Chapter 13: Out of the Frying Pan
The Gard, Alicante, Early September 1536
Two weeks. For two damn weeks Jace had sweltered and paced in this prison, his constant striding back and forth in the cramped quarters the only active way of whiling away the hours between his frequent 'interviews' with Master Secretary Pangborn and the good Cardinal Enoch.
His only moment of respite thus far had been the relief that upon arrival to the Gard he had been permitted to enter via the main gate (albeit at nightfall) rather than the back gates used for criminals. And he was not to be housed in the infamous Black Tower after all. Nor had Jace been served an official reading of his arrest, nor charged with any solid offence.
And yet there was no mistaking that he was a prisoner here. As thoroughly caged as the exotic lion the menagerie just across the Princewater held. Jace could see such buildings out of his slip of window, which faced out onto the river rather than the green, and indeed it often provided the only form of entertainment he had. His door exit was locked, but the Cardinal had cemented the reality of his captivity by recommending with a thin-lipped smile that Jace stay put, "Until the extent of the situation was clear".
That situation, Jace was fully aware of. Four days ago, the appearance of columns and twirls of smoke just beyond the city walls denoted just how close the King's enemies had gotten.
Valentine was under siege in his own city; he had been forced to order the gates of Alicante closed. Jace guessed the lack of movement on the river in recent days implied it too had been blockaded.
None of which helped him sleep any better, or in fact at all. The more dire Valentine's position grew, the more dire Jace's position was.
In his heart of hearts, Jace could not believe the man he still considered his father would sentence him facetiously or freely. However, the same could not be said of Valentine's Council, dominated as it were by Jonathan, Blackwell, Pangborn and the Cardinal, and filled by those who would not dare challenge them. Whatever the King's reluctance, his Council would happily kill him.
Out of sheer spite they may even hang him, since Jace had no title. Although that would spare Jace the brutality of beheading, it was surely no mercy. Not that any death was especially alluring to him, but at least the scaffold was quicker than the gallows.
Yanking at the ties of the shirt at his throat and wrists, Jace anxiously quelled such thoughts and tried to suck in a breath from this foetid chamber. The air- stale though it was- might clear the dizziness from his mind. He had to keep his wits about him. They were the only weapon he had to hand.
He'd stripped to his shirt and breeches long ago, the dusty coat and doublet he had been wearing on his travels now slung over the end of the narrow bed supplied to him. Jace started wondering if the heat was part of a ploy to get him to talk. He was on one of the upper levels of the Gard, it would seem, in a bleakly plain, stuffy room which seemed to have been used- until now- to store pieces of furniture and other bits of tat no one had the heart to throw away.
It was difficult not to think of Clary, who would have tormented his mind anyway in Paris. It was impossible to forget that she was under the same roof as him again. He doubted she knew he was here or in such peril. Jace doubted that anyone knew he was here, as his request for writing materials and ink had been denied. That was another reason for keeping him here, rather than in the prison proper. For that would require gaolers, watchmen, and a rat's nest of fellow prisoners; all of whom would talk.
Keeping and interrogating Jace had to be done as covertly as possible. Which gave him hope.
He was still an Idrisian nobleman by blood, that prohibited torture. But the more Jace spoke to Pangborn, and even the wilier Cardinal, the more obvious it was that these men were grasping at straws to link him to the rebel cause. They had no official charges to bring against him because they had no proof of any wrongdoing.
So he spent his days in this futile dance with the King's agents, prancing around terms like "treason" and hoping Jace might trip himself up. They were relying on him to incriminate himself; to say something out of turn, to slip up and tell them something about the rebels' plans they did not know or acknowledge any contact with the known leaders. Anything at all that could be used to formally accuse him.
It was exhausting, trying to spy their subtle traps and circumnavigate them, then keep his cool and composure. These rooms were uncomfortable, but not unbearably so, Jace reminded himself, prising his hair off his damp forehead.
He could survive this. All Jace need do was hold fast to the fact he was innocent. Jace had no knowledge of any seditious plots. He had never planned nor encouraged a rising against the King. He had not colluded with but fired on those rebels at Oldcastle, to save the King's daughter no less.
