Chapter 10: Desires
Bellgate, The Lakelands, Early July 1536
By now Clary should have been less taken aback by such surprises.
The court had removed to Idris's southern lakelands for the hottest months of the year. As June turned to July, the heatwave and general sluggishness of noble life encouraged many to dally in complacence.
The King had a week ago announced he was travelling back to the edges of Broceland forest, to pursue some of the game surrounding his woods and stay in his private hunting lodge. Valentine left his daughter at Bellgate, departing with a select group of companions. Among them was his son and the three envoys.
Santiago had been most vocal in his affront at the unseemly display at the Prince's birthday. He had expressed this displeasure, and that of his master, to a privately indifferent and impatient Valentine who became publicly shocked and remorseful. The Scottish ambassador hastily added the King of Scotland was not thrilled either, though Clary suspected he was bluffing. James Stuart likely cared not one whit who Clarissa danced with or even who she married; he had already made an alliance with France, the support of whom depended on his willingness to marry a Valois Princess. Idris would have to offer one hell of a dowry if they wanted Clary enthroned at Edinburgh.
Valentine extended his invitation to the hunt to smooth relations between all diplomatic parties once again.
Yet, the worries of her father were not to be Clary's, not entirely. Now she was on good speaking terms with Lord Carstairs and with thanks to Helen, her father, the Duke of Lyn her father, Clary hoped that the King would be suitably swayed in the desired direction. Even with Luke and Jace currently riding with His Majesty, she found herself feeling positive. She had to trust that the matter of her marriage to her allies and hope for a favourable outcome.
With so many of the noblemen away with the King, Clary found herself at the head of a lady's court. She could pretend the men would never return; that she would rule her little kingdom by the lakes in the unending summer days, never troubled by word of a husband or duty again.
The Duke of Lyn's central residence here at Bellgate was beautiful, situated right on the edge of the lake. It seemed all of its bright, open rooms had a view of the waters. With the Duke's sizeable brood of children currently at one of his other houses, the mansion at Bellgate was peaceful and perfect for Clary's intentions. With no Jonathan to disturb her, and no Jace to distract her, the young princess spent her days in the south in sweet indolence.
Clary could spend the warm mornings drifting though the abundant summer gardens before seeking out the cooler indoors in the simmering afternoons to enjoy poetry and music. On the days of milder heat, she went boating on the sparkling expanse of Lake Lyn. They glided over the gently bobbing waves, where Clary could trail her fingers in the blessedly cold waters and admire the rays of sunlight glittering in the depth. Lounging on the pebbled beach, she drew the lake as a rival night sky, lights shining through the glassy water like little stars trapped in the waves.
In the evenings, Clary feasted on the finest fish and waterfowl the lakes could offer. The long summer nights she spent in song and dance. She mastered several more court dances and encouraged travelling minstrels to come from afar to play for her.
Without the presence of men, Clary even persuaded her ladies to relax from their rigid etiquette. On the hottest day of the year, they found themselves reclining in the gardens with long sleeves rolled up, hoods and caps long ago discarded as they weaved flower crowns.
Through which Clary had unwittingly suggested to her household that the rules of propriety were flexible.
It was her fault that two of her ladies could so forget themselves. The night before her father's return, Clary entered the bedchamber two of her unmarried companions shared, to hurry them to supper. What she witnessed between them was much more than a friendly caper, of that even Clary in her convent-kept innocence was sure.
But she did not how to proceed. How was she supposed to broach the topic with Helen and Aline? She was doubtless expected to reprimand them, but Clary had no idea how to do that either. It was too embarrassing.
The morning of the King's return, Isabelle- who missed very little, had finally decided to challenge her on the new aloofness with Helen.
"What is it?" She quizzed the Princess over the new altar cloth they were stitching. "Have you been offended by Lady Helen in some way? She no longer sits with us as she used to, and she barely spoke to me at breakfast. Is it the Duke? Has he failed you? Have you lost the Dauphin?"
Her fretting was understandable. Isabelle had identified the most logical reason for her mistress's displeasure. And she had a personal stake in the success of the French suit too. Those fears at least, Clary could soothe, "Nay, the Dauphin remains a promising suitor. But I suppose I have been given cause for offence, in a way."
"How so?"
Clary lowered the gold thread in her hand and scanned the room to ensure everyone was engrossed in the tasks she had set them, and that her murmur could not be heard over Simon's strumming. In a hurried, mortified outpour she admitted to what she had witnessed.
At her conclusion, Isabelle exhaled a breathless burst of laughter.
Clary scowled, fighting to keep her voice down, "How can you laugh? At such…impropriety!"
"You truly think it so?"
Clary's cheeks flamed, "I know little of what occurs in the marital bed, but I do know there are things which should only occur in a marriage bed. Things which I did not even think could occur-" she hissed in disbelief- "with a woman."
Isabelle had to smother a caterwaul of laughter. "My God, Clary. There is much, much more that can occur in a bed beyond the begetting of heirs."
