Chapter 9: Matters of the Heart
Durre Castle, Late June 1536
Avoiding her was not easy. Why he ever thought it would be, or that he could ever manage it in the first place, Jace could not fathom. Clary was the purpose of this visit. He was supposed to be filling her ears with empty flattery and buttering her up for his master, not anxiously leaning in to hear whatever it was she had to say every time she opened her mouth when he was in ear shot. Nor was Jace supposed to be craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her every time she passed through a room.
He knew this because King Francois reminded as much.
Well, rather the clerk the King dictated to had done so. His letters from France were growing impatient. King Francois did not want to hear what a brave, intelligent and pretty young woman the Princess of Idris was. He did not give a damn that she liked reading and preferred to dress in hues which made her hair look even brighter. He wanted to hear about her father. Was Valentine susceptible to their suit? What kind of dowry was he offering? What was the state of his military? If the King of France wanted to know what the girl ate for supper, he would ask her cooks. And if he wanted to dress her, he'd be sure to ask a tailor.
Jace Herondale was supposed to be negotiating an alliance. Jace Herondale was supposed to be the best diplomat his age, in fact he was supposed to be one of the best diplomats in Europe, the end. He had better start acting like it or he had best hope that his knowledge of the Princess's favourite pastimes were enough to secure him a job as one of her stewards.
One sharp rap to the knuckles; delivered.
Admittedly, Jace had never taken admonishments particularly well. But this irked him more than Pangborn's incessantly loud nose blowing during every meeting he had with Valentine.
Francois had asked perfectly reasonable questions. Francois had the right to complain of the service those he paid provided; he paid them.
Jace still snatched the paper up and crushed it in his clenched fist. He squeezed and stuffed the letter into a shrivelled little ball before pelting it across his crammed room.
It hit the back of a chair and then fell to the floor, bouncing indignantly.
Jace turned huffily and completed the three strides that took him to the bed which filled most of the room he had been allocated. He did not particularly mind having a smaller room. All he did was sleep in it and read berating correspondence. However, he had heard enough of Isabelle's whining about the cramped rooms she had to occupy to feel it was proving a problem. Alec, playing the pacifier as usual, had pointed out to his sister that since she spent all of her time with the Princess anyway, which had not been well received.
It had become evident that Durre Castle was a fortress, not a pleasure villa. Why the King had decided to take his court here had become clear to Jace soon after his arrival. Overhearing some of the councillors bemoaning the sojourn in an unexpected residence Jace had made a poor jest, "We cannot blame the Herondales on this occasion."
John Carstairs had not laughed.
"The House belongs to Magnus Bane," Jace insisted bleakly, already anticipating what revelation would follow the Earl's grim expression.
"It does now." Lord Carstairs responded in a blunt undertone.
Jace did not appreciate this tour of the lands that no longer belonged to him, not at all.
That reflection prompted a fresh haze of bitterness as Jace flung himself down on a mattress which hissed and groaned its discomfiture at the contact. He ripped his boots off and tossed them one at a time to the floor. Then he pummelled at the pillow beneath him for a time, the bed groaning at this movement too.
King Francois clearly did not care about Clary. How then could he be expected to care for her?
Unable to suffer in stillness and silence, Jace leaped up from the bed and strode back to his writing materials, bringing the candle he had not extinguished with him. He yanked his chair out with such force that it screeched against the floor. Ruffling through the papers until he found a clean page, Jace dunked his nib in the inkpot and began to write, words flying across the sheet with a ferocity that matched his mood perfectly. He poured out words after word, very few of them complimentary. Occasionally Jace found he had shown too much restraint in what he had just sought to convey and sliced his quill back across the sentences. Between that and the blots that came from his hand leaning too heavily, the whole letter was butchered by the time Alec finally snapped.
"Go to sleep!" he hollered from the next room. The greatest pity about living in this cramped, newer section of the castle was that the walls were unforgivably thin.
"You go to sleep!" Jace yelled back.
"I am trying to! But you insist on waging war with the furniture! Then when you finally reach a truce with the chairs it's the constant scratch-scratch-clink-clink of the bloody writing! It sounds like a tavern of mice in there!"
Jace grinned despite himself, crumpling up his handiwork and entrusting it to the finest courier he could find: the dying embers in the nearby grate. Then he leaned back in his chair again, earning another hazardous rasp from the woodwork, lifting his hands to his face.
"SLEEP!" Alec screamed loud enough to prevent anyone this side of the Seine from enjoying the condition.
Jace dropped his fingers just in time to watch the final curl of flame lick his letter to ash.
"Squeak squeak." he called half-heartedly as he moved toward the bed once again, knowing that even closing his eyes wouldn't shut Clary out.
-000000000000000-
After two weeks of relative peace, Alec should have realised they were overdue a catastrophe. He was nonetheless still horrified when the portent of doom fell from Magnus's lips. "There is to be dancing."
A hitched gasp tugging at the back of his throat, he whirled to face his friend (if friend was the correct term) who looked back at him curiously.
"I thought it was to be a joust?"
Jousts he could cope with. There he was well enough versed in the handling of lists and lances to avoid absolute disgrace. In a joust there were definite steps and stages. Charge and contact. A simple matter of staying in the saddle and trying to ensure your opponent didn't. While avoiding death and amputation as best one could, for the sake of a purse of gold.
But dancing. That entailed a host of intricate steps and judgemental ladies, all while avoiding the traps of spinning skirts and flying feet.
As Alec launched himself headfirst into a panic Magnus Bane looked as unruffled as ever. This was a man with the confidence to don rubies that should have clashed with his bold blue doublet, he was not so easily phased. He undoubtedly stood out amongst the other dourly dressed petitioners hoping to catch the King's attention, which was truly quite ingenious.
Alec had other things to worry about. "Yesterday we were jousting for the Prince's birthday," he insisted past his shrivelling tongue.
Magnus's impenetrable nonchalance didn't shift. He casually adjusted the papers tucked between his elbow and his chest and sighed. "Tomorrow there is still a joust, but it is to be followed by dancing. For those who are still able-bodied enough after meeting His Highness in the lists." He concluded his statement by hailing a passing courtier's dirty glance with a merry wave.
Alec shook his head desperately, "Magnus! I cannot dance!"
"What can you possibly mean by that? You are a Frenchman! You've danced before the King of France, and he is famously cultured."
"I did not dance before the King of France. My sister did, and she is exquisite when she takes the floor. I am excruciating. Both for myself and for spectators, I have been reliably informed."
"I would hazard a guess that Jacques is the informant?"
"Jace!" Alec snapped, forcing himself not to flap his arms in his anxiety as he would have done in private. He clutched his hands together at his belt, squeezing his fingers so tight he half expected his knuckles to pop out and be scattered to the floor like broken buttons. "Where did you get Jacques from?!"
