Chapter 11: Discretion
Clary cornered Jace on a staircase, on his way to the hall for his own meal.
He still looked unreasonably attractive; dressed all in black which, contrary to making him look drab or dull, brought out the brightness of his hair and eyes. Jace glanced up at her hurried approach, expression tightening into the guarded, wary and- to the ignorant eye- utterly impassive mask as he took stock of the girls behind her.
"Leave us," Clary snapped at Helen and Aline from where they scurried a few paces behind her gown's trailing train, struggling to keep up with their impatient mistress.
The duo exchanged a single look before falling back and disappearing.
Clary knew they would not dare to go far- simply a discreet distance out of sight and earshot.
Her focus was entirely trained on the unmoving Jace before her, whose expression had yet to warm as it customarily would have. He knew all that had just transpired. He had known. Her suspicions only solidified as, after a brief hesitation, Jace dropped his head and moved to bow.
The Princess's hand shot out to halt him immediately, "You need not trouble yourself with any of that. We are somewhat past pretences of modesty and propriety, are we not?"
Jace's eyes shot up as he straightened, towering over her despite their being stationed on the same step. He had the audacity to seem wounded by her tone.
"No need to look at me like that either! You are to be congratulated, sir, on your uncanny work. A second to none performance, truly."
"Performance? Clary I-"
The King had expressly forbidden her from announcing the glad tidings to anyone, but evidently what she was about to say would come as no surprise to the envoy before her. It was hisdoing as much as it was Valentine's.
"I am to be Dauphine!" she all but shrieked at him, "But you knew this, did you not? Days ago, weeks ago, I'd wager!"
Comprehension splashed fully across Jace's features and he made to speak. But Clary was relentless, tearing on viciously and praying her blows landed, "My father has just informed me of his plans. Plans which he has not concocted overnight, I can assure you. I know you have been laying plots with him, then coming to me to talk of books and music, anything at all that would keep me in the dark! Well played, Herondale. Our clashes and then the apology, masterful! As for the rescue – well, you certainly turned that one to your advantage like a true expert. A true masterstroke."
Her gold crucifix thumped into the base of her throat with the gulping breath Clary yanked in before continuing. "You had me. By God, you knew it. Letting me make you all the powerful friends you needed. I all but handed you the victory. All of which is impressive. But you are, after all, a gambling man. So came the real stroke of genius- the kisses! This past week my head has been so full of you that my interfering ceased. My avoiding the King handed you the reins. You've steered your venture home."
Clary took a few staggering steps backwards, tripping over her own hem but not her words. "You have caught the King too, Herondale, better than you could have ever hoped your triumph, Excellence." Clary cried, refraining from striking him with her hands only because she knew words would wound him more. "For if you imagine I cannot play the game myself you are wrong. Most wrong. I am primed for the next round when we get to Paris. And I can assure you, I have had the most accomplished of tutors."
She whirled around then, set to storm away. She was stopped by Jace's hand catching her elbow, "Clary please! That is not how any of it was, I promise you! No, I beg of you. Listen to me!"
"Why should I?" She flung back, tugging herself free.
Jace hurried to block her ascent and grasped her shoulders this time. With much resistance, Clary was turned to face him.
"I can see why you would not wish to. But please, I have given you reason to trust me in the past, have I not? I can explain. You may well find that explanation inadequate, but so be it. I know you are wise enough to make up your own mind. I will give you leave to think of me what you will, if only you will hear me first."
Clary paused, tempted to barge past him to the safety of her rooms and ignore the honeyed poison he would drip in her ears.
Yet Jace was right. He had given her reason to trust him. And the King had spoken true, she and Jace Herondale would be seeing a lot of one another in the future.
She nodded her assent briskly, still glaring at the ambassador furiously, "Very well. Speak. I will not be listening for very long."
Jace's shoulders lifted as he dragged in a few composing breaths, "Yes, His Majesty told me on the night of the Prince's birthday that he was inclined to give you to the Dauphin. He intimated again on the hunt that he would have you marry Francois. But he made no move towards bringing it about, and he made no announcements. I began to doubt his intentions, I had only his word to go on. For all I knew, Valentine had told the other envoys the same thing. The understanding between Valentine and Francois was only confirmed yesterday. I have not known for much longer than you have. Not even Alec and Isabelle knew of the agreement until an hour ago. As for the night I first kissed you…I could not say why I did that, Clary. It was not a ploy; it was not a feint, I swear. "
Jace swallowed uncertainly, looking at Clary with a new fervency, as though he could will her into believing and forgiving him., "I had just come from a particularly intense discussion with His Majesty. And you had just told me marriage would mean the loss of everything that had been a part of your previous life. I realised that I could well be a part of that. You were going to become Francois's and I wanted, just once, to have you first. To have you once, before you became his forever."