Clary's face got hotter still. She knew not how to respond to that. She had heard enough innuendo and bawdy jokes since arriving at court to surmise as much. She knew very little of the practicalities of marriage. Well, the practicality- sex. She did know that the scriptures were clear on the subject- only between a man and woman in marriage and only for the purpose of having children.
"You do not seem surprised to hear of Helen and Aline's transgressions."
Izzy shrugged, "I thought it rather obvious it was more than friendship between them. I thought anyone with eyes might be able to guess what Helen and Aline are inseparable. Anyway, it cannot be the first time two girls have taken advantage of the obligatory sleeping arrangements for unwed maidens at court. Think you not it would be far worse if you had discovered Helen with a man on her bed? That you could not tolerate, I grant you. It would risk her being unwed and with child."
Clary was sure if her face got any hotter it would start to cast off steam. "You think I should tolerate this then? Ignore it and be thankful it will not get either of them with child?"
Isabelle shrugged again, neatly perfecting her pattern and laying down her needle, "I do not presume to instruct you. I only advise with what I would do in your position."
"Which is?"
She sighed. "You will learn that as a wife and queen there are certain scenarios in which you shall have to learn to be blind to things. For women sex and marriage must be one and the same. But men can have sex as well as marriage. Do you understand? As a wife, as a queen, you must be blind to any of your husband's…." she groped for a delicate word, "-indiscretions. I told you that I do not think Francois would be so callous, but I cannot make guarantees. Arranged marriages are not founded on love. Fidelity is not expected of kings, just their queens. So you would be expected to pretend you see nothing at all. No pretty gifts your ladies suddenly sport that the allowance you pay them could not purchase. No women His Grace seems to seek out the company of when he visits your rooms. No unfamiliar and beautiful faces that secure a place in your household without the breeding or wealth required. Above all, you make no recognition of any children running about the palaces with your husband's eyes or his nose. Not unless he tells you he wishes for you to. "
It was all stated so matter-of-factly that Clary was left with no choice but to nod grimly. She had heard some variation of this before from her mother. Like most things she had been taught to expect of a royal station and marriage, it was easier to swallow in theory.
Clary was not stupid enough to expect her future spouse would never betray her, but she could at least pray she would never have to suffer the humiliation of a publicly flaunted mistress.
Neither did it escape her that a frenzied fury rose with Isabelle's voice as she spoke of mistresses. Not for the first time, she wondered how her friend had so much knowledge of such matters.
God. One moral crisis at a time. "I fail to see what that has to do with Lady Aline and Lady Helen."
Isabelle scoffed, "I am advising you, Your Highness, to start practicing that kind of ignorance now. Ignore it. I cannot see why it should bother you or indeed anyone. Neither lady is married or promised to anyone. Unless you yourself have a liking to one of them, I fail to see who it wounds."
While Clary could find nothing to say to that, the matter was closed.
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The King and his entourage strode into the great hall early in the afternoon.
Jonathan found himself in fine spirits, even with the prospect of a reunion with his sister looming. The trip had been a success in many ways. Not only had the hunting been good, but he'd managed to evade any kind of suspicion for what happened at Oldcastle.
Once His Majesty had been installed at his lodge a small party, headed by Jonathan, were dispatched to Oldcastle to bring the King's justice.
There would be no more trouble at Oldcastle, the Crown Prince had seen to that. Any evidence of his scheme had been buried with the bodies of those townspeople he had chosen at random to hang for their treason. His confidence had only grown upon return to his father, where he had found a grey faced yet mercifully silent Herondale on the edge of the party, skulking around with Lord Alexander.
Jonathan had tried to befriend the heir to Adamant at his father's behest, but he failed to see how Valentine's policy of buttering up the next Earl was going to help him gain his lands for Idris. They would still have to fight France to put the little province under Idrisian rule, and Jonathan could not fathom how his father was going to manage that. Even with his own daughter as the Dauphine, Clary would never hold enough influence at the French court to prevent a retaliation.
No one conquered a land by sweet talk and bribery. As grandson to a King who owed his crown to conquest, Valentine ought to know that.
With Oldcastle smouldering, the only other loose end to Jonathan's ruse was Sebastian. He could rely upon Verlac's silence. The young Earl of Burchetten had long ago pinned his hopes on Jonathan's rising star. Being of an age, the duo had been running in the same circles since early adolescence. Sebastian and gone out of his way to capture the Prince's attention and then his trust. He could trust in Verlac to do his bidding, and even to hatch schemes with him. The two were alike in their unwavering ambition; when they knew what they wanted they were ruthless. Be it drinking, whoring, or toppling an enemy, Sebastian Verlac was the man Jonathan Morgenstern wanted at his side.
The only remaining threat to Jonathan's exposure was Jace Herondale. He had been waiting the entire trip to get the damned ambassador on his own, to give him the cautionary words that would shut his mouth permanently, but he had yet to find the chance. He was constantly in someone's company; either Alec's or one of those other two ambassadors, Lucian Graymark, John Carstairs, even Andrew Blackthorn.
