Chapter 8: State of Play
Road to Durre Manor, Northern Lakelands, June 1536
Clary Morgenstern felt surprisingly good cradled against him. Her head propped nicely against Jace's shoulder, the rest of her tucked neatly between his chest and Wayfarer's neck. A more fanciful man might have imagined that they fit perfectly together.
Thankfully, Jace was a realist.
More than that, he was a realist who had lost a perfectly good hat and coat in the midst of a reckless rescue mission that had certainly not been part of the job description. Much as Jace despised small print, he was sure he would have remembered if dealing with rioting peasants had been stipulated in his letters of introduction.
Heaven help him, if the Dauphin didn't marry her now he'd be the next one rioting.
At least the fresh bruise on his cheek was sure to make him appear even more dashing.
Things had indeed taken a particularly ugly turn in Oldcastle. Jace dreaded to think what might have happened to Clary had he not intervened. He was still wracked with aftershocks of the terror he'd felt watching waves upon waves of enraged bodies tussling and clashing and not a single princess in sight. By some miracle, Jace had decided to mount a pile of barrels seeking a vantage point at the same time Clary had the good sense to seek higher ground. His relief had been short lived; there was a group of particularly sinister looking bastards hot on her heels. And there was no way Jace was going to get through the crush quick enough to help her.
Just as she hit the ground, he'd remembered Verlac's new-fangled weapon, panicked and taken aim.
Like a canon used by hand, he had been told. Jace had absolutely no experience with canons, but then again, he had no experience of riots either. He'd pointed at the base of the steps Clary had tried to climb, not intending to actually harm anyone, and fired.
With the benefit of hindsight, Jace could see that his actions had been utter idiocy. But this particular instance of his idiocy had been blessed.
The blinding flash of light and combined scorching heat of the device made him almost drop the damn thing. Luckily, Jace's burnt fingers retained their hold, but the weapon's resounding bang had more of an effect than had been bargained for.
The small metal ball the contraption contained flew out, struck the wooden frame and left a blackened mark on the timber. From there, it ricocheted off the steps to hit a barrel of fish which promptly exploded.
Jace's stomach had dropped like he'd swallowed an anvil. Fortuitously the explosion had a similar effect on the. With a panicked outcry, the crowds leapt out of the way of the twitching sea life.
And once the source of the new uproar was traced, all eyes were firmly on Jace.
He must have looked thoroughly demented, wielding his mysterious, unpredictable weapon and crying threats. But he'd been able to cut through the once tight packed crowd like a knife. Not a great deal of acting was required; the pain in his hand and sheer panic burning within him had lent speed to his feet and seen him to Clary's side in heartbeats.
The rest of the escape was a blur. Jace swept Clary into his arms with ease, thinking that a life of holy austerity at her convent had been kind to her because she weighed almost nothing. Then he charged through the frightened mass still spitting curses and declaring the wrath of God and Satan (and if he wasn't mistaken at one point in his wild fright Michelangelo) upon the townspeople for their violence until he reached an unconcerned Wayfarer, who was chewing on a patch of grass.
He'd galloped out of Oldcastle before the locals could discover Michelangelo was not a threat.
Though the worst of the danger had passed, Jace found he felt no peace as the distance between them and the town increased. Not because the two of them on an open road he felt vulnerable; courtesy of the King's harsh penalties for road theft there were very few bandits on the highways. Truth be told, Jace was growing more and more concerned that Clary did not wake up. Once they were at what he judged a safe distance from the trouble, he gratefully slowed Wayfarer to a walk and inspected her properly.
Her gown was torn in several places, her hair was dishevelled. Clary's throat was ringed with angry red splotches, not unlike some of the burns that kitchen maids gathered on their arms.
The most frightening wound remained the cut at her temple. Most of the blood had dried to a rustier colour, pasting dark auburn tresses to the side of her face.
Dabbing at her face with the corner of his sleeve, Jace wondered if it was a threat to her life. That was the fear that kept his heart flying and his breaths shallow; the fear that she could die despite it all. Because of what it would mean for his embassy, he insisted coldly to himself.
Clary's eyelids fluttered agitatedly. A glassy green gaze fell on Jace. "Princess? Can you hear me?" Jace demanded, his voice unforgivably panicked. She muttered something incoherent. At the poor response something within Jace, some final cord of restraint broke once and for all. "Clary?"
"Jonathan?"
Of course. Her brother. It was but natural for her to look for her brother in times of trouble, when she was so distressed. "Nay. It is I, Jace. Jace Herondale. The arrogant Frenchman. The horse thief."
"Jonathan, don't leave me!" She insisted blearily, moaning slightly and pressing her eyes shut as though the light hurt them. Jace drew her closer, as though holding her tighter could ease her pain. Seeing the usually confident princess so vulnerable filled Jace with a startlingly powerful urge to protect her. "All is well. I am taking you home Clary, you are safe now. You are safe with me."
Even now, stained, bleeding and dirty as she was, he was able to see the edges of beauty on her delicate features. Some of the roundness of childhood lingered on her face, but it was unmistakable that the small, straight nose, neat mouth and sharpening cheekbones that made her pretty now would soon see her grow into a beauty. Though her fair lashes and dusting of freckles excluded her from the measures of traditional beauty, Clary remained captivating. The imperfections made her more endearing. Knowing the lively spirit this face held that made him want to keep looking at her, to appraise as he would never have dared were she awake.