Jace was a diplomat, for Christ's sake! Arguably the most skilled of courtiers. God help him, he was the best in Europe, a nonpareil for his age. The very finest tailor of tales. He would happily weave them the words they wanted to hear. True, Jace was known for letting his mouth lead him onto trouble, but he could also talk his way back out of a monarch's displeasure. Jace had done it before, and for the sake of his sanity he reassured himself he would do it again.
Jace had told himself he had not wanted to die in the dust of Gavinana and he stoked that old defiance now. If he was destined to die a felon's death, then he would make sure it was for a crime of which he was guilty.
He also drew encouragement from the signs that his interviewers' patience was starting to wear thin. Pangborn more so. He had, on the most recent occasions, been visibly strained. Not just because the stuffy loft suite was wreaking havoc with his already struggling sinuses. They were under pressure too- the pressure to bring results. Jace knew that Jonathan Morgenstern was chomping at the bit to see him conveyed to a cell in earnest, and from there his head to a spike he could wave before all those who challenged his father's reign.
But Jace had held out this long. Just a little longer and he would make it. Just another day and the rioters would disband. One more night and Clary would learn of this and intercede on his behalf. She was first lady at this court, she must have the queen's right to beg for mercy. If she got down on her knees and publicly pleaded with her father for his release, Valentine could gladly set him free without losing face.
The creak of an outside door and the ensuing groan of ancient floorboards warned Jace that his next session approached.
On cue, the jangle of keys heralded the entrance of the Cardinal into the room. Alone, save for the weasel of a scribe who scratched down every utterance. That was not for the best. Pangborn was the one who was more ruffled, whose whole position relied on the King's favour and therefore was a thousand times more desperate to provide Valentine's Council with the Herondale scapegoat they needed. Enoch was an esteemed clergyman and a prince of the Catholic Church in his own right. Regardless of what Valentine needed, Enoch had the Vatican behind him. Not that this meant he was any less eager than his comrade to see matters here settled, but it made him less perturbed by the lack of progress.
Enoch could play the long game. Jace assured himself he could too.
With another of his signature bland smiles, the Cardinal stationed himself at the table that took up most of the room, his crimson robes spreading out around him. "Please, Monsieur Herondale, sit." Silently, Jace obeyed the invitation.
As he did each time, Jace began by sizing up his opponent, like he might do before a dual. This was as much a sparring match as anything, blades simply being replaced by tongues.
Enoch was not a particularly striking man in his appearance. Keen grey eyes, and equally greying hair, though he was not an old man. If Jace were to hazard a guess he would say late forties. He reminded Jace of a bird of prey, hooked nose and bony, talon like fingers. They were loosely clasped before him on the table. Soft, though laden with bright rings. This was a man who had lived in holy comfort all his life.
Now what Jace had heard of the man must be considered. Enoch was a spiritual advisor to the King, but was just as concerned with the political. He may pray for his soul to reach heaven, but the good cardinal was certainly engaged in the earthly. Not that he was consumed with bodily pleasures. As it happened, he was one of the few clerics who was not known for gluttony or lechery.
Enoch's vice was unquestionably avarice.
He thrived off the tithes the Idrisian faithful poured into his Church. He was just as grasping as every other man at the Council chamber, but doubly effective. He made a fortune off the King too, since he had a nose for money and an eye for property. He'd proved a canny financial guide for His Majesty.
None of which was useful to Jace, who had no way to bribe him.
As the silence stretched on, a bell chimed somewhere in the city. Jace had long ago given up on trying to calculate what hour of the day it was.
Evidently deeming that his clerk had enough time to prepare himself, Enoch began. "How are you, Monsieur?"
Jace pried his chapped lips apart, "Much the same as you found me this morning, Eminence." Discomforted, anxious, utterly innocent?
Although there seemed to be no pattern as to what time of the day his questioning might commence, Jace knew there would be at least two and as many as three daily. Given that this one-today's second- was conducted in what appeared to be the late afternoon, Jace wagered he would have another later. The Cardinal's smile remained the coolest thing in the cursed room.
"Remind me, what cause brought you to Idris in the first instance?"
Jace blinked, "I was instructed by the King of France to lead a diplomatic mission."