All lords who were now openly in favour of the French match. Herondale must be bribing them or buying their support in some way. But with what? What the devil could Jace have that could persuade two such powerful men to back him in his diplomatic endeavours? Soft spot the Earl of Chene may have for anyone with Jace's surname, but that alone would not have his pledge. What, then? Some kind of French pension for anyone who would voice their support of Francois's plans? That did not make a great deal of sense either. If the French King were promising coin, he would have not have approached two of the wealthiest men in Idris first.
As the trumpets announced his father's entrance, Jonathan halted his speculating and focused instead on his little sister.
Clary had changed somehow, in the weeks since he had last seen her. The intention at Oldcastle had been to shatter her. Jonathan had succeeded only in stripping away an uncertain, innocent girl and leaving a hardier woman in her place. Her eyes no longer flickered away when she was addressed, she ceased to exude a nervous tension. Life at their father's court and no longer daunted her.
Today she had donned a lighter dress of the palest blue, which worked nicely with the same yellow kirtle and hood she had worn to his joust. Her fiery hair fell unbound and uncovered down her back, to declare her- as yet- unmarried state.
"Your Majesty," she greeted their father with a most welcoming smile as he drew her in to place a fond kiss on her cheek and offer some pleasantry.
Then it was Jonathan's turn. He grasped her thin wrist and twisted her hand to press his lips to the back of it.
"Brother," Clary's smile wavered.
Knowing that his father had moved out of earshot, Jonathan couldn't resist needling her, "I hope you did not feel the pain of my absence too keenly, sister."
The Princess's eyes sparked. The corners of her mouth twitched, "I confess I did rather struggle to cope. The only remedy shall be to separate ourselves more often."
Releasing her hand and grinning in return, Jonathan made off after the King. The sharp little wench could have the final word this time; he had finally spotted Jace standing by himself.
The Prince hurried over to where the ambassador was in the middle of removing his riding gloves, "Your Highness?"
"Herondale, I need a word with you."
"By all means sire." Jace made no effort to disguise the bite in his response. No matter, he would not be smirking much longer.
"It is about all that happened at Oldcastle."
"Surely the last thing you want is me to start talking about what happened at Oldcastle?" Jace peered up at him, darkly pleased with himself and his subtly laid threat.
Jonathan shrugged off the challenge with ease, "On the contrary, say whatever you wish of it." Jace pulled off his cap and ran his hand through his wind tousled hair. His eyes which had been straying to someone over the Prince's shoulder, darted back to the man before him.
"Whatever I wish?" he echoed in disbelief.
"Indeed, Herondale. Surely you do not require me to make it plain why it does not matter at all what you say, or to whom? There are very few who would give credence to anything you say. I expect you would find even fewer who would lend you an ear when you blatantly contradict their Prince. "
Herondale blinked back at him, seemingly only half paying attention. That irked Jonathan even further, he would not have Jace spoiling his moment of triumph. "There could be no proof to enhance your claims. It would be my word against yours, the word of an ambassador against a Prince. Who do you expect would be more widely believed?"
Jace glared back at him, quite speechless. The sight spurred Jonathan on further, chortling roughly at the envoy's thunderous expression. "At any rate, you missed your chance long ago. There is no way my father would pay you any heed now. Did you really imagine I would let you walk around with something that would keep me in thrall to you?" He shook his head and snorted. "Now that there can be no misunderstanding between us, I must go. His Majesty has a great deal of business to attend to. He will want me at hand."
Jonathan's moment of bright glory was instantly tainted as he turned to stride away, only to find himself seeing what Jace had been entranced by throughout their conversation.
Directly in the ambassador's line of sight was none other than Jonathan's dear sister. For all her amicable chatter with Lucian Graymark, Clary could not tear her eyes away from the young envoy either. The two were staring as though it had been years since they had last seen one another, rather than one short week.
Jonathan knew that in the days before their departure the two of them had been growing ever closer. Their new intimacy was traceable through a constant flurry of sly smiles, inside jokes and half-hearted attempts to avoid each other.
Watching Clary watch him with that shy and helpless predilection left a burning, sour taste in Jonathan's mouth.
Did his sister understand nothing? Had she forgotten Herondale's father had tried to usurp theirs? Had she forgotten that Herondale was a nobody now, and she a Morgenstern princess?
Jonathan's plan had been to dispose of the two of them, not let them live and grow fond of one another.
"Your Highness."
Reluctantly he turned back to Jace's grave face and severe stare, "What you did at Oldcastle? Most recently, I mean. That was not how the situation should have been handled."
Amusement and irritation clashed within Jonathan. He loosed a single whoop of laughter, lips tilting into his own finest smirk, "How much plainer must I be with you Monsieur Herondale? No one cares for your opinion."