Under his study the Princess's lids continued to twitch, and her lips trembled, another soft groan escaping her. Jace straightened in the saddle; he did not have the time to stroll along and judge her appearance. She needed a physician and quickly.
There was just one more matter to deal with. Propping her against his other shoulder and loosening his left arm's grip, Jace pulled the devilish contraption of Verlac's from the leather confines of his belt tentatively. Handling the gun warily, he moved Wayfarer to the water's edge. He was half expecting the thing to explode again and blow them both to Kingdom Come.
Sucking in a single bracing breath, Jace flung it out into the river as far as he could, tarrying only long enough to watch the silver metal melt into the sleek ripples and out of view. Satisfied that it was gone, he nipped Wayfarer's sides with his heels and started to canter south again towards his destination. He would have Verlac to write to his mad inventor and tell him the prototype did not work. It had come to Jace's attention that these gun things were damn dangerous.
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Clary's dreams were confusing and frightening.
She was convinced there were monsters everywhere trying to get her, like the demons in the painting of Hell Dr Fell had shown her in the church. She flew upright in a strange bed, floundering about in the thick, weighted darkness with her breath coming in sharp, harsh pants that hurt her throat.
She wanted Mother.
She needed to get out of the bed and go find her nurse, but she was sure that if she put her bare feet to the floor the demons under the bed would grab her. Her stalemate of terrors left no remedy, save bursting into tears.
Clary hated crying because Mother was forever telling her princesses were strong, and her brother always called her weak and stupid for spilling tears. His taunting words had sobered and strengthened her. She had borne all of Jonathan's pinches, tricks and taunts since with dry eyes, no matter how much her chest ached with swelling sobs. But the disorientation and fresh distress of her nightmares made her usual self-control impossible.
Little Clary wept.
Normally any such noise from her bedchamber would bring Mrs Lewis running, but no matter how hard the small princess cried her nurse did not come.
Finally, the door of Clary's bedchamber was pushed open, dropping trails of low light from the room beyond across the red and green carpet at the foot of the Princess's bed.
In the brightening entryway Jonathan appeared, carrying a tremoring candle in one hand and a closed book in the other.
The other Jonathan, not her brother. The sight of him calmed Clary instantly.
He was so much kinder to her and patient with her that she had once confessed to Mrs Lewis that she wished this Jonathan was her brother instead. The nurse had hushed her and told her she had said a very naughty thing, for she ought to love her brother and future king unreservedly. Clary had borne the chastisement meekly, for she knew that secretly Mrs Lewis agreed with her and loved this Jonathan much better than her brother too. She probably wished he were the Prince instead too.
"What is the matter?" Jonathan asked her now, his gold eyes glowing nearly the same colour as the candle in his hand. Clary sniffed forlornly with her reply, "Where is my mother? I want her. Where is everyone? Where are we?"
Jonathan placed the candle beside the bed and sat beside her, reaching out and brushing away the remaining tears dribbling down her freckled cheeks. "We moved from Havenfold to Princewater Palace for Christmas," he reminded her gently. "Tonight is Christmas Eve. There is to be a masque to celebrate the Yule season, that's where your mother is. Lady Ravenscar also went there with Jonathan and Mrs Lewis' son is sick, she has taken the night off. The nursemaids they left in charge took their absence as a chance to go flirt with the stewards they fancy. I suppose they thought I was at the masque, and you were asleep." He spoke so matter-of-factly and sincerely that Clary found herself suitably reassured, though she didn't understand everything he said.
Jonathan was older than her and especially clever, everyone said so, therefore he was right about everything.
"Why didn't you want to see the masked?"
"The masque, Clary" he corrected softly, sounding superior in the way older children do. "It is a manner of play. The court players wear masks as they act out their scenes and then there is dancing. I find it all rather silly, and I would rather finish my book."
The book was in fact her brother Jonathan's and had been an early seasonal gift from the King. Valentine's son had not been as enthralled by the present as His Majesty had hoped. The King was forever trying to impress an appreciation of books and learning on his heir, enough so that he was willing to purchase pricy copies in order to inspire this hoped for eagerness. Tutors often told the King that Jonathan was more than capable of making quite the scholar, but he was evidently heartily disinclined to. Clary's brother had bitterly complained of the sword he had wanted instead and thrown the book with great disdain into the other Jonathan's eagerly waiting arms.
"What is in the book? Are there stories like the one about the fox you told me?"
Jonathan chuckled at her fondly, tugging lightly on the carefully braided hair tumbling over her shoulder and straightening her askew sleeping cap. "I fear there are not. It is a very old and very famous piece called the Iliad, which tells about the events of the Trojan War. No foxes. It is a long story about a very beautiful princess and the bravest of the era's heroes." With his words his voice rolled, rising and falling in his usual storytelling style, beginning to exhibit the carefully crafted excitement and emotion behind his enthusing that made his storytelling so captivating. He grinned at her again, "Felix the Fox, I must admit, is my own invention. I suspect my tales fall just a hairsbreadth short of Homer." He plucked the book off her coverlet at the admission, "Now, will you go back to sleep so Achilles can avenge Patroclus?"
The young Princess shifted under her many blankets, growing anxious once again and clenching her small white fists in the sheets. "Don't go! Please stay with me Jonathan!"
The older boy halted his exit. "Why are you scared?"
Clary drew in a shaking breath, "I had a bad dream," she told him dejectedly. Then with more conviction informed him, "There are demons under my bed!"
