diplomacy are ended. You are now second in line to the throne of Idris. Congratulations. Now ride!"

Jace shook his head, his world whisked upside-down so swiftly and without warning that it was accompanied by a surge of nausea.

The sensible thing was to ride away from here. Jonathan was right, though it pained Jace to admit it. Moreover, it would not merely be shrewd but beneficial for him to ride away.

No more days of kissing monarch's rings and pandering to their pretentious and patronising commands. Jace Herondale would be a prince again. The diplomats would be kissing his ring. No more being treated like an insolent child, no more being laughed at and snubbed.

He had been raised as Valentine's second son after all. Jace ought to be finally recognised as such.

But at what cost? He could still picture Clary Morgenstern's delighted smile from atop a closed trunk, the hope in her laugh. The warmth and strength in her surprisingly sturdy body as he pulled her to him in a darkened closet. How her each and every thought played out across her open face, how the clarity in her gaze and the sincerity in her voice marked a glowing contrast to the vanity and falsehood that surrounded them at her father's court.

It was high time Jace admitted to the impossibility of shaking off his fond memories of an even littler Clary staring up at him and laughing faithfully at every one of his jests.

He met Jonathan Morgenstern's eyes once again. There was no plea there, he realised, just contemplation and challenge. This was a test, a simple one, and it did not matter to the young man beside him that his own flesh and blood, his only living sibling, was in the gravest of peril a few short streets away. Jace was the case in study.

Before he knew what he was doing Jace was dismounting. He shrugged his way out of his dusty coat to free up his limbs and cast it over Wayfarer's flanks. He tied the horse to a nearby post. He bound the worn leather straps loosely, deciding he was safe enough from horse thieves with the town's entire population seemingly elsewhere. And he would have to make a speedy exit.

Striding towards Verlac at a pace brisk enough to counteract any change of heart he nodded to the instrument in his hand, "What is that? Some manner of weapon?"

Verlac nodded, casting an appreciative eye over the contraption himself. "It's a gun.* Some Eastern eccentric business partner my father had took an interest in such things. He sent me this, says it can be shot like a cannon but from hand. He also predicts it will alter the shape of warfare, but the man's a lunatic. It would probably do the man wielding it more damage than the target. But no one else has anything like it!"

"Fascinating story," Jace replied blandly as he held out an expectant hand. "Give it to me before you hurt yourself."

"You do not know how to use it!" Verlac protested feebly.

Jace made no effort to curb the stinging impatience that had replaced the foreboding in his gut, growling at him urgently, "I suspect you and I are on much the same plane of knowledge with regard to your strange new weapon, my lord."

No sooner had Jace completed his scornful observation than the warm, sleek metal was in his grasp. He gave a gruff nod to Sebastian and turned in the direction of the commotion.

"I recommend you make haste, Your Highness, before the life of another royal is endangered." He called over his shoulder, not waiting for a response as he moved rapidly in the direction of the strife.

With such hurried progress it would have been easy for any such reply to have been misheard or misinterpreted, but it sounded as though Jonathan sneered, "Oh the Herondales, with their famous beauty and their famous honour" at Jace's turned back.

Then and his friend galloped off for the preservation of their own hides.

Jace headed into the fray.

-0000000000000-

Clary had lost all sense of bearings long ago.

In what had been either an exceedingly stupid or an ingeniously clever move, once she had realised that she was the primary target of the crowd's antipathy, she had swung herself off the horse and started to grope around for some sort of weapon.

Staying in the saddle on a horse close to white was making things a little too easy for her enemies, especially now they were throwing stones. Despite all those riding lessons she'd had with Luke of late, Clary had the feeling that even if she had managed to manoeuvre her way out from the wild throng, a gallop to safety would probably result in her falling off into their waiting arms.

Instead, she tried to conceal herself in the crush of angry bodies, fingers clinging to the leather girth and saddle so tightly that she could no longer feel them. Clary hunched her shoulders and curled herself into a body as small as possible, pressing her head down and fighting with her own slamming heart and ragged breathing.

She was going to die.

There was no point in screaming, for there was no one around to help. At the first raised voice and tossed pebble her supposed escort, Sebastian, had bolted and his men had all followed him. For Clary there had been no time and nowhere to run.

Hands jerked at her hair and yanked at her clothes while what felt like thousands of blows rained down on her.

The ferocious tugging at Clary's cape cut all the air from her throat.

For a terrible second she couldn't breathe.

Then the clasp holding her cape together broke, and the strangling pull on her disappeared. Before Clary could process any relief, there were more fists and grappling fingers in her hair.