Truly sick of wasting his time on a Herondale, Jonathan turned away once more and made his way towards his father's solar, reflecting that despite his affected confidence Clary and Jace were bad enough as individual threats. Seeing his two greatest rivals for the throne making puppy dog eyes at one another could not be borne. And it would not be.
He would broach the matter with his father, today, and remind him that it was not appropriate for Clary to so openly favour one diplomatic party.
Then the King would nip this new rebellion in the bud, as speedily and piteously as he had the one at Oldcastle.
Perhaps Jonathan would even get to do the honours again.
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Accepting Valentine's invitation to join in his hunting expedition had seemed like a good idea for so many reasons. Predominantly to put as much distance as possible distance between himself and Clary. Avoiding her after that incredibly foolish kiss had been impossible around court.
Clary had yet to mention the incident to anyone, Jace was certain he would know himself the instant Valentine did. The King's unchanging, tidy courtesy towards Jace assured him of her father's ignorance. If anything, Valentine had been growing warmer in his interactions with the French party, especially now that their arrangement had arisen. The very last thing Jace needed at this moment in time was for Clary to open her mouth and reveal exactly what had happened between them. Though what exactly was happening between them, Jace could not say.
His ingenious plan to absent himself from her presence for a whole week had backfired spectacularly.
Absence did, in fact, make the heart grow fonder.
There had rarely been a moment in the past week when Clary had not occupied his mind. He had lost count of the number of times over the last seven days he had found himself turning to share his amusement with her when Pangborn said something even more unintelligent and self-important than usual. Or how he had listened for her laughter when Blackwell had so cheerfully and determinedly cried that, "I have him Your Majesty" as he charged off after the stag, only to slide fabulously off his horse into a stream, in which he floundered about crying at the top of his lungs that he was drowning until an abashed Starkweather pointed out that all need do was stand up.
How Clary would giggle when he told her! The expectation had fuelled Jace's own laughter, to the point where he had to distance himself from the rest of the lords for the sake of decorum. Alec joined him at the edge of the group in isolation shortly afterwards as he succumbed to one of his own rare fits of mirth. They laughed until they wept.
Their good humour did not last very long. Not once the news of Oldcastle had filtered back to the lodge. Jace doubted that would subdue the people for long, he knew from his own experiences that such Morgenstern callousness would only stimulate a resentment that could burn for years. This would come back to bite them, Jace was sure of it. Beating down dissent never did any good, save provide an immediate remedy. For long term peace, the causes of such discontent needed to be addressed. Jace doubted Valentine and his council would be in any great rush to address the causes of this dissent, when they themselves were the root cause.
He was further sobered by the letter awaiting him when he entered his chamber. He recognised the fleur de lis sealing the parchment instantly. Jace's heart plummeted with guilt as he snapped it open and perused the lines of familiar looping script. Reading his way through Francois Valois's personal thanks for Jace's work at the Idrisian court and with the Princess, Jace felt even guiltier. He had not thought to look for the Dauphin's own words on the matter amongst those of his father, who only ever provided Jace with instructions. It was typical of Francois, he realised now, to feel the need to involve himself. Still, Jace wished he hadn't, for reasons he did not dare to name, not even to himself.
Things had been so much easier when Clarissa Morgenstern had been naught but a name and an elusive lady kept behind locked doors. Somewhere along the line, Francois de Valois had become the one reduced to a name. It was only when Jace entered the Princess's presence chamber to seek her out for his own pleasure and saw the portrait of the Dauphin regarding him reproachfully that he remembered -and then only fleetingly- that there was another very real person on the end of these negotiations. A person he respected and had sworn to serve.
That dammed letter was still playing on his mind well into the small hours of the night.
Yet for all Jace's foul mood, what should have inflamed it- a Morgenstern girl enjoying a summer of pleasure-seeking and revelling in her father's power- proved to be the only balm. Clary was not nearly as light-hearted as she would have a spectator believe, Jace suspected that the faces of her attackers were likely playing in her mind as assuredly as Francois de Valois lingered in his.
He could not even explain himself to Alec, who could see only the good their party seemed to have achieved.
"She likes you." Alec declared, as though this was cause for celebration and not a serious problem for Jace, " Better still, Clary trusts you. Continue to do as you have done, only with more enthusiasm and more frequency. Keep her mind on the Dauphin for a little longer. Now we have Chene and Lyn on our side, I feel our victory is not far off." Alec sounded markedly more relieved than triumphant at the prospect, not that Jace could blame him. With relations between their parents so poor Jace knew that Alec feared for his little brother, who was merely a child of ten, caught in the crossfire. The sooner the matter of Clary's marriage was resolved, the sooner they could all go home. Besides, if Prince Jonathan was vying to be his bosom friend, Jace would wish himself in another country too.
Home.
The word usually summoned Castle Adamant to mind. The place to which they retired from the fervour of the court in Paris. The woods in which he galloped with Alec and Izzy. The hall he dined in with Mayrse and Robert. The garden he chased Max around in games of hide-and-go-seek.