He did move to release Clary then, loosening his grasp and sliding his left hand down her arm until it reached hers. Their fingers tangled together, his eyes falling there too. Jace pointedly addressed them the next time he spoke. "But I know I must leave you be. I understand that now. It would be wrong, worse, perilous. This has already gone too far."
His words fell into an astounded silence. Clary half laughed, half sighed at his admission and realised that he had spoken true. She ought to accept the end had come.
She was now the property of one more powerful man. The precious daughter of two Kings. Jace remained just an ambassador. Her ambassador.
Instead, Clary stepped forward. She moved further into his arms and lifted her head to survey him properly. "And yet, you are not letting me go," she pointed out quietly.
"No." Jace agreed, and she was stunned to note he was trembling. "I have failed in every other attempt to untangle myself from you."
"But you have won," Clary stated, "So you may stop pretending now."
Jace still held her tight, stepping forward until there remained hardly any distance between them. "You wish to cease the pretence?" She heard his warning and the plea lingered.
"Yes."
"Good." Jace laughed breathlessly as he lowered his head.
Lips brushed her brow and skimmed her nose. They continued their downward journey. Already Clary's heart was beating fast in anticipation of what was to come. If any part of her recalled that they were on a staircase where anyone could come upon them at any moment, it was swiftly dismissed.
She had not thought to forgive Jace so easily, in fact she had not been inclined to forgive him at all. She found herself trusting in the way he held her now. It was only as they hastily and clumsily pulled apart at the sound of a not-so-distant footfall that Clary remembered what they had been doing here in the first place.
Jace was the first to recollect his wits, steering her before him as they bolted into the first shady alcove they could find.
"This too ought to cease," He breathed in her ear once they were stowed away, around the corner in relative safety. Clary nipped at her tongue to quell a giggle and dared peek up at him.
They snorted and shuddered with their laughter as the mystery footsteps receded.
Clary was left with no choice but to step away. "My ladies are waiting."
Jace's grin drooped, and his eyes flickered away, "How am I to do this?"
"We will think of something" Clary tried to reassure him, suddenly petrified that they had only reconciled to part decisively, "There are the gardens and the boathouse."
"You are the Princess of Idris, Clary. You cannot go creeping around the grounds with a servant."
"You are not my servant," she protested petulantly.
"Exactly." Jace said dully, slowly shaking his head, "It is worse than that, I am your soon-to-be-husband's servant."
Clary made a faint attempt to lighten the mood, "For now. You shall not be anyone's servant for long. I believe a knighthood and some chateaus were promised?"
Jace did not smile, "In which case I will remain the French King's subject. Gardens will only suffice for now, as well you know." He gestured between them forlornly "This cannot continue when we reach France. You will be a wife then. Francois's wife." Now he did laugh, though it was bitter as a lemon and brittle as glass, "Because I gave you to him."
The irony was far from lost on Clary, "My father is the one who gave me to Francois."
"But neither you nor I will ever be able to forget that he does so at my behest."
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Arbor Hall, South-eastern Lakelands, Idris, Early August 1536
Isabelle sat on the windowsill; shoes discarded long ago. Her white, stocking-clad feet were planted on the sill before her.
One of Jace's detestable books was open in her lap. She had also discarded the possibility of reading long ago. Her Latin being nothing remarkable, and what contents she could understand failing to evoke anything beyond a bemused apathy.
Although the book remained balanced on her knees, her eyes were fixed on the pearl and emerald ring that she currently twisted around her finger, watching the stones catch the light and fade again as she continued her rotation.
It had been a gift from her father on her recent seventeenth birthday earlier in the spring, a shameless bid to win her silence in the wake of her discovering his whore, perhaps to reclaim her affection. Robert had not succeeded, though Isabelle had kept the ring and continued to wear it. She considered it no less than she deserved, putting up with her father in the ways she did.