"Ah, I knew there was a 'J' involved somewhere. What I am attempting to covey is that you need to listen to less of what James tells you."
Alec's eyes flared wide with disbelief, "How are you still struggling to-" he caught himself at the sparkle of humour in Magnus's eyes, "You are doing this on purpose now, are you not?"
"Most observant."
Alec rolled his eyes, wondering why Magnus's amusement amused him where his pride would have been pricked had he suspected himself to be the butt of anyone else's joke. Mayhap because Magnus would fail to hide a smile and invite participation in his jests. He made one feel more laughed with.
"Fear not Alec, there is a distinct possibility you will not be in any fit state to dance before the day of celebration is out."
"How so?" This new causal relationship was uncharted territory, yet not quite uncomfortable.
"Our Prince is vicious in the saddle. There is not a man alive who would not let him win at any sport on any occasion, especially not at his favourite pastime on a day to celebrate his birth. He knows this, of course, and remains ruthlessly brutal with the lance. Jonathan cares not whether he unseats you or kills you. He has yet to take a life, I admit, but it is only a matter of time."
"You have seen him ride many times?"
"Yes, of course I have," Magnus grinned at him, green and gold eyes rolling again, "Master of the Horse, Master of the Revels, remember?"
Alec winced in embarrassment, "I do recall your mentioning something of it yes. It seems to me you have so many positions it is impossible to keep track of what you do or do not do here. You are clearly high in the King's favour."
The kind of favour that was evident in his new friend's garb and abundant lifestyle, the kind of favour that was remarkable for someone who did not seem to spend much time residing at court. Truly, it was strange that Magnus Bane, a commoner, should be held in such royal esteem and maintain several positions at court while living in the city. Yet it was clear from having spoken to Magnus that he preferred life in Alicante and his abode on Canal Street was his favourite. All of which only made this curiosity of a man even more intriguing to Alec.
"That was all the Queen's influence. I did her some favours and she repaid by helping me gain some standing at court."
"Queen Jocelyn was your patron? How did you survive at court without her?"
That was rude, Alec realised belatedly. He really needed to stop prying into this man's life and his business, but the desire to know more about him and his past was irresistible. Thankfully, Magnus seemed happy to talk to him.
"The queen was my first patron here, yes. She did lose much of her influence here in the months before she left. When you disagree with the King on every decision he makes, he soon stops listening to you. But the King will not dispose of me. I am far too valuable, and I know too much." Magnus broke off and smiled at his companion sorrowfully, shifting on the spot, "Now I fear I have said too much."
He laughed lightly, as if fallen queens and the wrath of kings did not matter at all, "I blame you and your serious listening face, Alexander. One quite gets lost in those big, depthless eyes. All of a sudden, one's soul is bare and their darkest secrets see the light of day."
Alec reached out to pat his arm gently. On a whim, he didn't withdraw his arm, but kept it there. Right on Magnus's. Speaking softly and solemnly, he found the corners of his mouth turning up into a rare smile, "I assure you I can keep a secret."
"Is that so?" The mirth glinting in Magnus' expression faded to a new intensity at the confession, "You are a keeper of many secrets?"
"More than you can imagine," Alec admitted a touch breathlessly, feeling as though he had been both running and crawling towards the admission.
Aside from Jace, there was no one outside of his family with whom Alec did not feel awkward and mistrustful. He always kept himself guarded and controlled. What was in his heart stayed in his heart. He always kept himself to himself because he had very good reason to. Only Isabelle- with whom he had always been honest- had ever suspected what was so different about him, the real reason he kept himself so distanced from others and avoided anything even remotely close to a romantic entanglement. He suspected that his sister's behaviour towards marriage was so difficult partially because she wanted to keep their parents' attentions firmly pinned on her. That way there was no immediate danger of a match being made for Alec. Although she had assured him countless times that her reasons for destroying any opportunity for a husband were primarily selfish, Alec could not help but be eternally grateful to her in a way he could never express adequately.
"Must you ride tomorrow?"
"Yes, His Majesty has insisted upon it. I think he wants to test the Prince's skill against every nobly born boy in the region to get a glimpse of his son's true mettle."
"Be careful," Magnus blinked before hastily adding, "If you please. And for the love of God let him win."
Looking at the handsome and touchingly considerate man before him, Alec shrugged wryly. He had spent the last few weeks laughing with and talking to Magnus, at first shyly and then with more of the confidence. But Magnus was also far too dangerous to want. The sort of person he would never have, even if he did allow himself to want him.
Men like Alec were, according to the Church the King held in such esteem, rotten sinners. They needed to be punished. One wrong move, one indiscretion, one poorly judged revelation and Alec's life would be forfeit along with that of whomever it was he had supposedly sinned with. He knew there were places in the city where people like him did as they pleased with whomever they pleased, but he did not know how to find them. And Alec would not be brave enough to go there even if he did.
Letting anything more than friendship develop between himself and Magnus Bane put Alec at risk of more immediate and personal pain. He had learned long ago from living in the shadows of Jace and Izzy that there would always be someone else everyone would rather want. Alec would always be second best, if he were considered at all.
There would never be a less opportune moment either. For if he fell in love now and got himself in trouble, then who would help restore the family fortune? Who would be King Valentine's catspaw to stop him calling the debts?
There was naught for Alec to do but shrug at Magnus, in an attempt to dislodge all of the impossibilities weighing on him.
"You need not worry about me, Magnus. I always lose."
-000000000000000-
Clary had never been to a joust before. When she had last been at court, her mother had occupied the royal position of precedence beside the King and their daughter deemed too young to participate. Now, without her mother to hide behind and her brother a participant, Clary would be left on her own with her father in the elevated royal box.
Upon settling herself in the more modest chair to the left of the great throne, Clary was the only royal currently present. For all his complaints of those who were late, Valentine's own punctuality seemed to need some refinement.
Carefully arranging the skirts circling her, Clary lightly trailed her fingers over the smooth saffron kirtle peeping through them, using the soft texture to calm herself. Upon hearing of the planned celebrations for the Prince's birthday, Lady Isabelle had been quick to drop a suggestion in her ear; "Tell His Majesty that you will require a new gown, new gowns if you would."
She'd laughed then at her friend's dependable vanity. But when one had looked like Isabelle Lightwood, they were rather entitled to be vain.
Clary thought her wardrobe ample enough, it had been filled for her upon arrival in Alicante. "There is no need! I have enough already!"
The ensuing response would have given someone who had just entered the conversation the distinct impression that the Princess had just denied the Holy Trinity.
"How can you say that? How can those words have just crossed your lips! Of all the royal daughters in Europe, how is it I have been sent to this one?!" Isabelle had tossed her head back to beseech her Creator while Clary looked on in baffled amusement, until at last her lady's head dropped forward again and she seemed somewhat resigned to her fate. "Ah, I see. God is testing me."