The Cardinal's lips twitched, as though it had not been the answer he had been expecting. Admittedly, in the section of his mind that was semi-hysterical already Jace wanted to blurt out that he had come to rouse the discontented and usurp the King. He quelled the thought.
"Be more precise," Enoch purred in that low, dulcetly powerful voice, reminding Jace of the grand pieces of oration that were his Masses. He nodded to the clerk and the papers that fanned the table. The scribe reached over and dunked his nib in the nearby inkpot noisily in anticipation. The normally calming, familiar sound now taunted Jace. He made himself hold the Cardinal's stare, "I was to negotiate the Dauphin's marriage to the Princess Clarissa."
"And what think you of the Princess?"
Holy Hell. This was new territory. "I am sure a consultation of my letters to King Francois will reveal my opinion of the lady, which is very high indeed." As though you have not scoured every piece of my correspondence. Jace smiled sweetly, "I thought her a fit mate for my master's son, God rest his soul, in every way. Your Eminence, no praise would be enough. I would not have expected no less, given her lineage."
"You and the Princess grew rather close. Many have remarked upon it. As a matter of interest, one of her ladies mentioned you had several privy conversations in her rooms. She singled you out on more than one occasion. Why so, Monsieur?"
Jace was no longer sweating solely due to the heat. It was enough to make him want to open the windows and risk the reek of the city in these summer temperatures, though he knew they were sealed shut. Needlessly, as from this height any escape plan would be botched by Jace's inability to survive the drop.
But what the devil was this devil doing questioning Clary's ladies? Had he Valentine's blessing to inspect her household? Was the Princess herself under scrutiny? Even as all this whirled and clashed in Jace's mind her forced himself to speak rationally, "Her Highness and I grew up together. We had many fond childhood memories to share."
"And that was all you spoke of?"
"Beyond that, we spoke of the Dauphin. She wished to no more of the man she might marry, naturally."
The Cardinal tutted. The slowly setting sun sent rays slanting through the arrow slit window. Its light caught the gold and ruby and crucifix swinging from Enoch's neck. The bolt of brightness hurt Jace's eyes.
"You admit she singled you out. That the two of you grew intimate. Especially so in the wake of your contact with the Oldcastle rabble."
"She was attacked at Oldcastle. I helped her escape. A feat His Majesty personally expressed gratitude for. Your Eminence, if you would but let me speak to the King-"
"That will not be possible," Enoch snapped abruptly, all trace of his plaintive persuasion gone. He hastened to shroud his speech in the velvety coaxing that urged a confession once more, "Surely, you can see how that looks. As though you were getting ideas above your station. That you somehow miraculously extracted the Princess and emerged unscathed from a mob of people who are at present armed outside our gates is suspicious, Herondale. An encounter no one can vouch for since Her Highness was unconscious at the time. That too, Monsieur suggests a different, damning intimacy. It appears to me that you knew these men. That you parleyed with them, perhaps as a friend. That you urged them to spare the lady so that you might foster sympathies amongst the royal household. That you might use a staged rescue to wriggle your way in and wreak havoc from the inside."
Jace's horror flared, "That is preposterous! As I told you before, there was this infernal contraption of Sebastian Verlac's- he can vouch for me on that!" The moment the words left his mouth Jace recognised, too late, their folly. The young Earl of Burchetten, Jonathan's favourite lapdog, would never back Jace's word over the Prince's.
Enoch knew it too, as he gave Jace a rather triumphantly sympathetic smile, "None of the above answers the first question I asked. I enquired as to why you were in Idris in the very first instance, Monsieur. What brought you to Idris the first time, Jonathan Herondale?"
Jace baffled, spilled out the only answer he had. "I was born here."
Cardinal nodded with rapid approval, "How so?" He asked, drawing out the syllable interminably.
"Why is anyone born anywhere?" Jace snarled, hating that he failed to see where this was going, "It was, quite simply, an accident of birth."
"An accident of birth." The Cardinal echoed with silky sadness, nodding solemnly, as though he were reading the words off Jace's epitaph rather than his lips.
"You were born in Idris because your father was Idrisian, is that what you are trying to say?"