As for the book itself, Jace had behaved as though his lending it had been some sort of great favour, which in itself was laughable. Isabelle's parents had seen to it she was educated, but her father had seen no reason for that education to be on the same plane as her brothers. He deemed it unseemly and unnecessarily costly.
Isabelle had been more carefully drilled in the arts of needlework, dancing and governing a household: finely honed skills that would be of benefit to a husband. She resented it sometimes, not being able to keep up with the conversations Jace and Alec had about this philosopher or that theologian. She was particularly envious of Clary who could chatter away in a litany of tongues and hold her own in any debate, even against Jace.
She was far from stupid. Isabelle knew that there were many types of intelligence and that she was clever in ways beyond books. She could navigate a cut-throat court with ease.
Her mother had demanded with exasperation on more than one occasion after Isabelle had sent yet another 'perfectly good' suitor on his merry way "have you no ambition?"
On the contrary, the young Lady Lightwood had plenty of ambition. She enjoyed her pastimes of plotting and flirting, she liked being at liberty to dance with whoever she chose and tease legions of nobles with the notion of her hand. It was what gave her what little power she had. All of that would have to end the moment she uttered the marriage vows.
There were other, deeper reasons for her dragging out her own journey to the altar, of course. Not the least of which was preventing her father from finding a bride for Alec.
Just as she thought of him, her elder brother announced himself with as swift knock on the door. He paused on the threshold to fix a disapproving look on his younger sibling, "Really Isabelle?"
"Come now" Izzy tutted dryly, rubbing her fingertip against the glass of the windowpane idly, "This cannot be the most compromising position you have found me in."
Alec chose tactfully to ignore the last comment, "But in a window? Where anyone could see your stockings?"
"No one is looking for me."
Her brother crossed the room and held out his arms to her, "I am. Please come down Izzy. I need to speak with you."
With exaggerated reluctance Isabelle swung her legs down and leapt nimbly to the floor, steadying herself with Alec's proffered arm. "Of what?"
"Jace. I am worried about him."
Isabelle rolled her eyes at the admission, "You say that as though it is not perpetually the case."
"More so than usual," Alec qualified gruffly, "Even more than I worry about you at present, though that should not be possible."
Isabelle smiled, lifting herself onto her bare tiptoes to press a kiss to Alec's forehead. She was tall for a girl and the manoeuvre did not require much stretching.
Alec flushed at her expression of affection and drew away, "I am serious, Izzy."
"I know. But it is my intention to have you grey haired by the time you are thirty. I merely wanted to check my progress," she made a show of straining upward again to inspect the top of his head.
"You are succeeding. Though you cannot claim all the credit. We were talking of Jace."
"Yes," Isabelle flopped down into the nearest chair, "Dare I ask what has spawned this latest bout of fretting?"
"This kingdom and this court." Alec muttered, folding his arms and turning away from her as he began to pace. "I like not what it does to him."
"What does it do to him?" Izzy enquired, plucking his book off the floor from where it must have fallen when she had moved, before the man of which they spoke could burst into the room and murder her for its mistreatment.
"It is changing him. I fear not for the better."
Isabelle refrained from pointing out that Idris had changed them all. "This embassy was always going to be different from the others," She tried to soothe Alec, "Valentine had Jace's father's head chopped off. Consider too that Valentine had Jace beaten black and blue as a child, as you and I both well know, for we each saw the bruises when he arrived at Adamant."
Alec glanced at the tightly shut door before drawing closer and lowering his voice, "Yes but it is not just Valentine. It's her."
There was only one 'her' in these rooms. Isabelle blinked.
"Do not try and tell me this is nothing, that I am worrying about nothing. You saw them dance as plainly as I did. You have seen them together in the same ways I have. This is anything but nothing."
"Jace is no fool," Isabelle told her brother dryly, "And neither is Clary."
"He's a fool for her."
Isabelle tugged idly at the lace of her undersleeves, careful not to look Alec directly in the eye.
"What if you have it wrong? What if she's a fool for him, and that is his game? Because it is working, she's going to be Dauphine."
"Indeed, and how long has that been earnestly in the works? Not a word did he breathe to either of us!" Alec strode away again, and Isabelle anxiously watched him move back and forth like an irritated pendulum. "Jace has started keeping secrets, which he never did before."