She took hold of her mistress's hands then, gazing into Clary's face so solemnly she seemed about to pledge her troth, "He sees you in your ignorance and sends me to help you see the light." Izzy sprang up, full of mischievous glee once again, "And by the light I mean the realisation that the Queen of France barely lets a seamstress out of her sight. She will have a new selection of gowns at least once every season, special occasions notwithstanding. Any other dinners of state or special celebrations warrants a separate commission."
Clary had sighed, stretching out her cramped fingers as she empathised with the seamstresses of France. "You are saying it would be improper for me not to request a new gown for my brother's birthday."
"Exactly! Disrespectful even, it may seem that you do not think your brother worthy of your best attire."
The prospect had left Clary sorely tempted to dig out the old and plain grey dress lurking at the bottom of her chest, at present sentenced to never see the light of day again. Her ladies had been appalled to find that she still had it in her possession, but Clary could not bear to let it go. She could rationalise that she would never don the dreadful thing again, but she found she couldn't yet relinquish the last physical reminder of her life at the convent. The opportunity to very publicly snub her brother was attractive, perhaps even just.
Isabelle had spoken lightly, but she had no idea how correct she had been. Jonathan was the last person Clary wanted to dress up for. And after all that had happened in Oldcastle and in the wake of her conversations with Luke, Clary was not prepared to beg more fine clothes off her father.
It mattered not. Over a dinner with the King, he had told her she would have a new gown for the occasion.
Here she was, in sumptuous scarlet silks edged with lace and wound through with gold threading. Her tight bodice was studded with a lattice of pearls and her skirts parting over a bright yellow kirtle, complimented by the golden hood perched on her head.
Clary felt like a gilded figurehead on the prow of a boat, all painted and carved to perfection. She even felt she needed to be a stationary as one, decked as she was with garnets, amber and gold.
It must have cost a fortune, but her father had insisted on several more just like it. He had also requested his dressmaker see the ladies Clary selected to join her in the royal box. And so Helen and Isabelle, now officially established as her favourites, were also clad in fresh green and blue gowns respectively.
Her choice of companions had caused much muttering when Clary's back was presumed to be turned. Isabelle was still regarded with much suspicion on account of her 'foreign' cosmopolitan ways and provocative dresses. And Helen, though from impeccable Idrisian stock, was illegitimate. The Duke of Lyn fully acknowledged her as his daughter and had secured her a place at court. But there were those who resented Clary's obvious intimacy with a bastard, especially when there were dozens of better born girls in Clary's household to choose from. She didn't care. She liked Helen, who had been a stalwart of kindness since her arrival.
The inconvenience of Clary's leaden attire was not the only reason she felt so uncomfortable in it. As every ribbon was tied in her flowing hair and every jewel dropped in its place at her neck and wrists, Clary felt her stomach rolling with guilt. Had someone been driven to destitution so she and her ladies could have new dresses to dance in? How many of her people would catch a glimpse of her lovely necklace and want to throttle her with it? When the clasp on her necklace snapped into place, the pressure of the stones at her throat felt like pushing fingers.
Tapping her ring heavy fingers against the wooden armrest beneath her. Clary tried to focus on the jousting lines.
One young page was trying to scrape the sand level as swiftly as possible. Another struggling squire headed slowly towards the waiting competitors' tents, battling with an over-excited horse that pranced and bucked.
Clary saw why this box was assigned to the most privileged spectator. It afforded an excellent view of not only the lines but also a pleasantly subtle observation of those members of the court assembled in the stands below her. All with the comfort of royal badge trimmed curtains to shield her delicate complexion from the worst of the afternoon sun.
She could clearly see where Jace and the other two remaining ambassadors sat in the row directly before. Positioned to get the best possible look at their master's potential bride.
As her eyes snagged on the three men, Santiago visibly snapped something at Jace who responded with a smirk and what must have been a well-placed verbal jab, for the small Scot placed between them threw back his grey head and howled with laughter.
No need to make it so plain his master is losing half of Italy to yours, Herondale, Clary mentally admonished while feeling her own mouth curving to a traitorous smile.
She missed Jace's company, something she confessed only to herself. She missed the long afternoons when he had made her laugh and then just as quickly stirred her up to a frenzy in a few sentences to debate with him on matters they both felt heatedly about, though did not agree on. Having deduced she was almost as well read as he, Jace had apparently decided she was worth a discussion.
And yet despite the friendship growing between them, once the doors to her chambers were opened to the whole court once more, Jace seemed more distant than ever.
It was extremely frustrating or Clary. It was one step forward and about ten back with him.
There was no reason for her to complain of him, not really. In truth, he was better behaved than ever. That was the problem. His cool courtesy would have been a balm to her frustrations a month ago, but now Clary found herself longing for his quips and wit. Clary was beginning to get the impression he was holding himself back. Jace was afraid of something, or someone.
It must be her father.
Valentine was so determined to make sure every decision Clary made was of benefit to him and his marriage plans. He had likely given Jace a stern warning to stay away from her and keep business and pleasure strictly separate. Clary could not have a single friend of her own, not if it gave the impression one suitor was favoured above the others.
The Princess rolled back her shoulders defiantly. Her father may not favour any one suit, but she did. Clary refused to sit idle and be steered into her fate by someone else. Jace had been more than her sole ally, he had become her friend. More than anything her father had done to her to date, she resented this prohibition most.
To her father and the lords of his Council she was to be a painted, smiling beauty who provided a front for the King's ambitions. Valentine only required her to be dutiful so that he might attempt to rule her chosen husband through her. It was quite possible her father even doubted that she had the capacity or the intellect to be anything other than obedient.
Clary resolved to see to it that by the close of today she had made some alliances of her own. With the whole court out in force and in fine spirits, the time was ripe for budding friendships. Luke, faithfully at her shoulder, was presently helping her assess who best to approach.
"I need friends, if I am to get anywhere. Friends more significant than the French Ambassador." She had whispered to him as they exited the Chapel that morning, while her Father was busy wishing her brother luck in the joust.
"Quite, right Madam," Luke had agreed with a smile, as though he had been waiting for her to come to the realisation. Clary wondered how on earth he had extracted himself from the King's company to come and see her this afternoon. She was glad that he had.
"You can forget about Cardinal Enoch, or indeed any prominent clergyman at court," Luke recommended, "The Church is most firmly behind your brother, and you tell me he is no friend of your cause. The Prince has bought their support, to put it simply. He introduced a policy whereby anyone executed on a heresy charge has their wealth and possessions given to the Church, as a sort of final indulgence so their souls may be saved. A portion of what they make still manages to wind up in the royal treasury of course, although whose money it was and how it has wound up there will never be properly documented or explained. Regardless, I would not waste my time trying to turn His Eminence from the Prince, not while his sumptuous new palace is being built. Besides, Enoch has already given his support to the Imperial suit. He hopes the Hapsburg influence will increase the Church's power further. They will not help you get to France."