And yet, Jace knew that he had no home. He had lost his family estates when his father's head had rolled. He'd been suffered as a lodger in the royal nursery at Havenfold. The past weeks travelling around the King's various estates and palaces had served to remind Jace of all that he did not have.
Jace had been on the outside so long that he feared he did not know how to belong anywhere, or to anyone.
He had tried to turn his weakness to a strength. He turned his hand to diplomacy. The lack of roots him very good at his job, and the promise of a foreign placement would satisfy his desire to see at least some of the world.
This policy of integrating himself further with Clary was certainly a recipe for disaster. He already liked the Princess far too well, and the more he spent in her company the more that feeling intensified.
Even with the letter from Francois folded up and tucked in his doublet to sober him, Jace knew was losing himself. He had lost himself long ago. Perhaps the second he fished her out of a mob, or the instant she had touched her lips to his.
Desire was not a foreign feeling for him. Every so often, a girl would catch Jace's eye and occupy his mind for a while. Then he would bed her, and after he had her a handful of times, he would not want her anymore. Sometimes they even tired quicker of Jace- of his fickleness and his moods.
Clary was not someone Jace could tumble in a haystack and soon forget. And this did not feel like desire, though he had to admit her kiss had awakened something within him, some beast that must had been slowly stirring for months.
Any sniff of impropriety between the two of them and the game would be over. She, being the King's daughter, would likely be sent back to the convent she came from, only this time she would not be coming out again. No prince would want a bride who would despoil herself with someone as lowly as an ambassador. As for Jace, he would not be walking away from the scandal unscathed. At the very least, he would never work in royal service again; what King would tolerate a man who would dishonour their wives or daughters? The more likely prospect is that he would pay for it with his life. Valentine was not a forgiving monarch.
Jace had always been impulsive, but not on such grave matters. There were certain places he would never go, risks he'd never take, no matter what. Kissing Clarissa Morgenstern should have been one of them.
This was no fickle lust or infatuation. That did not absolve Jace of the insanity of returning that kiss.
It also did not stop him thinking of her.
Jace had forced himself to forget any ties of affection between himself and the Morgensterns, in the interests of self-preservation. He had convinced himself that he had forgotten any fondness he had ever felt for this girl. But things were different now; he had changed and so had she. They were no longer children at innocent games, this something new. Something else, something new, something different. Something dangerous.
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Clary supposed this spot was as good as any. Shielded by the copse of trees to their left, it was unlikely they could be seen from the house. It was also unlikely she'd stumble across many others outdoors at the moment. Not in this heat.
You would have to be mad to insist upon a walk just after noon. Mad or desperate.
Clary pivoted slowly to study the two young women before her on her garden path. Aline Penhallow hastily developed an avid fascination with the ground, but Helen Blackthorn managed to hold her gaze, even as her face started flaming. "Your Highness?"
Helen was a worrier, Clary had noticed. Ever since the unspeakable incident she had been tossing Clary frantic, furtive glances when she thought she was not being observed. On one occasion Clary had emerged from the chapel to find her clutching at her brother's sleeve, only for the two eldest Blackthorns to halt their flurry of whispers at her approach. As if she could not guess the topic of that panicked discussion.
The one person Helen had been careful to avoid in all of this was Aline. In all the time Clary had spent with them since, the two had barely looked at each other. Out of shame, she suspected not. More out of a fear that one wrong move would have Clary snap, and she would expose their secret.
The girls who had once so intimidated her now fell silent when Clary spoke. They obeyed her without a snicker, without a pause, because she was starting to act like a royal. Like a Morgenstern.
The thought itself was incredulous, or rather it should have been. But Clary would never again be the naïve, trusting girl whose only concern was that her translations would satisfy her mother. She was not sure she liked who she could feel herself becoming.
Here Clary was, now the sort of person who was willing to use another's secret to fuel her own darker desires.
Her father's daughter.
"The two of you were raised for a life at the royal court, so clearly you know how to tell people what they want to hear. And you know when and how to hold a silence."
Helen sucked in a breath and Aline slowly dragged her eyes upwards from her own feet.
"Keeping one's mouth shut happens to be a skill I myself am acquiring."
Both Helen and Aline peered at her curiously, still somewhat fearfully. Before she could lose her nerve, Clary pushed out the words she had so carefully rehearsed: "Which is why we are going to arrive at a compromise."
Helen released a tremulous rush of air and her shoulders sank. Aline fell back on her heels so rapidly Clary wondered if she was about to pitch backwards.
"A compromise." Lady Penhallow agreed readily, without hearing the terms.
Helen shot Aline a sideways glance, probably the first time she'd let her eyes stray that direction in days. "A compromise," she echoed a heartbeat later.
"Excellent," Clary chirped, trying to disguise the fact that she was every bit as relieved as her two new bosom friends that her plan had worked. "We cannot be condemned for what we do not know. Henceforth there are to be no questions asked between the three of us," The Princess stated, slicing her eyes between Aline's brown ones and Helen's blue. "The two of you will wait here until I return. As far as anyone else is concerned, you never left my company this afternoon. Understood?"