Her brother would have called her a fool and probably gotten angry, but this Jonathan just shook his head and took hold of her clammy fingers, prising them one by one away from the blankets. " I would never let anything hurt you Clary."
Even with the fringes of exasperation to his promise Clary drew solace. Whatever the other boys might say of him, and though she knew her mother did not like him, she trusted him as she did no one else. So, she permitted this Jonathan to tuck her back in and settle himself on the edge of the bed. In the paltry light of the sole candle his untidy curls turned to a dull bronze. He watched over her with that serious gold stare.
"Don't leave me," she pleaded again, peeping up at him with a fearful, sleepy gaze.
"Never," he promised, and Clary let the final reassurance lead her back into the depths of an untroubled sleep.
Only a few short weeks later, he disappeared without explanation after a hurried goodbye, leaving Clary to cry until her whole body was sore from the weight of the tears and he was not there to dry them.
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One moment Clary was waking up from her nightmares to a darkened room. The next she was jolted awake by a thrashing pain in her skull. She tried opening her eyes to the blazing colours and flashes of a troubled, familiar face.
The fear that still held her drove her to try and move her lips.
But then she was a child in the dark again and losing him no matter how desperately she called his name.
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Jace almost wept at the sight of Durre Castle looming before him in an impressive grey stone through the descending darkness.
"Almost there," He reassured the half-conscious girl in his arms, though he had long ago established she could not hear him.
Clary whimpered feebly, twisting her fingers tighter on the front of Jace's doublet. She had been clinging him like that, as though her life depended on it, for over an hour. Jace made no attempt to loosen her hold. While she had that kind of strength in her fingers, there was every chance she would be fine. He needed her to be alright.
Head injuries were dangerous. Even were they not fatal, they could leave life altering consequences. Jace's whole rescue would still have been for naught; Valentine would not look kindly on his bringing her back and Francois would not be best pleased at his failure to preserve the daughter in law he had wanted.
Urging poor Wayfarer into one final burst of speed, he brought himself over the lowered drawbridge and to the gates.
The shut gates.
Pounding his fists on the obstinate wood before him, Jace cast his eyes skyward to see if anyone in the surrounding turrets would come to his aid.
Damn these last century castles. Clearly this abode had been built in times of upheaval, when such defensive houses were a requirement. Usually, Jace was not averse to such architecture. Having grown up in the Lightwoods' border castle in Adamant he felt more secure than in the open palaces that were now so in vogue. However, tonight he would love to ride right up to the front door.
He kept hammering and hollering until his throat and fists hurt. At long last a winking light appeared at one of the arrow-slit windows. "Who has the impudence to disturb me with this racket? Where have all the manners gone? One at least expects his enemies to have the decency to assemble an army before they send in the battering ram."
Jace threw his head back and frowned at the unfamiliar voice, trying to identify the lanky figure admonishing him from above.
"Open the gates!" he roared back.
"You're a fine one to be issuing orders, sir, considering you are locked out. The gates will open when I say so, and not before."
"If you did not want anyone at your gates you should have raised the drawbridge!"
"It's broken- it- matters not! Get thee gone you..." the end of the reply was lost to Jace from where he waited so far below the speaker, but he gathered the sentiments. Much as he would appreciate a good verbal sparring session, he was in the middle of an emergency: "I have the Princess and she needs medical attention. Urgently!"
"I am sure you do. And I am the Holy Roman Emperor."
A low groan from Clary frightened Jace enough that he opened his mouth to deliver either a heartfelt tirade or ear-splitting scream, whichever his vocal cords produced first.
Divine intervention took an unexpected form. The figure at the window was suddenly being pushed aside, "Jace? Is that you?"
Jace was ashamed to admit he could have wept with relief. "Alec? Alec! Yes, it is I! Please, open the gates! Clary has been wounded and needs help." The plea spurred his friend into action immediately; Jace never begged. Squinting through the gloom he could glimpse Alec talking to his companion animatedly, hands flying in heated gestures.
Whatever he said to the gatekeeper worked, for a few short minutes later Jace was passing into the courtyard and dismounting, carefully pulling Clary down after him and settling her properly in his arms. The bruises on her pale face were the same dark violet as the dusk around them as she blinked at him helplessly, still pleading faintly, "Don't leave me!"
Soon Jace was being joined by a frantic Alec who peered at the prone princess for a heartbeat before starting to fuss over Jace. "Thank God! Your face- you are hurt! By the saints, we thought you were dead! I can't believe-"
"Alec, it will have to wait," Jace interjected, "She needs a physician."
Alec's dark had bobbed rapidly in agreement, "Of course, how remiss of me. Here, Magnus!" At his call the tall, slender man lurking in the doorway sauntered over to where they waited. Now he was closer, Jace could fully appreciate the appallingly feathered hat he was wearing and a hose which, had it not been for the poor twilight lighting, would probably have been an equally appalling shade of yellow.
"My God. I thought you were joking about the Princess." Magnus seized a nearby lantern and beckoned instantly, "This way, gentlemen."
"Oh, so now you decide to be helpful," Jace muttered none too quietly as he followed.
"Please. You cannot expect a fellow to be especially hospitable if you are going to try and bang down his doors at late hours and then start to utter what he presumes to be treasonable excuses upon denial."
"This is your home?" Jace demanded, surprised
Magnus seemed far too youthful and eccentric to be the owner of such an old building. "Sadly," his host admitted, guiding them indoors and up a winding stone staircase.