Clary cursed mentally, that was a severe blow. Her father was most devout and the Church, with all its power and influence, would have been her most beneficial ally.
Luke continued, "Then there are plenty of the likes of Blackwell, Pangborn and Aldertree, who will only work for their own interests. If your endeavour were successful, you would take up residence in France and be of no use to them here. Do not expect them to be sympathetic to your cause."
"Who could I consider then?"
"Well with Jace Herondale on your side, the next logical step is John Carstairs, Earl of Chene. His family were the Herondales closest allies for centuries. He has proved his worth to your father many times over, however I do not think there is much he could refuse a Herondale. If the French Ambassador were to approach him on your behalf, I am sure he would be susceptible. Most of all, John is an influential man; much of what was the duchy of Broceland fell into his hands and he has a seat on the council."
"The Earl of Chene, a worthy candidate for my friendship indeed." Clary added him to her mental list, "Very well. And if I were to speak with him casually, my lord, are there any topics I should touch upon?"
Luke threw her a knowing look and an appreciative smile, "His daughter, Your Highness. He dotes upon the girl. If you were to ask after her welfare and accomplishments he would talk for hours. She is still merely a child, too young for you to request as one of your ladies, but you may suggest that when we return to the capital she accompany her mother to wait on you for a while. That would suitably endear you to my lord Earl."
Clary nodded, rapidly absorbing all he said. "Anyone else you can think of?"
"You may as well aim high. In title, at least, the greatest nobleman in the land is the Duke of Lyn, Andrew Blackthorn. You need not concern yourself with winning him over, if you secure the support of the Earl of Chene, my lord of Lyn will soon follow. The two men are rarely at odds. Before his poor Duchess died she had the wardship of Chene's daughter, which is the greatest seal of trust one can look for with the Earl."
"And if both were to favour the French match, would that counteract any of the sway the Cardinal may hold on the King?"
Luke winced and tilted his head from side to side, "It is difficult to say, Your Highness. Alone, I would say they do not have much of a chance. Here we are assuming they will agree to help represent your interests, persuading them to do so will not be easy."
"And it would have to be done subtly," Clary agreed grimly, "No man wants to deal with a woman who knows her own mind too firmly. I cannot be seen to give the impression I know better than any man, much less one like the Cardinal." Then her mind snagged on another possibility, "What of my Lord Chancellor?" True, the man governed this realm and not foreign affairs, but he was meant to be the King's principal advisor. In the few short conversations they'd had, Starkweather had given Clary the impression of a soft-spoken, kindly and intelligent man. He seemed one she could work with.
"I would not pin too many hopes on Lord Starkweather, my lady. He cannot tell the King anything other than what he wants to hear. On the rare occasion he does form his own opinions, Hodge is too cowardly to voice them. He would never risk gainsaying His Majesty on any matter, great or small."
Clary sighed with disappointment. It was far easier to make enemies at this court.
She did not have very much time to dwell on her new information and prospects, or to discuss others. The bellowing fanfare of trumpets alerted her to the King's arrival. Clary turned in time to see Valentine enter the royal box, gesturing for her to rise from her curtsey and placing a genteel kiss on the back of her hand.
"Clarissa," he greeted her with his usual placid demeanour, "You look every inch the queen today."
"Thank you Sire." Clary managed to respond, feeling herself involuntarily warmed by the compliment. That was foolish, she highly doubted the compliment was a sincere one. Valentine likely would have made the remark regardless of how she had dressed or presented herself. Even with that suspicion, as the King led her to her seat, Clary found herself working hard to smile serenely at the cheering crowds and make herself deserving of his words.
The joust itself was even more thrilling than anticipated.
Clary played her carefully scripted part well, rising as gracefully as possible to bestow the silken wisp of her favour upon her brother's lance- much to the approval of the spectators. She then returned to sit by her father with her perpetually pleasant smile pasted to her lips.
By the time the sport got underway in earnest there was no longer any acting required. Clary was on the edge of her seat for most of it, heart racing as the horses charged towards each other, gasping when the lances made contact, recoiling at the dreadful crunching of metal as breastplates and helms were battered. Her stomach dropped as each rider fell from the saddle and collided with the dusty earth.
Jonathan was savage. He rode like a demon and showed no mercy. None of those he came up against were able to walk out of the lines unaided. On more than one occasion his defeated opponent had to be carried away, blood leaking through broken armour.
Clary found her hand falling against the hard material of her bodice and regretting the colour as Jon Cartwright was borne back to his tent groaning and bleeding profusely.
Beside her Valentine chortled grimly, beckoning for more wine as the scoreboard was rearranged. "Young Cartwright did exceptionally to make it this far at his age. A good joust is guaranteed to separate the men from the boys." He glanced over at his daughter, who was forcing her back to stay against the spine of the chair. She had to keep reminding herself she was supposed to look impassively regal. "You are enjoying yourself?"
"Yes. Although I must admit I preferred the opening poetry and songs, dreadful as the rhymes were." The verses were utterly laughable, her humour only stoked by Simon's admission that his friend Eric was charging a hefty sum for providing the knights with the required poems. A courtly joust was after all not only an exhibition of brawn but also of chivalry and art. Having seen some of these men handling weapons and having heard all of the proffered poems, Clary got the distinct sense Eric may have to flee the country after this.
Valentine smiled again, "You have no taste for sport? I had noticed your absence on my hunts."
Until that moment Clary had not been aware she had his permission to join him hunting, though the invitation provided no encouragement. On a practical level, she had no hunting horse. Even if she had, past experiences strongly suggested she wouldn't be able to ride it. And the thought of actively hunting down an animal and killing it made her feel ill. "No, Sire. No particular taste for sport."
She couldn't help her eyes darting to where Jace sat beneath her as she contemplated her horse related struggles. He was fidgeting impatiently in his seat, probably longing to be in the saddle himself as Jonathan and Lord Alexander prepared to meet in the final.
Lightwood's huge black warhorse tossed its head impatiently and pawed the ground with its front hoof.
Clary felt her heartrate accelerate as the crowd chanted and cheered. Alec, the tourney's clear underdog, had ridden well so far. It was obvious he was skilled but having seen her own brother in the lines Clary suddenly longed for the joust to be over.
From what Isabelle and Jace had told her of the boy they both loved as a brother, Clary had grown to like the sulky, staunchly honourable Alec. To her left, Isabelle was leaning forward on her stool. She gripped the armrest of Clary's chair so tightly that her knuckles protruded and bleached the skin around them.
Alec had mimicked Jonathan in turning to his sister for favour. Her blue silk tie fluttered on the end of the lance.
"He rides well," Clary whispered to her friend in desperate encouragement.
Izzy shook her head silently, mouth pressed into a frightened line.