Jace nodded slowly, beating down the desperate urge to shift his weight in his seat. It would not do for his unease to be that noticeable, it would only encourage his adversary. So, much as he normally avoided responding so agreeably to these leading questions, Jace reasoned that to have an Idrisian parent was not a crime. He made himself sit still and keep looking the Cardinal in the eye, even as his upper lip beaded with sweat and his hands began to tremor in a way that he could only hide by clasping them tighter together.
"You spoke earlier of the might of the King's House. Would you care to enlighten me as to which House you were born into?"
"Herondale," Jace forced himself to say lightly, and as nonchalantly as one might call out the colour of a horse's coat.
"An old family yours, is it not?"
"I believe so."
This was a new tactic, one Pangborn had adopted earlier, but less effectively; trying to get Jace to acknowledge his bloodline. Trying to press him to say that he had more right to rule than Valentine.
"A very old one indeed. And a much celebrated one, at a time. Not necessarily warranted praise. "
Jace nipped involuntarily at the soft flesh on the inside of his mouth, to halt the surfacing retort. The ensuing flinch of pain flashed across his face before he could stop it.
The Cardinal seemed elated at this indication of his discomposure. Predatory delight sprang to his face. Jace battered down a cresting wave of fear. He had said nothing that could be held against him.
"Please, Monsieur. You need not hold your tongue. Speak to me I implore you; I am here to listen."
"There is nothing of consequence I could say." Jace snapped back.
"I will deem what is, or is not, of consequence." Enoch's expression darkened, thick grey brows swooping down, "And I am growing rather tired of the sound of my own voice. I am not the one whose words matter."
Silently, the addressed guided his index finger around the rim of a dip in the wooden table before allowing his finger to slide into it. "Very well. You wish for me to speak of my father? I will do so. First I must ask, Your Eminence, that you consent to hear my confession."
While the clergyman, to his credit, managed to hold his expression to a semblance of calm, the clerk at his shoulder looked fit to propel himself out of his stool with excitement. Jace peered at the Cardinal; a desperate penitent, hoping that any guilt professed under the sacrament could not be put before a court.
Jace took a breath, then he began.
"I confess that he who bore the name Herondale is just that- a name to me. I have seen no paintings and no writings. I know nothing of the man. The father who holds my filial love and obedience, besides the heavenly one, is His Majesty himself. For it was King Valentine who raised me in his household. He who put a pen and sword in my hands as I grew and saw to it that I could use both."
The already pale fingers facing Jace's whitened further as they were clenched tighter. Before his interrogator lost his patience entirely, Jace dropped his head in the universally understood demonstration of shame, dropping with it a tantalising titbit of a guilty conscience; "It is there that my true sin lies. For I have broken one of the oldest and most sacred laws. One of the very Commandments: Honour thy father."
Enoch leaned forward with haste, the sudden movement sending the crucifix at his neck swaying like a great golden pendulum. "Go on, my son."
Now Jace led the dance. "In my unswerving obedience to King Valentine, I have betrayed the memory of the man who gave me life." He dropped the curtain on his little performance, "I cannot help but return the affection of a poor sinner to the man who has loved me like a son." Jace allowed the ending of his final pronouncement to darken with a threat, drawing his tongue over his cracked and dry lips.
The Cardinal's patience ran out. "Be thankful that the King continues to consider you with such fondness. It could be all that might save you. If I were you, Jonathan Herondale," Enoch's tone was clipped and chilly that despite the continuing oppressive heat around him, Jace half-expected the glass of the slice of windowpane to freeze over, "I would think long and hard about all you have heard today. And when you have mulled that over, you ought to compile a real confession. Fling yourself on His Majesty's mercy."
He rose without further warning, waving at the clerk to pack away his things. What was to ensue was not to be recorded. "Herondale, you have a way with words, that much is clear. Words mean both nothing and everything, depending on who hears them. You paint yourself as the very picture of innocence. Perhaps that visage is convincing because it comes from sincerity. While I think you many things, a fool is not one of them. You must understand that you have made some powerful enemies at this court." Jace's fists clenched uselessly at his sides with the threat. This was not a friendly caution, nor was it in Enoch's interest to waste his breath stating the obvious. Jace waited for him to get to the damn point. "It does not matter whether or not you are guilty. The suspicion is enough. When a peasant army marches on the King under your family banner, it cannot be easily forgiven. The rabble will be put down, of that be assured. That is not where this will end. Someone must be punished, and since you are the only one surviving with the Herondale name those who seek retribution need not look very far."