"And you are open in all matters with him?"
Alec shot her a withering look before pressing on, "I do not believe that this is a strategy. This is not how he plays the game."
"This embassy is not like the others." Isabelle repeated firmly. She could tell she was starting to wear his doubts away, even as his frantic blue eyes skidded back to hers. For fear he would see through her, Isabelle fixed her gaze back on the book she held, pointedly beginning to flip nonchalantly through the pages.
"And I know Jace can be that ruthless. I suppose Valentine Morgenstern taught him that. He has always had the capacity, just never the inclination." Isabelle deliberately left her implication unsaid. Her pointed silences were already working wonders.
Alec rubbed his wrists, which must have ached from his frantic wringing. Izzy watched his throat bob as he swallowed, trying to make sense of what she had told him and align it with what he presupposed.
"She will fall in love with him, if she already hasn't. They always do." He snapped out, whirling round to face his sister once again, "Where the devil is he anyway? I hoped to find him here with you."
Isabelle shrugged and tried to continue appearing unconcerned. "Jace will be a busy man for the foreseeable future. He will have to hammer out the finer points of the betrothal contract, to make it as agreeable as possible for both monarchs."
Alec nodded eventually. "True, but surely he would at least have consulted me! Even if my opinion was not wanted, I would expect him to keep me abreast of matters! Sat here ignorant I am about as useful as.. as-"
"A girl?" Isabelle offered tartly.
Alec clicked his tongue, dropping his hands to the armrests of her chair and leaning over her heard, which Isabelle obstinately refused to lift.
"More like about as useful as a girl who is spending her days in idleness out of sheer stubbornness. If you really wanted to put your dear brother's mind at ease you could start pulling your weight on this embassy. You are supposed to be our eyes and ears in those rooms, remember?"
Isabelle scowled up at him, "I have been pulling my weight! I am Clary's only confidante here!"
The sanctity of which Isabelle should not have been respecting. She should be spilling Clary's secrets to her brothers and letting them twist it to their advantage. And yet, Isabelle felt the urge to harbour Clary's privy thoughts and fears. Felt the urge to protect her.
Alec pursed his lips. "What of the Prince?"
"What of the Prince?" Isabelle parroted sharply.
"He has a liking for you." Her brother did not sound as judgmental as she would have presumed, more puzzled and (as could always be expected) troubled, "One you make no real effort to discourage."
"I have returned the gifts!"
Isabelle was not lying, all jewel bearing pages which marched through her door were promptly marched back out again.
"And I pull disapproving faces when I feel him looking at me. I even take pains to avoid him. What is that, if not discouragement?"
"He is a Prince, Izzy. I daresay he has never been told no in his life before. He will not hear it now. As far as he is concerned, a lady's refusal means 'persuade me.'"
Izzy shook her head decisively, "I am not discussing any of this with you. We were finally making headway on Jace. If he is not involving you and I in his schemes, Jace must have his reasons. The real question here, Alec, is how much you trust him."
"With my life," Her brother insisted staunchly, moving over to the window and dropping his elbows against the sill as he leaned forward and stared out. With his face tilted away, Isabelle just about heard his muttered conclusion, "Just not with his."
-00000000000000-
Privas, Ardèche, Southern France, Early August 1536
The beauty of taverns, beyond the primary good they sold, lay in the advantages of the goods they sold.
For instance, despite the fact strangers were rare in this establishment (the only real clientele being the unfortunate few who had neither the wit nor the funds to frequent anywhere other than this dank and dirty spot) those who were on the premises were, by and large, far too drunk to look twice at the two strange young men occupying the corner seat.
How exactly one managed to get drunk on wines so appallingly watered down as these was a phenomenon. Perhaps inexplicable miracles of plenty did exist, Jonathan thought to himself.
He hacked at the hardened wax encrusted on the table before him. The drooping lump of what remained of the candle itself hunched in the middle of the table. Misshapen, skeletal fingers of melted wax sprawled over the table towards the glowering prince and his companion. It curled in sickly yellow, bony tendrils between the cracks in the wood. Alternating between his own fingernails and- for the thicker and thus more challenging hunks-his knife, Jonathan continued his labours without investing any real attention in his task.