The two visors clicked as they were flicked forward once more. The two riders took up their positions as a hush fell over the stands.
"The Prince will win, he has to." Isabelle replied in a tight, strained voice, "Please God, my brother is not too badly hurt."
The flag was dropped and the two charged, every pounding stride drawn out as the gap between them closed. Lances levelled. Clary's breath caught.
At the last minute, Isabelle gasped and looked away, eyes screwed tightly shut.
The clattering thud as Alec hit the earth was drowned out by the roaring delight of the crowd for their Prince.
Jonathan tore off his helm to reveal his pale blond hair stuck to his head with sweat and a triumphant beam. He cantered along the stands in his victory parade.
Daring to open her eyes at last, Isabelle sprang to her feet and raced to the edge of the box, all composure forgotten.
Clary hurried on to her feet after Isabelle, either to rush to her aid or spare her the humiliation of being chastised for rising while her mistress was still seated. For a moment, Clary genuinely thought she would have to restrain her lady from climbing out of the box and rushing to her brother's side.
Mercifully, Alec was back on his feet. He seemed relatively unharmed, although he was pressing a hand to his shoulder and limping as he shuffled out of the lines.
Reaching a relieved Isabelle, the Princess caught at her friend's trailing sleeve, "Look! He is unharmed!" She declared and started to pull the taller girl back to their seats. It was then that she realised she was not the only one who had rushed to comfort Isabelle.
For the first time in days, Clary was eye to eye with Jace Herondale, and his gaze did not skim away immediately from hers while he stood with a hand on Isabelle's other arm.
One glance, and she forgave his abandonment and dismissed all his estranging courtesy. Clary was gazing into his eyes like some dolt of moonstruck maid, frozen on the spot and yet warmed by his stare. Feeling the intensity of that heady gold gaze on her, Clary finally realised why she had been so drawn to the amber earrings she now wore, why she had been so insistent more of them trim her hood.
Jace inclined his head, and if her whimsical mind hadn't completely run away with her, he looked as though he dearly wanted to speak to her.
The moment ended abruptly with Isabelle disentangling herself and pulling Clary along in her retreat.
Forcing herself to turn her back on Jace, Clary found herself locking gazes once again, but this time with her father, who had observed the whole commotion without a word or a move.
Clary tensed in anticipation of his displeasure for impending his view of his son's triumph.
Instead, Valentine gave his daughter a little conspiratorial smile, as if he knew exactly the kind of friendship that had flourished between his daughter and his former ward. Like he knew exactly how her heart skipped a beat at a look from Jace Herondale, how her whole body was doused in elated heat at a smile.
The King watched it all with an understanding smile of his own.
As though he knew her very worst secret and had promised to keep it.
-0000000000000-
The great hall was ablaze with light by the time the long June dusk eventually surrendered to night. Every candelabra glowing bright, catching on the gems and jewels of the couples on the floor. Their sparkling light spun off the dancers and twirled around the walls in a rival dance.
Once the dinner plates had been cleared away, the King had called for the musicians. Now his rich, attractive, stylish court leapt and spun and clapped to the tune he set with enthusiastic compliance.
The royal children had been the first couple on the floor.
Jace knew from Isabelle's alternating impatience and enthusiasm that the Princess and her ladies had been engaged in two gruelling dance lessons leading up to the revels. Very little of her earliest sessions with a dance master as a child had stayed with Clary. She had been forced to endure a series of drills in order to participate suitably in the festivities.
It seemed they had agreed on a dance both partners could manage, the pavane. Traditional, yet still sophisticated. The slow gait left little room for mistake.
It was rather unnecessary to Jace's eyes. Anyone could see the Princess had a good hold on the rhythm. For someone who had only managed a handful of hours of dance instruction after a decade away from the court, she might even be considered very good. With the right partner-
Jace Herondale, the ambassador, had no right whatsoever to consider who her dance partners were. It should not matter to him that her grip on her brother was loose as she moved or that her body was too tense and wooden as she circled the floor.
All well and good that he noticed this was just like her fear of riding. No matter than Jace noticed Clary's first reaction to situations where she felt lost and out of control was to seize up. It was of less consequence that he knew once she relaxed into her own skin she could conquer most things.
Jace's hands certainly should not long to steer her with more grace and confidence. He should not long to murmur an encouragement in her ear and enjoy having her slim waist under his hand.
Once the dance ended, Clary returned to her seat and seemed determined to stay there for the rest of the evening. She was engaging herself in a serious looking discussion with Lucian Graymark. Santiago hovered nearby and tried to catch her attention.
Gratifying as it would be to watch the Spaniard's embassy enjoy the same success his master's holding of Turin, Jace knew he needed to get his eyes of her.
He needed to follow through on the promises he had made to himself. It was time to stop dwelling on the girl herself and focus on the bigger picture; Clary's marriage. Things were going so well for them now, even with Prince Jonathan now notably against him. His Highness still owed Jace for his silence over what had happened with the peasants. And the more important person, his father had been looking favourably on Jace and his embassy since Oldcastle.
Jace ought to start feeling more optimistic, and thus more determined. But a scorned Kaelie had been reluctantly summoned to her husband's deathbed, so there were no more distractions. Even when she returned, it would not be as his friend. They had not parted amicably.
Again, of little consequence.
Jace needed to stop worrying about these women.
He needed to get his focus back, and his ambition. He needed to clear his head and put his feet firmly back on the ground. In order to do so, he needed to speak with Alec.
Jace knew better than to look for him amid the lords and ladies now enjoying a carefully choreographed galliard. He began scanning the fringes of the floor for the sight of a familiar dark head. Instead, he caught the eye of the King himself, reclining on his throne in a debonair navy satin. Lifting his hand, Valentine crooked a finger at Jace.
Apprehension fizzing in his gut, Jace approached the monarch in carefully measured strides before bending to the appropriately submissive bow. He felt the Princess turn her own head away from Graymark's to watch him from her seat beside Valentine.
Jace dared not meet her eye, fixing his attention obediently on the King, but he felt her beseeching curiosity melt away his determination instantly. He used the King's initial gap of silence before addressing him to chance a look sideways at Clary.
"Herondale."
"Your Majesty."
"You enjoyed the joust?"
"Very much so, Sire."
The Princess made some reply Jace could not hear to whatever Graymark said to her.
"Not as much as you would have done were you a participant, I daresay."
Jace had not thought that his frustration at being restricted to the stands was so obvious, "I suppose so."
"Your friend Lord Alexander has a talent, but then I suppose he has had the practise of riding against you."
"Once or twice," Jace admitted, "Though the main victor in France is the King's younger son, the Duke of Orleans as the Dauphin-"
"Tell me, why did you not ride today?"