"Perfectly, my lady."
Clary nodded as matter-of-factly as she could, as though she had just closed a mildly important business deal. Then, praying that her shaking knees could hold her, she turned away again and hurried down the path, leaving her two women alone together. She dared not look back as she reached the water gate, placing her hand over the rough, hot wood and finding it unlocked as promised.
She tried to prepare herself for disappointment as opened the gate and passed through, but her heart was galloping on heedlessly. A condition not helped in the slightest by the sight of Jace Herondale lounging against the stone wall behind him. He too was trying to look as unconcerned as possible, though she did not miss the flaring delight that crossed his face when he caught sight of her.
"You came," she acknowledged breathlessly.
"You asked me to." He answered as though it were the simplest thing in the world and not a ridiculous risk that could cost them everything.
Jace adjusted his stance so one shoulder was pressed against the wall and crossed one leg behind the other, "No one knows that you are here?"
"No one that will say so." Clary hoped she sounded convincing.
His brows lifted, "Making friends all on our own, are we?"
She tutted irritably, rolling her eyes and placing her hands on our hips, "Don't start."
"You are welcome, by the way. Carstairs and Blackthorn are suitably enamoured with your cause. Our cause." He faltered a touch at the end, but fixed a smirk on his lips immediately afterwards and hammered on, "Impressive, I know. Just where would you be without me?" His tone practically oozed arrogance, and Clary was dismayed to see him don the armour she thought she had long ago chipped away.
"Why are you being like this?"
"Why am I here, is the true question." Jace demanded without looking at her, flinging his gaze out over the glimmering water instead.
"Only you can answer that." Clary told him softly.
"Well clearly there is to be no pat on the back and a well done. No matter, I am quite used to it. Diplomacy is all too often a thankless job. Foolish of me to expect any alternate treatment from you. What is the next task to be, Your Highness?" Jace tossed the final two words at her sneeringly and Clary could feel her hackles rising. The only thing that stopped her giving back as good as she got was recognising the fear behind his words. It was one thing two girls she hardly knew finding her threatening, but Jace? This was someone she had played with as child, laughed with as a friend, turned to in fear and trouble, even kissed…
"That is not why I brought you here." By some miracle the words came out clear and steady. "As you well know."
"I don't know what I know anymore" Jace muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear as he slumped backwards.
Clary was on the verge of letting it all be, of turning her back and going back to where her ladies waiting. Returning to her life of sewing and praying to pass the idle hours until her father decided to push her to the next square on the board. But she was sick of feeling like this, sick of being weak and helpless.
There was no way Clary would ever forgive herself if she walked away from him now. There was no way she could go on with her life and never wonder what might have happened had she found the courage for him.
"You are here because I kissed you and you-" she gasped in a single breath, shaking her head slightly in disbelief- "And you kissed me back."
"You think that makes you special?" Jace scoffed with almost convincing venom.
Rather than making her angry, the tension in his body and refusal to look her in the eye finally helped Clary understand. Jace could feign all he wanted, to another audience the façade would be persuasive. But she could not forget that he was the one who had risked his own life to save hers, agreed to put his career on the line and risked her father's wrath to make a deal with her because she feared for her own happiness.
Paradoxically, the uncertainty Clary glimpsed in him now solidified her own conviction. Whatever this was between them it was not an idle fancy. The way she had felt in the long week without him suggested this was not likely to be fleeting either.
In which case it was high time Clary started taking risks for him too.
"Yes." she told him firmly, approaching on unsteady legs.
They were close enough that he had to look at her, though Jace carefully avoided looking her straight in the eye, focusing instead on her moving lips.
"You cannot fool me anymore."
From this proximity Clary observed the single, swift breath he drew in, and flutter of fair lashes as he finally met her gaze in earnest.
Where she got the audacity from Clary could not say, but almost of its own accord her hand lifted and her fingers met his cheek, gently tilting his head down even as she sensed his palms brush against her waistline.
Kissing him before, wrong as it may have been, had far from satisfied her. He'd been driving her mad, though she knew the dangers of getting caught.
None of this felt wrong, not as Jace's hands tightened and he whirled her around until her back was pressing against the wall.
"Clary." There it was. Her name the way only he could say it; soft and sweet on his lips as any kiss.
Nothing mattered but him. Their lips met hers once more, not as they had previously, all tentative tenderness but with more purpose and drive.
Clary could not fathom how anything other than good could come of being held like this, being touched like this. Her palms slipped over his jawline, until her fingers were curling in the fine gold hair at the nape of his neck. For the first time Clary found herself understanding why disapproving older ladies condemned girls who 'forgot themselves' and their position.
Like this, it was finally possible to forget who and what they were. The warmth of the sun-soaked wall at her back and the feverish heat of his body was pressing against hers was all she knew.