The mob was an unstoppable tide and with each drag of the current the pins holding her hood to her hair were wrenched backwards painfully until at last the headdress too was pulled free. The agony on her scalp made Clary see stars.

This was too much. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She couldn't do anything but be dragged along in the riptide of fury and wait for it to be over.

Clary probably should have spared a thought for her poor mother and her wasted expectations. She could have considered her father and all his ambitious and now pointless schemes for her. But now that real danger was upon her, she couldn't do aught but panic.

As another well aimed blow to her spine sent a bolt of pain through her body, Clary felt her knees buckle. Instantly the terror disappeared. Forcing her stinging legs to straighten and hold her weight, Clary marginally loosened her grip on her horse.

She was the Princess of Idris, and the future queen of France, or Scotland or Austria or wherever the hell her father decided to send her! She was not about to die cowering behind her horse!

The blood of conquerors, perhaps even angels ran in her veins. Clary would not surrender without a fight.

Opening her eyes a crack, she forced one deep breath of air into her lungs and then another, slowly feeling the cool energy flow throughout her body. Her fury stoked up in her chest and spread a coursing, righteous heat with each decelerating heartbeat.

Clary risked raising her head high enough to scan her surroundings, blinking frenziedly past the raindrops coursing down her cheeks and clasping to her lashes. A merciful split-second gap between the scrambling, cursing flow of townspeople allowed her a glimpse at what seemed to be stone structure, not far to her right. There had only been one building of stone Clary had seen on the ride in and she had remarked on it; the church.

That was it.

She'd chance a sprint to the Church and once there she would claim Sanctuary.

Bold as these commoners had been to risk the wrath of their King in attacking his daughter, she suspected even they would quail at risking the wrath of God by spilling blood in His house. Clary had the right to claim Sanctuary on hallowed ground. Once she had done so none of them would touch her. After that- some kind of rescue party was likely already on its way.

Truly what happened next was of no consequence now. Clary's priority was to remove herself from her immediate danger. Clary released her hold on the mare entirely and flung herself headfirst into the rabble.

That they had not been expecting. She collided with body after body, but all of them seemed too stunned to lay a hand on her. Unfortunately, her element of surprise failed to last, before long she was being grabbed at yet again. Without pausing, Clary slammed her elbow into the face of one assailant and sank her teeth into the hand of another who tried to seize her from behind.

A punching limb smashed into her legs and almost drove her to the ground, but Clary writhed her way upright again, jabbing out with her elbows and kicking her way to the surface again. She forced herself to keep moving.

But it was becoming obvious that she was not going to make it to the church. Clary had sacrificed her meagre shelter in moving away from the shielding bulk of her palfrey. In blind desperation, she veered her course in the direction of what seemed to be a timber staircase of some sort, mayhap leading to a bell tower? Would that count as consecrated ground that might protect her? She simply had to hope it would.

She fought her way up the first few steps until that became futile as well. Slipping on the damp wood, Clary was easily caught and with her skirts trailing behind her there were ample handholds for the swelling rabble. She may as well be trying to swim to safety with pockets full of stones.

In a highly ironic reinforcement of that sentiment, an unscrupulously flung rock smashed into the side of Clary's head just as she completed the thought. A mixture of the pain and shock of the blow momentarily blinded Clary and her legs crumpled beneath her.

Her footing and balance gone; her body struck the wooden frame beneath her. Clary's breath was knocked out of her. Her vision blasted black, and when it returned the world swung about her, blurring horribly.

Even the racket of the mob had become distorted, as though it were filtering to her through the murky water from the bottom of a well.

No one was coming. Not her brother, not her father who was far away at his next house, not Luke who was with him. Not Simon or Isabelle, who were probably still near Chatton House with the baggage train.

Clary could barely feel the hands on her past the whirling pain and pouring rain. She was hardly conscious of someone pushing her skirts up or of the single bruised male face looming over her.

Then the whole world caved, with an echoing, shattering bang that might have been a roll of thunder.

She waited for the next blow, but it never came.

The crowd seemed to fall away from around her, even the man who'd been clutching at her so hungrily. With what sounded like a thousand pounding footsteps, Clary became aware of a someone new standing over her and a raised, indistinct voice that was somehow familiar.

Next she knew, she was encircled by strong arms, held tight with something hot pressed against her back. Clary felt her body being lifted. Then her vision blinkered again, and everything turned completely black.

-00000000000000-

*I am a little premature with my usage of the hand gun, or the pistol as it would be known. They word "pistol" first come into the European lexicon around the 1550s, with them subsequently becoming more common in warfare from the 1570s onward. I like to think Jace here has singlehandedly put back the development of weaponry several decades in his disposal of the prototype.