Jace's lips pressed shut in confusion. The first real attempt he'd made in days to fulfil his commission and do his job properly and Valentine seemed set to waylay him? Was the King of Idris himself deviating the conversation from his daughter's possible bridegroom? Valentine pressed on, curling his forefinger against his chin in a pensive expression, "Most jousts see the appearance of a mystery knight or two. The boy I knew would have concealed his identity, procured a set of armour and a lance from somewhere and triumphed in the joust like a hero in one of those troubadour tales he was so fond of." He chucked softly, "You nagged at me to let you ride in tournaments all the time when you were a boy. You refused to see your tender years a setback. I am surprised that today, with age no longer an obstacle, you let the opportunity pass."
Jace felt his cheek fight against a wince, simultaneously touched and embarrassed by the King's memories of his over-eager child self, "Ah, I felt I had antagonised His Highness enough of late. I suspect the Prince would not take too kindly to being upstaged on his own day."
"You think you could best my Jonathan?" Valentine did not sound angry or insulted, just inquisitive, as though this were a question he would dearly like the answer to.
"I know not Your Majesty. The Prince is clearly very skilled" Jace said as smoothly as possible.
The King laughed again, a little louder and more earnestly this time, "How foolish of me to ask for a direct answer from a diplomat!"
Unsure of what to say, Jace smiled half-heartedly and held his silence.
To his left, Clary's attention flickered back to him once again. She seemed torn between listening properly to what Luke had to say to her and eavesdropping on her father's conversation. Not that Jace could blame her, he had been trying to overhear her discussion too, but was struggling to make sense of it, having heard names like Ragnor Fell and George Penhallow thrown about alongside other dominant court members. As to what might link them Jace could not fully deduce while trying to pick his words with Valentine.
"No matter," The King concluded dropping his hand back to the armrest and running his thumb over the ring of state on his index finger, "We shall find another use for you this evening."
"Majesty?"
"You have spent ample time at the French court to learn a few dances I daresay, Monsieur Herondale?" Before Jace's mind could turn the corner in the conversation long enough to frame a reply, the King had moved on, "Lead my daughter in the next dance."
It was spoken like an invitation, but even with the velvety charm in his words Jace could tell this was not one Valentine would have him refuse. Nor was he sure he wanted to.
Clary's eyes shot from Jace to Valentine, face blank with horror, "But Father I-"
The King's hand flew up to silence her, forehead rumpling at her audacious protestation.
The Princess resorted to a desperate glance at Graymark, who stepped forward to rest his hand on the back of the King's chair and intervene as tactfully as possible, "Your Majesty, is that prudent? When one considers how it would look to the other diplomats?"
Valentine was not inclined to consider anything, waving away his advisor's counsel impatiently, "Dance with her" he repeated his offer, with smooth insistence, eyes never leaving Jace.
Forcing himself to hold the unresponsive mask Valentine had taught him to wear, Jace bowed again in compliance.
He turned to the Princess, who regarded him white-faced, lifting his hand and offering it to her, palm up. "Would you do me the honour, Madam?"
Clary swallowed visibly, twinkling stones bobbing at her throat. Her eyes were boring into him, questioning and pleading all at once. Jace did not lower his gaze or his hand.
He watched the challenge, the plea and then the promise pass between them. After what felt like the longest moment of his life, she placed her thin, fine fingers in his and rose.
"Another pavane." the King called to his musicians as Jace led Clary to the floor, past the appalled rage of Santiago, who made a noise of disgust as they passed then stormed for the exit, probably to write an especially unpleasant letter to his master.
The reception from the nobles was not much better. A hush fell over the room and all previous dancing halted. Several noses crinkled in distaste and hands were hastily lifted to mouths to shield the frantic whispers darting from ear to ear. Jonathan Morgenstern looked as though his anger was such that the rich food he had consumed at dinner might make a reappearance. That should have been a gratifying experience, or at least made Jace fear for the welfare of his shoes which would be his target.
But as they waded through the disapproval of the frozen revellers, he could not take his eyes off Clary. She was clinging to his hand with a deathly tight grip. "I hardly know the steps," She confessed.
Jace dropped his hand to her silken waist and turned her to face him.
"We focused on the dance with my brother, I had not thought to dance beyond that."
"Relax. The pavane is very slow and very simple. Follow my lead."
Other couples resumed their opening positions around them.
Jace bowed to her out of courtesy, lips skimming the smooth skin on the back of her hand as he placed the expected kiss before rising. As he did so, he brushed by her ear with a final assurance, "Trust me."
The strength of Clary's gaze on him did not wane, not even as she dipped her head to the smallest of nods and the music struck up.
With a little direction and encouragement Clary danced quite nicely indeed. She slowly loosened her desperate grasp on him as her confidence grew. The cloud of her doubt lifted. It was hardly the most exciting of dances, even with her brother a step behind and subtly glowering at them.
The lack of complex movements however enabled Clary to do the one thing Jace would rather she wouldn't: speak to him.
"Am I very dreadful?"
"Not at all. I watched you dance with your brother, and if I may be so bold, you certainly have the potential to-"
"I did not solely mean the dance. Have I offended you in some way?" Clary enquired without turning her head towards him, sticking rigidly to the structure of the dance.
"Offended me? No, quite the opposite."
"Then why have you been avoiding me?" Jace fell to his knees in a stubborn silence, forcing himself to look amicably up at her while she circled around, neatly transferring her hand from one of his to the other as she completed the turn.
"I have not been avoiding you, Madam. Here I am, your dutiful servant. As always."
"My servant?"
"Indeed, and your most humble advisor," He tried to keep his voice brisk with purpose.
"Hmmm. So, with my marriage in your hands, I turn to you on matters of the heart," she noted wryly. Clary tutted impatiently as he rose and continued their measured pacing to the music. "Then I must say you have been a poor councillor for you have been avoiding me. You no longer seek out my company as you used to."
"Your company is much sought after, Your Highness, and I-"
"Don't call me that!" She snapped with a ferocity that startled even herself.
"What else would you have me call you?" Jace demanded as his own irritation struck up, "It is your title."
"I would have you call me Clary, as you used to. I would have you call upon me, as you used to. Above all, I would have us be friends again." Her voice was hollow with real hurt, "I honestly believed us friends at last, Jace. I so wanted to be your friend again. I thought that even as everything else I once had is soon to be lost, we had achieved that."
"What else are you to lose?" Jace demanded, "You are a Princess of Idris and soon after you marry, God willing, you will be a Princess of France."
"But I will never see my mother again. I doubt I will even get to say goodbye. When the court summons came our parting was so sudden. Now I doubt she will leave the convent to see me off, even when matters in my marriage are settled. Then, I will be sent away. I won't see anyone or anything from here ever again. You spoke of how if we succeeded you would be my only friend in France. You spoke true and now… well I took comfort in that. I thought that I could survive life at a foreign court if I had you there. Someone I knew I could trust."
"You can trust me." Jace insisted, "It will not all be losses. You shall gain a husband," As he tried to console her, he realised how fragile a comfort that was. But he had to persist, "With him you will have a new family and a new country."