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The hot day had faded into a warm dusk by the time Jonathan finally managed to secure an appointment with his father. Given the clammy night, the casements on the windows of Valentine's chamber were open to allow in some meagre breath of air, through which the moth he currently surveyed must have entered.
Jonathan watched it, utterly unmoved as it flapped helplessly around the bobbing flame of the candle by the desk, reeling back occasionally as the pale wings were singed. It darted forward again a second later.
Bored, the Crown Prince reached out and plucked it from the air. He cupped it in his palms, musing at the mild tickling as the feather-light wings battered against his closed fingers. This must be what amounted to a frantic straggle to such a small creature.
"Jonathan." His father called him, waving his clerk away.
Jonathan clenched his fingers into a fist, crushing the fragile creature and dropping the prone body as he fell into the seat Valentine gestured toward.
"Pangborn says you wished to see me? I wonder what matter you believe is so urgent that has not already reached my ears."
Trying his best to ignore the disinterested drawl and the fact that Valentine had already started to busy himself by flicking through the ledger already settled on his desk, Jonathan tilted forward. He was eager to observe every second of the rage that was sure to follow his announcement. It was rare Valentine's anger was not directed at his heir. The commodity should be relished.
"It is about Clary." The Prince paused for dramatic effect, burying a scowl that threatened to surface as his father's eyes leapt upwards, suddenly alight with interest at the mention of his sister. Not even hanging those rebels had earned Jonathan much more than a brief glance, yet the mention of Clary's name alone was enough to hold Valentine's complete attention.
"What of her?"
"I am concerned, Sire, at her-" Jonathan waved at the air in front of him as though the precisely delicate term he sought for was somehow floating there, "preoccupation? Nay, intimacy…" He let the final word linger, allowing all of its shady suggestiveness to sink in before continuing, "with the French Ambassador."
The King allowed the book before him to flop closed, leaning back on his chair and raising his hand to his chin, pressing his forefinger against his lips thoughtfully.
Jonathan pressed on, "I fear for her reputation my lord. Not that she has sinned in deed, of course!" Jonathan shrugged lightly, effectively throwing off his conviction as hastily as he had donned it. "But she is young, and new to court. I fear her innocence is being manipulated to Herondale's self-serving ends. I cannot stand by and allow her sweet nature to be used thus, Father."
Throughout his speech, Jonathan was careful to lay the blame most firmly upon Herondale. Valentine would hear nothing against his dearest child, but this way Jonathan could disparage them both without saying a bad word about Clary. He could not help but feel proud of himself. If Clary wanted to pull the wool over Valentine's eyes and play the pure and holy maid, then very well. Jonathan would use Clary's own tactics against her.
Initially, Valentine said nothing. His father seemed unruffled as ever.
Jonathan resisted the urge to hold his breath as he waited for the explosion of ire, or the snapped orders for that knave of a French envoy to be summoned.
None of his expectations came to pass. This was a recurring state of affairs Jonathan was truly sick of experiencing.
Instead, the King chortled softy to himself, dropping his hands to the armrest of his chair and tapping the sapphire ring of state against it meditatively. The grin slowly slipped from his face. "The two have grown close?" He asked it in much the same way as he grilled Starkweather about the realm's state of affairs; neither sharply nor loudly, in an attentive tone that was nonetheless demanding.
Valentine's son had seen enough of his interrogations over the years, and been subjected to plenty as he grew up, to know they were always like this. This put him on his guard immediately, he felt like a child trying to get away with not having finished his schoolwork before he went out riding.
"Yes. Enough that I and several others have noticed." The irritation running through his words was evident, but Jonathan found he no longer cared how he sounded; he needed to make Valentine see the urgency of this matter, "Unless we- you- put an end to this immediately, the next person to note this could well be Valois!"
"Yet surely" Valentine began smoothly, "The King of France will be aware of his own envoys tactics. He will have endorsed a little flirtation to sweeten us to the Duke of Brittany."
The complacency knocked Jonathan speechless. It was as if the King was not disturbed in the slightest at the prospect of his only daughter whoring herself out to an envoy. He even seemed to welcome the news.
Tensed in his seat, the Crown Prince forced his clenched jaw to loosen, "And so we condone it? We allow the French to pull the strings around us like we are Francois's puppets?!" His voice was undeniably spiked with temper, rising deplorably with each syllable, "Worse than that, we encourage and assist it! Bring Jace on hunting trips, arrange for the two to share dances? what next? Shall we have a place set for him next to her at dinner? Truly, I doubt that 'seduce my prospective daughter in law' was an order the King of France issued!"
"And you think Clary fool enough to fall into the arms of the first man to look her way? I think you underestimate your sister."
"She did not grow up here as I did, so I think Clary fool enough not to realise the danger a Herondale poses. Nor the depth of Jace's hereditary treachery. He could shame her just to spite us!"
"Enough, Jonathan." Valentine growled.