With that parting shot Enoch made himself scarce, the soft soles of his satin slippers hissing over the floor.
Clearly, he meant for Jace to simmer as he was, to mull over what he had just been told. Then, come to the logical conclusion: he ought to repent for the sin of his birth and hope Valentine was inclined to be merciful.
Again, Jace reflected that as demanding a parent Valentine was, he was not a heartless one. He had loved Jace and would be reluctant to persecute him now.
Jace's father had tried to kill Valentine, yet the King had still taken in the treasonous Duke's orphan. Valentine was a ruthless ruler, no doubt, but the part of Jace that had once put every ounce of childish faith in the man still yearned to trust him. All he'd endured in these stifling days was an attempt to appease the Council and his son. A means for Valentine to demonstrate that something was being done and to divert attention from the reality of the royal family's helplessness. It wasn't personal.
The hours passed and the room darkened from orange, to blue, to black. The three candles Jace had been permitted were lit, and he watched the closest flame writhe around on the wick, gasping for air too in the tight, hot surroundings.
He tossed his predicament over in his mind again and again, like some sort of demented coin flipping in his head. Life or death stamped on either side.
Enoch had all but told him that evidence could be fabricated if need be, so it may well transpire Jace's coin had death on either side. He would lie to save himself yes, but a lie here would kill him twice as fast. If he confessed to his supposed crimes, there was no guarantee Valentine could stay the Council's hand. Even Jace's old allies would hesitate to defend him, lest they end up on a scaffold themselves.
Jace counted the ten paces which took him from the bed to the window, peering out the narrow slip of glass and straining to find the stars. He was too high up to hear the gentle lapping of the Princewater against the fortress wall, but near enough to admire the shadowy outlines of the boats that bobbed on the current.
Jace would keep doing what he was doing. They would not tolerate his holding his tongue, so he would lead them on as many infuriating little jigs around the question. Reeling them in and flinging them out until his enemies lost their patience. That was dangerous too, of course. Jace could bide his time. He did have some true friends, he reminded himself. Adamant could not be alienated if Idris's overland trade routes were to be maintained, and the Lightwoods would not take kindly to Jace's treatment should it be discovered.
Admittedly, they were not the most powerful, but Clary... She might hate him for leaving her. But she would never hate him enough to stand by silently and watch him die. She would fight for him, if he could only get word to her. It might put her in danger too, since the Cardinal suggested she was already implicated in these falsehoods.
But she could well be the last hope he had.
Were Clary to be accused alongside Jace, there was safety in numbers. Divided and uncertain they could easily be tricked; enticed to point the finger at one another to save themselves. No one would dare accuse the King's own daughter directly, but if they could press or trick her into saying aught that might condemn Jace... She was already in danger. At least forewarned, Clary could put up a fight. If they both held their nerve and cleaved together, they might have some chance of escaping this.
And Valentine was fiercely protective of Clary. He scarce allowed her from his sight. He would believe her innocence, and if he believed her, the King would have to also believe Jace.
Scowling to himself Jace continued pacing, bouncing on the balls of his feet somewhat to try and lose some of the energy that was rolling off his overactive mind.
He was Jonathan Herondale, and he was not going to die like this.
It was time to stop shying from that name, to cease cringing from all its connotations. Oddly, now that his worst fears were all culminating to reality, Jace's mind began to clear like the night skies. The drifting gauze of cloud shifted, and moonlight spilled into Jace's cramped quarters.
He was who he was. There was no use in apologising for what could not be helped or changed.
Jonathan Herondale, Jonathan Herondale.
If it was to be someone else's war cry, then it may as well be his.
There was nowhere to run any more. If they wanted to kill him for being a Herondale, Jace did not want to hate being one.
Clearly someone out there believed his name should be worn with pride. That it was worth fighting for. And somewhere in the palace below him was a woman who believed he was worth loving and fighting for too. She had not been begging him merely to stay that day in the stable yard, Jace understood now, but she had been asking him to allow her to fight for him. Perhaps not with a pitchfork or dagger, but with her words, her courage, her heart.