"Jace Herondale, meet Magnus Bane," Alec called from him. Jace noted Alec's tone seemed to soften a little with the introduction.
"Forgive the journey, these are technically the servants' quarters, but it is the quickest route I assure you." Jace winced upon his shoulder raking one of the confining, damp stone walls that surrounded him. It slid sickeningly along the moist surface. One had to pity the servants.
At long last, Bane was pushing open a door and leading them into more civilised quarters, enabling Alec to walk beside them. Upon reaching the royal apartments they paused, and Alec cast a critical glance over his friend. "Do you have to carry her like that?"
"Like what?" Jace demanded, huddling against the Princess defensively.
"Perhaps it would be more suitable a touch less…bridal?
Jace widened his eyes in horror, "What would be more preferable? My tossing her over a shoulder? She is a Princess of Idris Alec, not a sack of turnips!"
The young Lord Lightwood blinked and then shrugged, "I concede the point."
Now he was convinced there was something strange going on with Alec. Normally at even the mildest sniff of impropriety he would hound his friend incessantly. Jace despised feeling as though he'd missed something.
Still, he had bigger things to worry about presently. He was bursting into a chamber full of nervous ladies with a bruised face and their esteemed mistress in his arms in a style 'a touch too bridal.'
The Marchioness of Edgehunt was the first to recover from the shock, leaping to her feet as Magnus Bane barked out a summons for a physician.
"Put her on the bed!" she cried, gesturing to the closed door behind her leading to the bedchamber. "Someone, send word to the King!"
The next few minutes were a pandemonium of young girls flapping about uselessly, aside from a snapping Isabelle and a new solemn faced, curly haired maid. Wearily, gently, Jace laid Clary out on the bed. He was instantly wrenched back while the more sensible of Clary's attendants made some effort to clean her wounds.
This was probably the moment for Jace's exit, but he could not bring himself to move. He would not place a foot outside this room until he knew she was going to be well.
Clary struggled feebly under their ministrations, "Jonathan!"
Jace cleared his throat, feeling uncharacteristically sheepish. "Someone ought to summon the Prince. She has been asking for him the whole journey."
Isabelle lifted her head with inquisitive gaze, "No" she speculated softly, "I do not think it is her brother she calls for."
Jace opened his mouth to demand who else it could be, but the question stopped at his lips. His stomach flipped at the possibility. The mere notion half-thrilled and half horrified him. It would mean he had not been forgotten by all the Morgensterns. But this Morgenstern remembering him was still hazardous; it increased the likelihood of further hostility from her brother. And yet, Jace's heart soared and still his feet remained planted firmly on her floorboards.
Whatever slivers of wisdom he had once seen in that decision swiftly shrivelled up as pounding footfalls behind him drew his attention to the King of Idris. Valentine stormed toward him with a rare expression of undisguised fury.
Jace had forgotten, right up until the moment his stomach plummeted for the second time that day with dread, how terrifying a glimpse of Valentine in this state could be. The merest lowering of his brows and lips to a scowl and already Jace could anticipate the chilling whistle of the wooden rod's descent, or the long empty hours locked in his bedchamber with a growling stomach and no chance of supper. One would hope that at having reached twenty-one years of age one would no longer feel ill at their father's displeasure. Valentine could no longer whip him or deny him meals, not while Jace was here in the name of King Francois, but he still struggled to swallow back his instinctive apology and meet the raging monarch's gaze.
The surrounding ladies scattered like a flock of starlings with a hawk in their midst. Valentine seized Jace's shoulders. "What in the name of God happened?" he demanded sharply, then lowered his voice to continue in a manner that made it, if anything, more menacing. "You had better provide me with a more satisfactory answer than those whom I have questioned before you, Herondale."
Jace tensed his legs to prevent any trembling; he need have no fear, he had done nothing wrong.
At some point during their brief discourse Jonathan Morgenstern had appeared, floating behind his father's shoulder with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. As Jace began to conjure a reply the Prince drew closer, dark eyes boring into Jace's as he tried to form a tactful answer.
"From what I could see a mob occurred, Your Majesty."
Jonathan's stare intensified, Jace could feel the hidden urgency burn his turned cheek without moving his own eyes from Valentine's.
Panic by all means, Morgenstern. His Majesty would love to hear of how you abandoned your sister to her peril. He would be twice as interested in the accusation that you were the one who put her in that danger.
Before Jace could decide whether he was really going to drop his old foe in the dung, Valentine's head snapped from side to side, "To Clarissa! What happened to the Princess? Was she- did they-?"
Jace shook his head in return, glad to provide news that would be welcomed, "She was not yet dishonoured when I arrived." At that the King visibly relaxed, the tension flooding out of him and his grip on Jace loosening.
Both men returned their attention to Clary, who was finally being attended by a physician. The flaps of his dark cap drooped over his wrinkled cheeks and his wispy grey beard bobbed with his examinations.
As the inspection was completed, a pale faced Marchioness of Edgehunt sidled up to her sovereign once again, "A minor wound, Sire. I am told she may wake up feeling disorientated and sick, but that after a few days rest she should fully recover. Thank God."
Her King nodded and Jace gratefully exhaled his worries with a deep sigh. Then, to Jace's further astonishment, Valentine Morgenstern clapped him on the back. "My daughter is safe thanks to you, Jonathan. You have saved her, saved everything. I will not forget this." The words sent a trickle of warmth down Jace's spine.
Having gotten all he wanted; Valentine turned on his heels without another word to Jace. Following some brief converse with the physician himself, he exited the chamber.