"Both of whom will be suspicious of me, a foreigner who enters into the match with her own loyalties and her own agenda. And what if I don't have sons? What if they all die and I'm only left with girls? Or worse, what if I have no children at all and my husband hates me?"
"Clary!" Jace admonished, struck by the depth and force of her fears, "He will not hate you! No man could ever hate you!"
"How can you be so sure?" She asked almost inaudibly, lowering her head as the dance ended and was met with a smattering of applause.
Jace did not relinquish his hold on her, though he knew he had already pushed his luck too far for one day. He leaned forward instead to speak to her fervently, "I know because I tried. God knows I have tried to hate you. Things would have been so much easier that way. But I cannot. Not even slightly."
She peered up at him with glossy eyes and a breathless smile, squeezing his fingers back firmly before she let them go. "Well then, Monsieur. If you cannot hate me I suppose you will have to try and lo-"
"Your Highness, Excellence." Clary broke off and Jace started at the unfamiliar voice behind them, turning his head to encounter one of the King's pages. "His Majesty would like a private word, Monsieur."
Jace nodded, glancing over at Clary whose expression had frozen over once again, only two splotches of colour across her cheeks to evidence how close they had come to sentiment. She gave him another shy smile and signalled her dismissal, "You must not keep His Majesty waiting."
Jace was left to reluctantly and warily follow the page into the King's private chambers.
He wondered at what point His Majesty had decided to retire. How much of the dance he had insisted upon had Valentine watched?
Jace feared what was to come, for he had been impertinent. This was surely the reckoning. Had Jace really been stupid enough to think Valentine would set him anything more than a test? Everything with Valentine was an experiment; he liked to throw scenarios and trials at people to measure their reaction to assess their worth.
The doors to the inner chambers were pushed open and Jace was left alone with Valentine Morgenstern.
This was a great deal more casual than he had expected. Valentine was standing by the fire with a book in his hand. The last time he had been alone with the man he had always considered his father, Jace had been told that a home had been found for him in Adamant and that he would not remain in the city of his childhood.
On that occasion, the King had been every bit as casual, though then he had been much sterner faced. Tonight, Valentine closed his book abruptly and smiled at Jace, making him relax instantly. "Jonathan, thank you for joining me."
Jace tried to return the smile and then look as nonchalant as possible while he waited for Valentine to get to the point. "I wanted-nay, needed- to thank you properly for what you did for my daughter. To you I could well owe her life." He smiled again, charming as ever before his face darkened, "I would also put your mind at ease by having you know that there will be repercussions for those who dared to raise a hand against my daughter and challenged my reign. The rebels will be severely punished."
Jace wanted to protest that he doubted the mob was composed more of desperate men than rebels, but Valentine had not yet finished speaking. "Yet some good has come out of it. You have proved both your courage and loyalty to me, and to my family. I told you it would not be forgotten." He reached out and caught Jace by the arm. Jace fought to keep his face blank and his breathing regular.
Was he to rewarded? Acknowledged and given his rightful place at last? Even as the possibility occurred to him, Jace recognised the look on the King's face. He would have to do more than save the Princess's life if he wanted to be the Duke of Broceland and openly regarded as third in line to the throne. Clearly, Valentine had a better idea.
"You have done me a great service and so I will do one for you in return." He paused, expecting some input or gratitude, Jace was not sure which. All he did know was that most of his thoughts were still back in the hall, with the girl who had distracted him for days. The woman whom he longed to speak to but dared not, at least not in the way he wanted to.
"A service, Your Majesty?"
"Indeed, Jonathan. I am going to make you a promise, here tonight," he gestured towards the book in his hand and Jace recognised it as none other than the King's personal Bible. "A promise on the Holy Bible itself that you may have from me one favour. One wish, whatever it may be, and if it is in my power to make your desire come about it shall happen."
Thy will be done, Jace thought dizzily as Valentine pressed his hand firmly on the well-loved Latin cover and fixed an earnest stare on the diplomat.
"So, then Jonathan, what would you have of me?"
Jace could hardly think. His mind was crammed with possibilities. "Anything, Sire?" he questioned sceptically.
"You doubt me? You think I would play the man who saved my child false?"
Jace shook his head humbly then glanced up at Valentine once again. He had learned many things from this man and the dangers of trust had been one of them. "Majesty, forgive me. Your generosity is beyond what I could have ever hoped for. It is not in my nature to trust such goodness; I have seen so little of it."
Valentine smirked, "You always were an intelligent boy. But you should put your reservations aside, for I swear on all the saints and on the holy angels I will be true in this. There, you see? A sacred oath I would never break. I am trusting you in return, trusting you not to harm me or mine in what you demand."
Jace nodded, still struggling to separate one coherent request from another. The first and most obvious option was to do his job. To secure the success of his mission and ask Valentine to make his daughter the Dauphine, so he and the Lightwoods could all go home with royal approval and begin new, better lives. That was what Jace ought to do. It was the safest thing to do, knowing that Francois would also reward him in turn. He would secure a future for himself in France. Why then did his lips not form the words?
Jace never had been very good at playing it safe.
Part of him couldn't ask Valentine to complete his mission for him, because he had a good chance of success anyway and couldn't bring himself to squander his wish. Moreover, he was loath to give Valentine all the credit for the match. If he was going to bring this embassy to a success it would be because of his own merits and abilities, not because of one reckless decision that had paid off and some contraption of Verlac's. Jace was good at his job, at what he did. He needed this to be his success as a diplomat, not a fortunate mistake.
Perhaps he should ask for his father's title and his lands back, then. Jace thought of how his heart had soared only minutes ago at the prospect, how he had hoped himself that it would be the outcome of this meeting. That too could give him a future and standing at court, albeit a different one. It was only fair, that Jace be absolved of his father's crimes. It was not just to deny him his inheritance as punishment for crime committed even before he was born.
Again, Jace he could not make himself say the words.
What then? What else could he possibly want that Valentine could give? Was he still reluctant to deal with Valentine because he doubted the King's sincerity? Jace wanted to pound his head off a doorframe until he could clear it of all the confusion and fretting.
"Must I decide now?" Jace asked at last, bartering for time.
The King smiled once again, voicing his agreement happily. "But of course, Jonathan. I did always consul you against rash decisions."
Jace laughed drily at the reminder, rubbing his hands over his chin with relief, "I never did heed you."
"You are still young and learning," Valentine conceded, "Think about what I may do for you, my boy. Now, there is just one other matter I would speak with you on."
-000000000000000-
Slipping away from the revels was surprisingly easy for Clary once her father had vacated his position of honour. After it had become clear His Majesty would not be returning that evening, most of the older party guests disappeared to their own apartments. The youngsters of the court were left to run rampant. And run rampant they would, but later. When even the Princess and those of her ladies who still had a care for their reputations were safely tucked up in bed.