He was taking in his surroundings, as though he were drawing up a battle plan. On the table to their immediate left, a heated game of cards was taking place. The grimy wall lay to their backs and to their right the players in the previous gamble were concluding the transaction of winnings. Or lack thereof, it seemed to consist in a great deal of bellowing and attempting to smash one another's heads in.
Most importantly, from here they had the best view possible of the door.
"Of all the questionable establishments we've been in, this one really is a new level of degenerate."
Jonathan scowled at his companion, with a moment of undisguised distaste, "Keep your damn voice down. I know it is a shithole, that is why I chose it. No one would think to look for a prince here. God help us, I think none of these wretches would recognise a royal if he charged up behind them, landed a blow of his own in the card debacle and dumped a barrel of the cellar's finest wine over their heads." He broke off from his sour observations to fix a warning glare on Verlac, "Unless, of course, some idiot was to announce their presence with more inane commentary in a very loud, Idrisian accent."
Verlac shifted his weight indignantly at the chastising, causing the stool beneath him to shriek with equal offence.
The duo remained in a gloomy silence for a time, which enabled a full appreciation of the very bawdy drunken singsong taking place in the far corner. That too would serve its purpose, Jonathan reminded himself as his irritable temper piqued once more. Even if there was anyone on this site that cared enough what he might have to say here, they would not be able to hear him say it.
Sebastian's head lifted suddenly, and apparently his mood with it, as he took another swig from his tankard and allowed a damp-lipped smile to spread across his face. Jonathan followed his gaze, chortling softly to himself as it led him to a young woman perched on a nearby table. Her scarlet mouth, saucily rouged cheeks and the glimpse of thigh displayed with inviting promiscuity made no mystery of her trade.
The perfect spot for any covert, lucrative dealings indeed.
"Restrain yourself, Sebastian" the Prince drawled, allowing his free finger to glide along the rim of his own cup. The drink was an accessory, nothing more. Jonathan had no intention of drinking his way into dulled senses tonight. Anyway, a few sips of the stale, diluted drink left an acrid enough taste on his tongue to dissuade him from enjoying another mouthful.
"Why?" Verlac demanded, petulant. "It seems your contact is typically French. Utterly faithless. I doubt they will come at all."
Jonathan clung to what remained of his limited patience, "One would think that you would take better care of your favourite toy, Verlac. God only knows what she is carrying. You can do better than that cheap slut, and well you know it. Pretend you have a semblance of self-control. I'll get you a decent night's entertainment when we get back to Alicante. There will be a lady here soon enough for you to entertain. A lady who is not French, as a matter of fact."
"She is very young." Sebastian continued doubtfully.
Jonathan could not supress an eye roll, "She's Italian." He repeated, "Better than that, an Italian of banker's stock. I daresay she left the womb ruthless."
Sebastian took another swig of his beverage. The Earl was desperate to get some kind of affect from it, so he downed several more gulps with such gusto that a trickle of beer seeped out of the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin. Having drained it, the cup was returned to the table with a decisive clink. A sleeve was raised to wipe the remainder of the liquid from his lower face before Verlac proceeded. "Exactly. At least the French have certain lines they are unlikely to cross. Florentines have no scruples."
Jonathan's lips threatened to twitch to a smirk. "You know Verlac, you are delightfully less stupid than you look. I have always found that endearing. It is one of the few things I like about you."
A brief sizzling resentment flashed in his companion's eyes for half a heartbeat before he allowed a small, cynical smile of his own to surface, "That and the fact I am not only willing to ride to France with you on short notice, but upon arrival am content to drink cheap beer and abstain from any kind of good sport in favour of watching you treat with Florentines. Surely that buys me some favour, Sire?"
"But of course. Your devotion is always rewarded" Jonathan reassured, the silky promise sliding from his lips as easily as his fingertip slid along the top of his own untouched drink.
"And you, who trust no one, are willing to trust her to help you?"
"I am trusting her to help herself."
He could tell, by the tension lingering in Sebastian's shoulder and the sullen looks he kept tossing at their unsavoury surroundings, that he was far from convinced. No matter, he did not need Sebastian's faith, just his compliance.
That did not settle the impatience snarling in Jonathan's gut. That could well be because his stomach was empty. They had ridden long and hard to get here, and it had been hours since he had last stopped to eat.