If God could help him get out of this, or in the very least give him the strength to get himself out of this, then Jace would keep fighting. There would be no more flight. No more running and hiding.
Jace would fight for his freedom, and once that battle was won he would keep fighting. His enemies would never find him a vulnerable nobody again. And once that war was won- well, he'd be someone able to fight for Clary Morgenstern.
-000000000000000-
Even before she was accosted, Isabelle had not been having a good evening.
Not that she imagined anyone trapped in this kind of situation would find it particularly fun. The courtiers were less than their usual effervescent selves. They spent their days melting under the heavy jewelled chains and many layers of their expensive clothing as they hurried to nowhere through the Gard's turreted rooms. Then they spent their nights quaking with fear that the peasants might sneak in and murder them in their four poster beds.
The Gard was designed for two purposes: security and ceremony. It was compact, ornate and old, with centuries' worth of treasure stored within walls that had been buffeted by countless attacks over the many years it had stood. The layout was so different from the open, airy rooms of the south that Isabelle had become accustomed to over the summer. But she had slipped back to the spiralling staircases and winding stone hallways with greater ease than many of the other courtiers. It was not unlike the layout of the castle she had been raised in, one meant for withstanding a siege rather than royal comfort.
Not that royals ever lived in discomfort. For here, Clary did not have the usual assigned wing of rooms but instead had her own tower.
Kings of Idris only stayed in the Gard when they were under threat and needed an easily defended residence. Or to be closer to their esteemed ancestors in this, the oldest of their palaces.
There was no pretending it wasn't the former motive which had brought all of them here anymore.
At least Jonathan had not looked at her twice since he had arrived. He was busy charging between the King's quarters and his own, occasionally collaring Cardinal Enoch to ask a handful of quiet but demanding questions, about what God only knew. A few months ago, the lack of attention would have offended Isabelle, and she could not say in all honesty that a forthcoming offers from Jonathan would have been rebuked. But things had changed since then. Now she knew the Prince better. As for Simon-
None of this had anything to do with Simon, she reminded herself sharply. He was kind, and at times funny, though his jests were often amusing only in the sense that they were not amusing. She owed him nothing.
God have mercy, Isabelle did not deserve him at all, not with his inexhaustible compassion and willingness to talk of anything or nothing with her. Alec had taken to calling him "the pup" rather sneeringly because of his growing devotion to Isabelle. But she liked that Simon was unwaveringly faithful in a world of faithless people. Alec had also taken to rolling his eyes the moment Simon's back was turned and muttering things to the effect of "where does she find them?" and "By Christ- a musician!"
Thanks to that profession, Isabelle had not seen her puppy in days. The King was not in the mood for merrymaking. There were no more parties or celebration. While he had not been dismissed, Simon was keeping out of sight and out of the way until the King found a use for him.
The guards around the palace had doubled and there was no freedom of movement anyway. No member of the royal household was to step outside of the Gard's walls unless they wanted their wages and pensions to disappear. Being contained to your tower was trying, especially with Clary listlessly miserable and Alec beside himself with fretting that Jace had sent no word from the road.
Evening found Isabelle tired, worried and a little adrift.
For all their apparent determination, these rebels were no match for the finely honed steel and tight discipline of the King's men. That Isabelle had to believe. No Idrisian king had ever surrendered the Gard in its history. Valentine Morgenstern would not be the first.
Even if their odds were dire, falling to hysteria was certainly not going to help. And Isabelle Lightwood was nothing if not the mistress of her own emotions.
So she would endure the stench of the city streets that drifted over the Gard's walls. And she would endure the smaller, plainer portion of food served to her at each mealtime. She would even suffer the fretful company of her fellow nobles, packed like fish in a barrel and praying they were not shot at. Whatever may come, Isabelle had to endure.
Since Clary seemed to find a solace in prayer that Isabelle could not, she took Clary's recent bout of anxious novenas as the prime opportunity to slip away.