Presently, that Princess rose from her seat and inched away from her father's unoccupied throne toward the door.
Clary could try to tell herself she was looking for Isabelle, who had done her own disappearing act some half hour before. She could try to tell herself that she only being a reasonably concerned mistress. That she had merely noticed her lady's absence and, having her own suspicions about Izzy's unauthorised comings and goings for weeks, was determined to see Isabelle did not get up to any mischief. Somehow, at this point Clary was beyond pretending to herself.
Clary knew in her heart, as she slipped out of the hall and began to weave her way through narrow, stone-lined corridors and winding stairs toward the King's rooms, that she was looking for Jace.
She wanted to continue their conversation from earlier. Nor could she ignore the sense of unease that had clung to her from the very moment Jace had been dragged before the King. None of this boded well; not the inexplicably obligatory dance, not the knowing looks from her father, not Jace's new sincerity and consideration, none of it. If her father suspected even for a second- She needed to see Jace, now. She needed to find out what was going on.
It was only as she passed a supposedly empty room that a noise like a laugh diverted her attention. Curiosity triumphing over her impatience to find Jace, Clary plucked her skirts back and peeked around an ajar door. Her thoughts were automatically arrested by the peculiar sight before her.
Rather ironically, as she had gone rushing to Izzy earlier and found herself standing before Jace, now she was trying to seek out the ambassador she had found Isabelle. And in a position significantly less compromising than what she might have expected, but still infinitely shocking.
Izzy was dancing, which would not have been remarkable- had she not departed the main hall of noble revellers to do so in an empty by-chamber with Simon Lewis.
Clary looked at the couple with startled eyes. She blinked incredulously and stared again, but no part of the scene before her altered. The boy hand clasped with Isabelle and shifting his weight in uncertain steps remained her oldest friend, and though she knew him better than anyone she still could not believe her eyes. It was like finding Cleopatra in a painting with the Virgin Mary.
Isabelle giggled softly, a shrill, girlish sound Clary would never have associated with her, tugging on Simon's fingers gently as she corrected their stance. Simon was clearly not going to grasp the courtly steps with his awkward swaying and stumbling. He gave up, swinging his arms around in deliberately ludicrous manner and grinning at her. After some initial protest Isabelle too surrendered to Simon's new fool's dance, even laughing with him.
Clary hastily shrank back and closed the door over out of fear they would spot her. She had not seen Simon look so carefree in a very long time, and she had never seen Isabelle act the happy fool like that. The last thing she wanted to do was reveal herself and spoil everything.
Retracing her steps back to the stairs Clary shook her head with disbelief, rather thrilled with whatever it was exactly she had almost interrupted.
Turning her way into a deserted gallery, still wearing a small smile, she stopped in her tracks once again. This time, because she had found who was looking for.
Jace stood very still, staring at a faded tapestry, lost in his own thoughts. He was running anxious hands through his already messy hair, hat apparently abandoned somewhere long ago.
"Jace!"
The ambassador started at her voice, dropping his hands and turning to face her very slowly, his skin pale in the gloom and eyes wide.
"What are you doing up here by yourself?" she demanded, approaching him.
"Thinking of you." He cleared his throat then, raising a hand to the dishevelled blond curls once again, "Your Highness."
The formality stopped her in her tracks. What in the name of God had prompted her to presume such familiarity? A dance her father had insisted upon, a shared look at a joust, a handful of borrowed books? Jace was, as he told her, an advisor. Nothing more.
Clary's heart took no heed of that, hammering on defiantly as she locked her fingers together and tried to bridle her thoughts.
"It grows late. You should retire, Princess. I daresay the Marchioness is looking for you."
"The Marchioness has gone to bed herself long ago with a toothache. And we have already established that I have a certain fondness for night time wandering." That sounded dreadfully forward, but Clary was already determined to say whatever she had to in order to tempt out a smile. If needs must, any further insinuation of unchaste behaviour from the fellow could be successfully reprimanded with another slap. It would not be necessary tonight, she sensed, as Jace's eyes seemed to drink her in, scanning her as though she were the last mouthful of water he would swallow before setting out into the wilderness.
Clary moved closer to him, slowly closing the gap between their bodies. She stopped mere inches from him, green eyes unwittingly drawing in gold.
"Clary," her name fell into the silence, soft and rolling with his accent. Not her title, but her name. Clary found herself remembering the two strangers who had met in a similar corridor, thinking of the sparks that had flown and the boy who had cared what her name was before he knew her title. The boy who had smiled on her and stopped her fall only to trigger a far more dangerous plummet. The one she was right on the edge of, watching his lips form her name.
"Clary," He spoke again, more determinedly and she recognised at last that Jace was trying to tell her something, "I have- you will-" The right words eluded him. Whatever fleeting sense of duty that had stirred the attempt was forsaken. "I am so sorry."
Clary parted her own lips, initially to ask what exactly he had to apologise for now, but somehow the words never reached her lips. The sight of him standing there with that lost expression was enough to strengthen the resolve that had been building.
She knew she could not change her fate. Clary knew that her bridegroom may not be set in stone, but nothing about her marriage or future was her decision. Just because the destination was non-negotiable did not mean she couldn't alter the journey. She was sick of being pushed around board of politics. Once, just once, Clary wanted to choose her next move.
To have control, even if only for a moment.
She stepped forward, thoughts empty of anything but Jace. Clarity or insanity, however you wished to turn it.
Then there was no space between them at all. Clary was tilting her head back and tipping her weight forward onto her toes, pushing herself upward until she was touching her mouth to his.
Jace's lips were unexpectedly gentle and undemanding on hers, yet the contact was enough to send a frantically sizzling heat through Clary's veins. It shattered the dreamlike quality of the whole encounter. Suddenly she was kissing him properly, feeling him, tasting him. Unthinkable as kissing Jace had once seemed, the possibility of his responding as he now did surely must be.
It ought to wake Clary up or bring her to her senses. But if any part of her registered that this was utter folly, she ignored it.
She leaned into Jace further, reaching for him as a flower will tilt and grow in search of sunlight. His arms were making their way to her waist and Clary's fingers skimmed the smooth velvet edges of his robes as she stretched out her hands towards him. Perhaps she meant to shove him away, only to cling to him. She folded her fingers in the fabric and drew him closer still.
He let her go, releasing her just as swiftly as he had grasped her.
Clary managed a single unsteady step backwards. She was staring up at a dazed Jace, who looked as though he had just been jolted out of some reverie, precisely how Clary felt. She strove to find the words that would recapture the moment, recast the spell, but he beat her to it.
"I am so sorry," Jace repeated breathlessly.
He was long gone before Clary could catch either her breath or her thoughts, leaving her alone and confused with only an abandoned cap and her own pounding heart.
-00000000000-