Jonathan trembled with anger, sucking in a breath which failed to sedate him even slightly, "But Majesty-"
"I said enough." Valentine's voice never lifted, but the authority thrown behind the order increased. "God above" he muttered half to himself as Jonathan finally fell into a sullenly subdued silence, "Your mother certainly gifted you with her short temper."
It was so unusual for his father to willingly speak of his mother that Jonathan was rendered properly to silence, though he felt his shoulders involuntarily square. Jocelyn being in the King's thoughts never boded well. Valentine had loved the woman to distraction, to a degree that almost every lord on the council had loathed the influence she'd held over their King. Jonathan wondered what they would make of the knowledge that she still wielded a potent power over their monarch. Even absent, Jocelyn haunted every decision her husband made.
But Valentine had never compared Jonathan to her before. No one had. When people looked at him, they saw an image of a young Valentine. Based solely on their looks, they commonly viewed Jonathan as his father's son and Clary as her mother's.
But Valentine was not going to dwell on the thought of his faraway spouse for long. Jonathan had been old enough at the time of her departure to remember that there had been an obvious distance between his parents even before there had been a physical one. He could also recall his governess chiding him for referring to the queen in the past tense, reminding him the lady was not dead. Jonathan responded that he wished she were. Then, Jonathan reasoned only to himself, at least he could make sense of her absence. His governess reported the comment and Jonathan was hauled before the King for one of the worst beatings he'd ever had.
"What are you planning to do about Clary and the Herondale?"
"It grows late Jonathan," Valentine told him pointedly, emerging from his moment of reflection and from his seat, the previous question ignored. "And, speaking of Clarissa, I have arranged to have supper with her."
"I take it my presence will not be required?" The Prince enquired snidely.
"Not on this occasion" Valentine confirmed without a backward glance, "In fact it seems that now would be the prime moment for you to return to your own lands. Since matters have been settled in the south, your presence in the north would serve well to prevent any discontent from spreading."
Valentine presented the notion of Jonathan returning this exile as though it were some shining solution. He supposed to the King it was. That only fuelled the Prince's stinging resentment as he watched Valentine hurry off to meet with his untarnished daughter.
Argument was pointless with Valentine, certainly not when he deemed his heir's time at court to be up, as Jonathan had discovered long ago. The futility of the situation did not make accepting it any easier. He felt his hand back into a fist.
In an effort to loosen the angry tension in his own body, Jonathan rapped his knuckles against the smooth wood of the King's table. He found the dull thud that came with each contact oddly soothing, even as his flesh began to ache from the half-hearted blows.
Then he realised that in his haste to leave, Valentine had left his son unattended in his chambers.
Jonathan supposed it was childish, the thrill he got from rifling through his father's things at any given opportunity. But it almost always procured him some delightful titbit of information. If his father was not willing to tell him what was going on with Clary's marriage, then Jonathan had no choice but to find out for himself.
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Dinner alone with her father was not the first thing that sprang to Clary's mind when she contemplated treats or even a fun evening.
She knew such privacy with the King was a huge honour and much coveted. His Majesty was not in the habit of granting empty honours, but Clary could not for the life of her think what he had done to deserve such favour. She only knew that they were not sipping the cellar's finest malmsey here to bond.
Given what he had just done to the people at Oldcastle, Clary could barely look Valentine in the eye, seeing only corpses and ashes in his face. It was difficult to stomach the rich food when knowledge of what he had done to his own aggrieved subjects was resting like a deadweight in Clary's gut.
Isabelle suggested that Valentine merely sought to congratulate her on the running of the court in his absence. Clary felt she knew her kin better than that. It would take something extraordinary for her to capture her father's attention, let alone his congratulations.
The final course was laid before them.
Valentine plucked a sugared fruit off the table. He raised it to his mouth but pausing before he ate it. "I have some glad tidings, Clarissa."
"Oh?" Clary disguised her unease with a smile as best she could, helping herself to the sweetmeats.
Valentine leaned towards Clary, swallowing his sweet. "Jonathan tells me you have developed a liking for the French ambassador."
The remark struck Clary like a stone to the head (a sensation she knew all too well and would not recommend to anyone). Clary worried the venison she had just consumed was going to resurface. Surely not even Valentine could sit there smiling at her and nibbling desserts if he knew, if he even suspected there was something improper between Clary and Jace.
The King daubed his fingers on his napkin, not looking at her, "I am glad to hear it."
Dropping her trembling hands under the table, Clary tucked her shaking fingers into her long sleeves and pasted a bland smile to her face. "How so?"
"You will have need of a friend in France soon. Very soon, please God."
At first, the implication escaped her. Clary was so preoccupied with what the repercussions of what her hasty kisses with Jace could be that she was slow to recognise her doomsday had arrived.
"I have arranged a marriage for you. Or rather, I have reached an understanding with the King of France. Soon we shall commence negotiations in earnest."
"The King of France?"
"Yes, daughter. You are to marry the Dauphin."
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