Isabelle found wandering the halls of the Gard soothing. She relished the thrill of exploration, of finding forgotten routes, of running her hands over fading tapestries, and ancient golden candlesticks. The royal suites were a clamour of colour. Curtains, carpets, paintings and cloths crowded every available surface. Her mother had an insatiable appreciation of these finer things, and back at Adamant she had spent years collecting such items, the favourites being from her native Idris. She had imparted to Isabelle a similar joy of such finds, alongside a knack of sorting the well preserved and valuable from sentimental tat. Her parents' union had been an arranged one of political convenience, but once upon a time Isabelle's father had indulged in Maryse's collections. There was a kind of homecoming in this magpie's nest of a palace, one that held the kind of peace a return to Adamant never would.
But Isabelle's favourite haunt, as discovered on their previous stay, was not in the endless galleries of finery. It was up upon the highest turret.
There, air was fresher. And the view was spectacular. Out over the many walls, battlements and even the moat, Isabelle could see the city itself. She marvelled in the little ant figures of its people hurrying amongst the many thatched roofs, and the bobbing fires of the city below at night. On a clear day she could see for miles, at times convincing herself the vague iridescent band of silver sometimes caught below the horizon was Lake Lyn, all the way to the south.
The steps up to her vantage point were yet more proof of the Gard's military purpose; they were just wide enough for one man or woman to climb up at a time. The ascendant found their right-side grazing stone upon the walls. This was intended to prevent an attacker from having full use of their sword arm. But when your assailant came from the step below you, then you were in trouble.
Isabelle did not see or hear the Crown Prince until he barrelled into her and ensnared her waist with his arm.
Before the stunned gasp could escape Isabelle's lips, Jonathan's body was against hers, flush. Each crevice of air between them was sealed, and the force of his pull flattened her skirts against her legs. Isabelle's eyes shot down to the slim hand now pressed against her stomacher. They were startlingly similar to Clary's; the same slender digits, eerily identical sloping knuckles under snowy skin. Only distinctly more male. Larger, flecked with little scars instead of freckles.
Her suspicions as to her accoster's identity were all that stopped her elbow crashing into the softer flesh at his stomach that might restore her freedom.
Those suspicions were proven by the seductive whisper in her ear; "Hush, don't scream." She felt the edge of his smile against the tip of her ear, "Not yet."
The warmth of Jonathan's wine scented breath sent invisible insects crawling across her skin.
Drunk. Perfect.
Not that she could rely on the Prince to unhand her if she asked nicely. Isabelle's mother had always impressed upon her that the male nobility of any court were often gentlemen in name alone.
Jonathan held her tighter than a vice, the silver threading at his sleeves glimmering faintly in the glow of the surrounding torches.
Even should she cry out for them, the watchmen were unlikely to wrest her from the Crown Prince's grasp. Instead, Isabelle kept her breathing as even as possible. She let a teasing laugh wring itself from her throat.
"Highness, there is no need to creep after me like a cutpurse."
"Every need," Jonathan growled, tugging her hair away from her neck where his mouth now hovered. Her dangling earing clattered at the skin below her lobe. "I tried asking you nicely Isabelle, dozens of times. You will not take my gifts, nor my letters." His hand crept across her waist.
"My lord," Isabelle started in protest, shifting her weight as best she could. Her instincts were still howling at her to flee, but she was not some bleating doe. "What, pray tell, might my silence suggest to you on the topic?" She kept her voice playful but gave a tentative tug to see if he might let her go at that. No such luck. She lowered her voice and made it firmer; "Mayhap that Your Highness should not take what he wants before I am willing to give it."
His teeth grazed her bared neck, then came the muted hiss of her skirts as they were lifted off the worn stone steps and upwards. "I am the Prince of Idris" Jonathan slurred somewhat, but his hands on her did not fumble, "And I am tired of being ignored."
Jonathan spun her round, and Isabelle's shoulder bones struck the aged, icy stone. It almost knocked the breath from her lungs, but the movement freed her right arm. Isabelle knew she would not get another chance.
She slapped him across his face as hard as she could.
The whole side of Jonathan's face bloomed red. The emerald stone of her ring had nicked his face, just below his left eye. There oozed a little steam of blood as Isabelle looked on with grim delight, his blood more black than red in the torchlight.
"You bitch." He hissed, outraged, his hand clapping over the cut.