Jace's gaze drifted instantly back to Clary, and through the shifting skirts of her fussing ladies, he caught a glimpse of her sitting up on the cushions. There was a damp rag pressed to her head and her cloudy gaze fixed on him. From the other end of the room, he watched her lips formed his name. His old one, the one smeared on his brow at baptism, not the nickname the Lightwoods gave him.
Only Alec's tugging on his sleeve could distract him, his friend anxiously drawing him backward, "We need to talk. About what happened in Alicante and what is happening here."
Jace nodded absentmindedly, craning his neck in an attempt to see Clary again.
"Now, Jace." Alec insisted, uncharacteristically sharply.
"What if she-"
"Clary Morgenstern will be fine. You have done your bit, beyond satisfaction. You heard the physician's report as clearly as I did. But what happened today changes everything in this embassy. Come."
Alec was right. And Jace had missed his confidant in the week they'd been apart. Besides, now that the danger had properly passed, the last of Jace's energy had drained out of him. He found that he longed for nothing more than a warm seat and whatever words of advice Alec may have.
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Simon drummed his fingers against his thighs, agitation stinging him.
In the eyes of all of Clary's attendants he was nowhere near important enough to pass through the doors to her privy chamber. It did not matter that he had known her his whole life or that he was beside himself with worry in all of this, he would only ever be the musician.
Invisibility was for the best. The less people noticed Simon, the better. For it meant there was no one paying him enough attention to notice how his usual zeal for work tended to slacken on a Saturday, or how he was quick to decline the offer of any pork dish offered to him.
The dangers of his faith were too real. Elsewhere in Europe monarchs were content to simply tax his people heavily or deny them the right to own property. Considering how Valentine Morgenstern treated fellow Christians who deviated from his personal manner of worship, one could only imagine with dread how he might treat a Jew.
Before Martin Luther had ever put pen to paper the Idrisian Jews had been given a simple choice: convert or leave. Valentine's father had passed the official Exclusion Act. Thereafter, Jews could not hold property in Idris, nor could they join trade guilds, nor could they marry a non-Jew. Unwilling to leave their homeland, Simon's grandparents- like many others- changed their name, moved to Alicante, started attending Mass for show, and kept their heads down.
Nowadays, Idris grew ever closer to Spain in its treatment of anyone suspected to be less than the required pillar of orthodoxy.
It did not reflect on Simon that he almost relished the new fervour for persecuting Protestants, but while the population were so attuned to anyone who failed to lower the head at the precise moment the Host was raised or failed to say Amen when the Pope was prayed for, they were not as determined to hear any mutterings in Hebrew.
On the other hand, it did mean Simon now had another layer of pretences to keep up. There would a certain amount of delicious irony in being burnt for a Protestant when he had been a Jew the whole time.
Despite the dangers of their beliefs neither Simon, his mother or his sister could bring themselves to renounce them. Idris was their home just as much as it was Valentine's.
His mother had consoled Simon and Rebecca from a young age, telling them God would understand that the Sabbath laws would have to be broken and sometimes even the food laws. That God would understand that they would have to keep their Sabbath candle covered. He had loved his people when they had been Pharaoh's slaves; seeing His Idrisian believers humbled and fearful would not challenge that love.
In a rather amusing and terrifying twist of fate his mother's desperate search for employment had driven her right to the doors of the royal palace. She had successfully gained a place as one of the new-born Prince's many nursemaids and made an exceptionally good impression on the queen. By the time Clary was born she had been promoted to the position of the Princess's primary nurse and governess.
Simon had caught but sole a glimpse of Clary's limp figure as she was hurried to bed. Helpless and hopeless, he took up sentry duty outside the doors and waited anxiously on a stool in the corner for news.
He knew not who he was going to receive that news from, nor how, but he did know that he was not moving from this spot until he knew Clary would be alright. Simon had watched the King and Jonathan visit briefly, and upon the first of the musician's many failed ventures to the Princess's rooms, he was brushed off impatiently by the departing physician.
He tried to take those as good signs.
Time continued to trickle past and the numbers of people crowding the Clary's quarters gradually depleted, but Simon kept failing to catch either the eyes or the attention of any of the oh-so important ladies or maids. He had been relying on Rebecca to be in attendance, but his sister was nowhere to be seen.
Fidgeting once again from the seat everyone had drifted past without so much as a glance, Simon contemplated just creeping into Clary's chamber one final time. If all was quiet without then surely all would be quiet within? He twisted his hands nervously in his lap and judged that even if he were caught, the following chastisement would be worth it if he could somehow slip in his enquiry as to Clary's welfare. Just as he lifted himself out of the seat, the door to the privy chamber was pushed open and he sank like a stone back to the stool. It screeched alarmingly at the re-instalment of his weight.
Isabelle Lightwood paused at the sound and looked at him. Looked straight at him. Her creamy skin and glimmering eyes were even more beautiful than usual in the darkening room, the slanting shadows cast by the candlelight accentuated her perfectly sloping features.
"I expect you can retire for the night. There will be no music or dancing this evening."
Simon's breath hitched in his throat; Isabelle Lightwood was not only looking to him, but also talking to him. She knew who he was. She recognised him as one of the musicians, at any rate. That was much more attention than Simon had thought to look for.
"You are the lute player, are you not? When you succeed in keeping a hold on your instrument, that is."
Ah. Naturally she remembered that.