At any rate, the hollowing hunger within gave his mind the keen edge he needed. Jonathan could have gone elsewhere for his supper, but he was certainly not about to give up his seat. The more places he went the more people who saw him and the greater danger. Not that he was expecting a great exposé, but he knew his colouring to be striking. Besides, as Verlac had pointed out, he was not about to blindly trust in his new friends completely.
"It will not be long now. Go to the door." He barked at his accomplice, letting his hands fall back to his lap so that they might be closer to his weapon.
Once he was alone, Joathan readjusted the cap on his head so that the brim cast a deeper shadow over his features. He pressed his spine closer to the wall. With the stone tucked firmly against his back, he could be sure no one was going to stick a knife in it. A position he was instantly glad to be in at the sight of Verlac approaching him again, shoving a tottering old man out of his way.
"Here?"
"Here."
The urgency was all too much for Verlac and he mistakenly allowed Jonathan's title to slip through his lips, "Highness-" Jonathan's instinctive rebuke never made it into words, Sebastian continued to speak and rendered him momentarily speechless, "She is here. In person!"
As the surprise wore off Jonathan found it was replaced with sheer glee, "Ah, I should have known."
Sebastian did not share his rejoicing, frowning at his prince and hopping his weight from foot to foot as though he were prepared to flee at the first given moment, "Lord, are we to proceed?"
"Of course, why not?"
"A woman! A well-dressed woman! Do you really expect a noblewoman to visit here without raising eyebrows? She was supposed to send a representative, not put us all at risk by coming in person."
"I came in person." Jonathan pointed out, not investing any proper concentration in Sebastian's fretting.
"Yes, but they do not know that. And you are not a woman! She will give us away. We should move out. Now."
Jonathan lifted a hand to silence him. "We will do no such thing. This is too good an opportunity to waste. Mayhap our only opportunity. I do not like the alternative, nor will you. Take a seat and shut your mouth."
With obvious reluctance, Sebastian dropped back into place beside his prince. "I really should have foreseen this." Jonathan muttered, even as he delighted at the recognition he and his new ally had more than mutual interests in common. "Of course we would both come in person. She trusts no one at her court either."
The newest group to enter the tavern did unfortunately stand out, a veritable tower of peculiarity.
A bulky man lead, shuffling with the kind of practised yet weighted movements that signified he was armed to the teeth. He was followed by a cloaked feminine figure, who had one hand holding the hood that concealed her face in place and another pulling her skirts away from the filthy straw floor. She moved in a brisk, and somehow dainty march. The rear was brought up by a shorter male figure in long dark robes.
The woman's head lifted briefly, without baring any of her face. Her gaze snagged on the duo in the corner. A single gloved hand made a commanding gesture to her guard, who stepped aside and allowed her to approach with the other man.
Jonathan tipped his head closer to Sebastian and rapidly muttered, "You see, Verlac? They are matching our numbers out of courtesy. It would appear Italians do have manners."
The newest arrivals installed themselves on the other side of the table, "Sebastian Verlac?" the man asked tentatively.
"Greetings," Jonathan acknowledged his supposed name with a nod, before flicking his eyes to the side, "This is my companion, Ferdinand. You will have to excuse his silence. The Spaniard's French is exceedingly poor."
To his surprise their introductions were met with a rasping laugh, as the hood was finally tipped back.
The girl before him was only seventeen, Clary's age.
She seemed older. Catherine de Medici was no beauty. She had a rounded face and light brown hair. It was drawn back from a rather large forehead. Her frank, dark gaze pierced through him. Jonathan could all but hear the clink of the chains as the scales measured him.
"A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, my lord Earl." Her voice was deep for a woman's, though not unpleasantly so. Jonathan found himself warming to the sharpness in her voice and expression. There was little doubt in the keen look she fixed upon him that she knew she was not addressing 'Sebastian Verlac.'
"I am Count Montecuccoli," Her own companion stated before fixing an expectant look on Jonathan. The young Duchesse d'Orléans required no introduction.
"I am so glad we have the opportunity to meet at last to discuss our interests," Jonathan purred.
The Count narrowed his eyes at the disguised prince before him, "I must assume you have the package we agreed upon, my lord?"
Jonathan let his question hang in the air a moment before wordlessly dipping a hand inside his plain black cloak and letting it fall to the leather pouch at his waist. It contained just one thing; a small clear vial wrapped in rags to prevent shattering. He presented it alongside his most charming smile, "For the Bella Donna."