Simon managed to squeeze the query that had kept him here so long from his throat. "Please, is the Princess going to recover? Will she be alright?"
Isabelle started, having made her point she had been about to move on to whatever errand she had been commanded to. "Yes. I believe so," She stated slowly, turning neatly to face him like a well-trained dancer. "Just a minor wound. Clary is confused, but awake."
"And you?"
"What of me?" She demanded.
Simon swallowed past his dry mouth, "Are you well, my lady? You were caught in the disturbance too."
Isabelle stared at him, long ebony lashed eyes wide with astonishment. "After all that has happened it is me whom you are concerned with?" She demanded incredulously, her voice wavering at the end of her sentence. Simon blinked back dazedly at her, struggling to form a single coherent word.
"Yes. I am perfectly fine." Isabelle insisted. "Of course I am."
"Of course," Simon echoed weakly.
She peered at him with a new sort of fascination. Isabelle gave Simon another of those bald, unabashed looks. Then she made her mind up and crossed the room to him. Isabelle balanced herself on the arm of chair near Simon, offloading her linen burden on the table beside them. She glanced down at him, face slowly warming to a smile while Simon struggled to master the art of inhaling and exhaling in sequence.
"So then, my concerned Apollo, do you have a name?"
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Despite all she'd suffered, Clary recovered quickly.
Besides her lessons and lectures, Jocelyn had also instilled in her daughter a remarkable resilience. Having watched her mother suffer captivity, uncertainty and effectively poverty without so much as a grimace, Clary could draw strength from Jocelyn's fortitude and strove to mimic it. The longer she spent in her father's household, she began to understand why the queen had run away. Being Valentine's daughter was difficult and treacherous enough, it must be impossible to be his wife.
Beyond her father's one swift visit when she had properly come to, Clary had not seen him. Then again, she had seen very little of anyone. She'd been locked up in her rooms once again. What few freedoms of movement she'd managed to glean in Alicante were retracted once more.
The frustration of the situation, and a lingering nausea from her head wound kept Clary in thoroughly poor spirits. By the end of her second day being confined to bed, she was chomping at the bit to escape her convalescence. It was hard enough to look at the same handful of noble girls all day every day when she was in good spirits. As impatient and irritated as she was currently, their unshakeable courtesy was more grating than ever.
Worse, she had run out of reading material.
Thus Jace Herondale found her on the second sunny afternoon, trapped in a corner chair, flipping through an old book with no great enthusiasm. She was emitting frequent heavy sighs of boredom while she cast wistful looks out the window and over the busy gardens beneath her sill, on which a game of lawn tennis was in play.
"The French Ambassador is here, Your Highness," Aline Penhallow called from where she thrummed half-heartedly on her harp.
Clary gratefully lifted her eyes to the ambassador's and graced him with a smile. Jumbled and disorientating as her memories of the escape from Oldcastle were, the one factor of clarity was of the role he had played. She had spoken with Isabelle -who of course had spoken to her brother Alec, the only person Herondale would confide in- and the bigger picture had slowly become visible.
Clary was still reeling from the suspicion cast over her brother. She had known Jonathan was a dangerous enemy, she had seen as much the day of the burnings. But she had thought that surely Jonathan would draw the line at turning his wrath on his own family.
Initially she could not properly fathom why her own blood would turn on her so swiftly and viciously.
Then, after an enlightening conversation with Isabelle, Clary had learned that her brother was in fact determined to displace her as second in line to the throne. It sounded as though Jonathan was so averse to her following him in the line of succession that he would rather replace her with Jace Herondale, whom he despised.
The potency of his hatred left Clary seething. While she was a mere pawn to her father, one to be pushed around an international board of politics, her brother clearly had no better opinion of her. To Jonathan she was but an obstacle to his own ambitions. An obstacle he was sure to attempt to remove again.
Chilling as her own brother's alleged part in the events that had played out, the more interesting character in all of this was Jace Herondale. The boy who had once sworn that he would let no harm befall her had not reneged on his promise after all. She had been wrong about the man he'd become. Jace had abandoned the prospect of being restored to greatness for her and defied her powerful brother in the process. Clary owed him her life, and an apology, and a thank you.
"Your Excellence," she greeted him, unbearably self-conscious of her being clad only in a thin furred robe over her nightclothes. Her hand strayed over to her shoulder, to check her plait was as neat as possible. "You must forgive me, I was not expecting visitors."
"Your Highness, I can only hope to make a better impression than I did the last time we were in such a position."
Heat pooled in Clary's cheeks at the comment. "So much has happened since. It feels years rather than weeks," She mused, shooting a scouting glance in the direction of Aline, who seemed engrossed in her playing. But such apparent concentration was no reason for Clary to loosen her words from the required protocol.
All her ladies were someone's pair of eyes and ears; her father's, their father's, Clary's brother, the list of possibilities was endless. Whispers in corridors, notes passed under tables, looks exchanged during prayers; Clary would never know who was reporting what and to whom. All she could be sure of was that her every gesture was noted, and one false move could prove catastrophic.
Nonetheless, this conversation needed to be had, "I was hoping to see you soon. I owe you my gratitude, Monsieur," She lowered her eyes bashfully, "With my apologies. I have not always been kind to you, not as I should have been. Yet you have saved my life. More than my life." She lifted her eyes to his once again and lowered her voice, "At a personal risk. I shall not forget that."
Jace started to laugh, and then choked on it slightly, "Madam it was-"
"Do not try and tell me it was nothing, the bruise on your cheek tells me otherwise."
"Princess-" he began, extraordinarily lost for words. The sight did not please Clary as it once would have. "You do not need to thank me, nor apologise." Jace insisted. I did only what any honourable man would have. In truth, it is I who have behaved despicably with you. So, I am sorry. At Oldcastle I merely afforded Your Highness with the consideration and respect I should have done from the start."
Clary flushed again, but this time not from embarrassment. It was from that recognition, the first one since she'd been hauled from her convent, that behind all these lofty marriage schemes there was a real woman; a woman who could feel, and hurt, and bleed.
Jace looked at her with honest repentance, eyes gleaming with the kind of emotion he normally kept so well hidden, and she believed he truly saw her.
She asked, in scarce more than a whisper, "Why would you do it?"
Her question needed no embellishment for Jace to grasp its meaning. Clary fixed on him an especially frank look. The ambassador shifted his weight, clasping his hands behind his back as he absorbed at the forward question and the depth of Clary's understanding of what had passed between the three of Valentine's children at Oldcastle.
Jace shook his head marginally, lips twitching to a half-smile as he regarded her. He provided Clary answer far more honest than she had anticipated, "It was for you. How could I not?"
The barriers were lowering, Clary noted with pleasure. She would never get the playmate she had adored back, but for the first time that seemed no great tragedy. What she had instead was this fascinating, brave and dedicated young man. The two stared at each other for a very long moment, a fresh trust blooming between them.
At last, Jace spoke again, "I must confess that I am devoid of a white flag presently, but since we have arrived at a truce, Madam, I pray you accept my peace offering." He passed her a carefully bound package, which she unfolded with anticipation to reveal a small selection of books. She gasped in delight, carefully sifting through the copies and stroking the smooth pages as though they were ancient oriental treasures from the Far East, her eyes exultantly devouring the titles.
"For when you tire of Camelot and Cicero." He offered with a smile in his voice, "I was about to ask you to take the best possible care of them as they are my own possessions, but I see it is quite unnecessary." The ambassador offered, trying to reclaim his old dignity. But the corners of his mouth did not lower from a smile.
"Thank you!" Clary breathed at last, sincerely thrilled. "I had run out of things to read and with no freedom in sight I was beginning to despair," she told him cheerfully. "As for my care of them, I would sooner sever a limb than harm one."
Jace's smile grew, "Then perhaps we are kindred spirits after all."
"Perhaps."
"I would have included my copy of the Iliad, but sadly it is in Greek."
"Would you send it?" Clary demanded, pride flaring, "It is not my strongest language, but I can read Greek."
The ambassador's fair brow lifted at her declaration, "You read Greek? If I might ask-how?"
"My Mother arranged it. She introduced me to a learned clergyman, and from there several scholars who taught me. I speak many languages."
"How many?"
Well, my Latin is best, but I also speak some Spanish, English, Hebrew-"
"Hebrew?! I pride myself on being a learned man, your father and the Earl of Adamant had me taught like a prince, but even I must confess my ignorance when it comes to Hebrew! Who taught you that?"
Clary stuttered on her reply. She had unwillingly steered the conversation into treacherous territory and was dangerously close to getting Simon in real trouble. "The same tutors. My mother had me well educated" she responded at length, silently cursing herself. Once again, she had let her pride and her tongue run away with her.
"Evidently," Jace gave his head a little shake, amusement now tinged with a darker contemplation as he regarded her. "You are better educated than some boys I know."
Clary shrugged, "It is of little consequence, my Father has terminated my studies. No man wants a clever wife."
"Especially not one cleverer than he is."
The Princess narrowed her eyes at the diplomat before her. "Excellence, if I am not mistaken that was the opportunity you should have taken to tell me of your scholarly suitor."
"Indeed, Highness" He winced with the observation. They were interrupted by the arrival of Kaelie Whitewillow, who fixed a desperately possessive stare on Jace as she dipped into a cheeky curtsey before him. Jace, looked as though he dearly wanted to wince again, gave her a swift nod and turned back to the Princess.
Clary chuckled softly, after Kaelie topped up her ale cup and departed. "Her long-estranged husband is on death's door, I am told. Kaelie he will be expecting you to declare your intentions soon."
"I am afraid I have no such intentions. Not that my thoughts have any great influence, Lady Kaelie has ample intentions for the both of us. She has completely misunderstood my attentions. Besides, she would despise being an ambassador's wife. It does not pay what she believes it to."
There were rumours aplenty now circulating the court surrounding the repercussions of Jace's surname, speculation Jace seemed oblivious to. There were many of the opinion, Kaelie included, that his royal blood and new fame as the Princess's saviour would soon lead to a title. As he himself pointed out, he had all but been raised a prince.
And yet that was not the line of discussion Clary found herself pursuing, "There is another lady you have promised yourself to?"
She should not be prying so, certainly not after she had just had a conversation with the man about respect, but she found that she honestly wanted to know. Purely to sate her natural curiosity, of course. Besides, he was embroiled in her matrimonial affairs, Clary felt she deserved to know a little in return.
"No. I make very few promises to anyone, Your Highness. That way I can keep those I do." He insisted, looking at her conspiratorially.
A strange elation bubbled in Clary at his words. She was working hard to curb a smile as she said with feigned seriousness, "Then you had better make good your escape, Monsieur. Only-"
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Would you call on me again? Soon? Else I fear I will die of the tedium of these rooms."