A slight tinge of colour sprouted across Catherine's cheekbones at the complimentary pun. Her eyes lit up with flaring fascination as she beheld the small bottle being slid across the table.
"Nightshade," the Medici girl breathed, having abandoned any attempts at pretended disinterest or careful composure. The appearance of the poison had pleased her more than Jonathan's perfunctory flirtation ever could. "I have read of it."
One of Jonathan's old paramours had recently married a lord at the French court in recent years. It had been wonderfully easy to strike up the correspondence.
"I have read more of arsenic though" Catherine shot her dubious question in Jonathan's direction.
He responded with a grin displaying his hungry excitement, "I toyed with the idea. But the Borgias overused it. I would rather be a little original."
The Duchesse was placated.
It was common knowledge that the wife of the Dauphin's younger brother was almost as unpopular to her subjects than Jonathan was to his. There were many wagging tongues who claimed young Prince Henry had been wasted in marriage. The girl with his ring on her finger was no princess, but hailed from no greater line than that of glorified bankers. Jonathan, whose forefathers had been soldiers and mercenaries, could empathise.
At the time of her wedding King, Francois had not needed a princess for his son, but a loan that could feed an army. The greatest thing Catherine de Medici could boast of was a blood relation to the pope who had arranged her nuptials.
Worst of all, in the four years she had been married, the Duchesse had failed to fall pregnant even once. The barren Italian. It had a wickedly fine ring to it. Jonathan knew what it was to be spat on too. It had inspired him to put pen to paper and make the lady's acquaintance.
And here they were, the two royal failures, finally beginning their workings of revenge.
The only other thing that rankled Catherine de Medici almost as much as it did Jonathan was the thought of Clary marrying the Dauphin. She did not want to compete with a prettier princess by blood coming to the French court. A Princess who was sure to be ardently preferred at that court.
Though his real connection may be with the girl, Jonathan knew it was the Count he had to address. "I understand, though you came to France with the Duchesse d'Orleans, you are now in the service of the Dauphin?" Jonathan tore on in an urgent undertone.
Montecuccoli nodded once, jaw set with grim determination. Jonathan motioned to Sebastian to bring in some drinks. "I feel I ought to advise you, sir, that its first symptoms is great thirst. I suggest that in order to prevent any unhappy glances in your direction, you should provide water when requested. Preferably where many will see you do so and note your devoted service and evident loyalty."
Another nod, this one more purposeful.
I want you where enough people will see you publicly giving a man a drink just before he dies. For young, healthy men about to have a betrothal announced publicly do not just drop dead. Foul play is cried, and when it is I want you to be caught. You who believe me to be an agent of the Spanish Emperor at the Idrisian court. Your master, immersed in war as he is, will be only too glad to lap up that explanation.
The girl was another matter, for she knew precisely who she was speaking to. That likely should have worried him or put him on edge, but it failed to do so. Jonathan found that he liked the idea that she knew who he was. She understood him in their brief correspondence more than most others, and Jonathan had wanted to be understood for so long.. Even if anyone did point the finger in her direction at the Dauphin's untimely death , as a noblewoman Catherine would be in the privileged position of being able to keep her mouth shut. They could not torture her to loosen her lips.
Really, Valentine should thank him for all of this. Fanning the flames of war and ensuring that the King of France and the Emperor were kept most firmly at one another's throats gave Idris a kind of liberty that could be useful. With her powerful neighbours' focus and arms directed elsewhere, it would be significantly easier for an Idrisian force to seep into Adamant and take hold of it. Not a hold that Idris would keep for very long, but it would give Valentine a modicum of happiness for the time being.
The real Sebastian returned with their drinks. "Now that we have reached our accord, I feel a celebratory toast is in order!" Jonathan allowed his genuine satisfaction to leak into his bravado. He lifted the cup laid before him in unison with his companions, letting a rare undiluted smile of triumph warm his face.
This time his labours would bear fruit, "To the Dauphine. "
Catherine de Medici's eyes lit up again, giving her features a semblance of beauty. Jonathan saw that one day, when she wielded the power he was about to give her, this woman would be fearsome.
"To the Dauphine," She echoed, and the title rested as nicely on her lips as it would the rest of her.
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