When he smiled properly, he truly was beautiful.
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The following day Jace cleared his schedule for her.
It took all of his charm and persuasive techniques to secure Alec's agreement in the matter, but secure it he did, pointing out that this could be the second real turning point for their embassy this week.
The whole game had changed with what happened at Oldcastle. For instance, Prince Jonathan Morgenstern had openly declared himself their enemy. They needed to regroup and rethink their next moves.
Jace did not need Alec's permission to spend the day with Clary, but he wanted them firmly on the same page here, particularly now that he felt a tangible distance growing between them with every time Alec was called to an appointment with the King.
Jace made his way to the Princess's apartments not long after first Mass with the Iliad in hand. Thus began a far more enjoyable day than he had expected. Somehow, they kept their bickering to a minimum. By the time Jace had to reluctantly cede his chair by her window he had discovered that he had more in common with Clary than he had realised. They had a similar taste in books and enjoyment of music and saw eye to eye on a several political matters, though theology more frequently met with debate.
He cleared his schedule the following day too.
Clary made Jace laugh, genuinely laugh, which was a rarity. He was willing to listen to her prattle on with her on whatever came into her head.
The only topic that was not touched on properly was the one he had been sent to her to discuss. Jace could not have mentioned the Dauphin's name more than three or four times over the two days.
Worse, he hardly noticed the omission. When she spoke to him, when she pulled one of her faces or laughed with him, Jace was just with her. He stopped being the French Ambassador, or the Herondale traitor, or even her rival for the throne. He was simply Jace. And somehow, what he should have despised himself for, he felt content with.
Another more fanciful man might have said that he felt content with her.
But Jace was a realist with a job to do.
As their second day drew to a close, he decided that it would be their last. The Princess was fully recovered and there would be no more sunny afternoons watching the sun set over the walls of Durre Castle and chatting idly with Clary.
Tomorrow she would be the Princess Clarissa again. He would not visit her again until there was an audience of courtiers to keep him on his best behaviour and his mind on the game.
It was just a game, and she just a piece of it. A piece who would be the Dauphin's bride, if he could bring it about.
But Alec was right, what had happened at Oldcastle had changed the state of play.
This wasn't the same game anymore.
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Jonathan Morgenstern's visit to his supposedly invalid sister was long overdue, though it came far too soon for her liking.
He arrived in her near empty presence chamber on the third and final day of her seclusion. Clary emerged from her privy chamber, enjoying how the hearty click of her shoes on the flagstone floor changed to a dull thump as she crossed onto rich carpets. She had been gradually coming to appreciate the circular stone rooms of her northwest tower apartments at Durre, having no clear memory of a stay in such a castle before.
Better still, having tired of Simon's endless fussing, she was looking forward to another day with Jace, the only person aside from Isabelle (who refused to dally with sensitivity) who did not treat her as though she was now made from glass. Everyone treated the Princess as though she might easily tumble to the floor and be shattered.
She had been sure that the King would put a stop to Jace's visits as soon as he got wind of them, due to her ban on dealing with anything that roughly resembled a petitioner. Or to stop her displaying a clear preference to any of the diplomats involved in the marriage arrangements.
Jace was more than a mere diplomat to her though, mayhap that was why Valentine was turning a blind eye to their meetings. Although considerate was not a word she would typically apply to her father.
Clary halted at the sight of the wrong Jonathan waiting for her by the fire. He completed his set up of a game of chess by placing the black king on the chequered board just as Clary entered.
"Sister!" he called graciously, straightening up and meeting her stony gaze, "It gladdens my heart to see you so restored to health. Do sit with me."
Clary forced herself to smile back at him, though the gesture strained the muscles of her face. She had learned in the hardest of ways that just as one did not show their cards at the table. And you never put your heart on your sleeve at this court. You smiled outwardly, charmed everyone and trusted no one.
Her brother had tried to kill her, and possibly Jace too in order to safeguard his succession, but without a shred of proof Clary could not go to the King. She must grit her teeth, continue playing the trusting sister, and watch her back.
She glided over to the proffered seat and took up her position on opposite side of the board.
"I am sorry I could not come and see you earlier, but His Majesty keeps very much engaged." If she didn't know better, Jonathan would have looked perfectly repentant, hand over heart, eyes wide and innocent. "Clary, you must know, I am sorry. I blame myself for all that happened, for all that almost befell you. If I had known that the soldiers had visited just hours before, I would have ensured we skirted around the town. I should have stayed with you and been there to defend you, but I truly thought that you would be safe with Verlac."
A pretty speech. To ignorant ears, an utterly convincing one.
Clary was far from fooled.
Aloud, she offered an accompanying speech of forgiveness, "You know I would not blame you, Jonathan!" With a flash of inspiration, she reached for his hand across the table, marvelling at how alike their slim fingers were as she grasped them. "Hush now! I will hear no more of it," She laughed gently, "We are perfect friends."
Jonathan made a show of visibly relaxing, face splitting into a handsome smile, "In which case I thought we could play a game of chess to divert you. I take it you are familiar with the rules?"
"Oh yes!" Clary accentuated her assent, moving her fingers to the smooth, carved white body of a pawn as she made her first move. Raising her eyes to her brother's, she let the cheery façade slip momentarily. Just a small chink out of her armour to communicate all she knew.
He did not need to hear words, nor did she. The siblings, despite having been apart for so long, were alike enough now to read one another's face perfectly.
"I'll never trust you again."
"You never should have in the first place."
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