He still had a fistful of her dress and Isabelle heard a rip as she snatched it back. She served him a look that could slice through cold steel with ease. "Surely a Prince of Idris can do better than snatching at women in dark and empty corners?"
Shock chimed across his horribly handsome features at that, and a harsh little laugh sawed itself free of Isabelle.
"How dare you."
"How dare I? Your behaviour is ungallant enough that I am assuredly no longer required to have manners." She narrowed her eyes as Jonathan peeled his hand away, inspecting the blob of blood on his fingers. "I will always return in kind." Isabelle promised him darkly.
Jonathan's shock was wearing off, and Isabelle did not trust him to be any better behaved once it did.
She capitalised on the new space between their chests to twist nimbly to the side and slide past Jonathan. She had to shove his shoulder as he did so, and doubtless grazed her own if the barking pain through her velvet sleeves was anything to judge by.
But Isabelle did not hesitate. She took one step downward and then the next, as quickly as she could. She slid and stumbled over her own hem on the descent. And as soon as her toes were back on level flagstones, she ran for all she was worth.
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Jace had awoken to hundreds of scenarios, in dozens of different ways. He'd been kissed awake by lovers he did not want to remember. He'd been shaken awake by the proprietor of the establishment after nights he could not remember because his sprawled form was preventing them sweeping the floors. He had also been shaken out of oblivion by an incensed or excited Alec. Once, his own personal low, Jace had been lapped awake by a strange dog.
This was a new rock bottom.
It seemed that although Pangborn had been sent to do the honours, it was not for the sake of another of their delightful interviews. After the blunt, nasal command that Jace dress himself fully and quickly, the Master Secretary stood off to the side, leaving a puzzled Jace to reluctantly don his dusty, discarded doublet and try his best to tidy his hair. He judged from the wan lighting that he had only slept for around an hour.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He now attempted to drawl while Pangborn apathetically watched him lace his boots.
"His Majesty demands your presence." Jace blinked, abandoning the ties mid knot and staring hopefully at his visitor. Had his prayers really been answered? Pangborn continued, "He is in the middle of another meeting of the Privy Council. It would appear we have finally found a use for your silver tongue."
Try as he might, Jace could not press Pangborn for any more titbits of information than that. It would appear what he'd gleaned from his previous interrogations would be all Jace had to go on. He was walking into the bear pit bare handed, so to speak. Still, the walk there itself was almost pleasant, for having escaped his stuffy eyrie the corridors below were blissfully cool. Passing a pane of glass that was cracked slightly open, Jace could have wept as the faint fingers of a breeze caressed his flushed cheeks.
Too soon they were at the doors of the King's council room.
They were impressive indeed. A mammoth, oaken hinged structure depicting the feats and failings of the bible's King David. Somewhere in that was a warning to the Kings of Idris, that even God's chosen had his shortcomings. As Jace approached, his eyes snagged on the bottom corner, which showed a young David squaring up to the giant Goliath. Surprisingly, it provided some stirrings of comfort. Proof that pluck and faith could go a long way.
However short he might find himself on faith, Jace had proven time and time again he had courage. He summoned it now. God favoured the little man over the giant.
Jace walked straight backed and head high into Valentine Morgenstern's presence.
A decisive hush fell at the appearance of the two men lingering in the doorway. Jace took stock of the huge table dominating the room before him in the single glance he was permitted, before he had to sink to his bow.
Valentine sat at its head, naturally. None other than an irate Jonathan had pride of place at his father's right hand, then Starkweather on Jonathan's right. The vacant seat beside him had to belong to Pangborn. The rest of the table's right side was made up of John Carstairs (whose face Jace dared not too closely at) and George Penhallow.
Lucian Graymark occupied the seat directly to Valentine's left, flanked by the Cardinal, Andrew Blackthorn, Blackwell, a Lord Ravenscar who Jace only knew by face and name and young Sebastian Verlac, the freshest face. The Earl of Burchetten had been promoted to the Privy Council only weeks ago through Jonathan's influence, to fill the vacant seat left by the death of Kaelie Whitewillow's husband. A juicy reward from the Prince to his bosom friend, for some morally apprehensible thing Jace was better off knowing nothing of.
"Jonathan," the King greeted him with an invitation to rise in a smugly affable tone, though Jace could sense the mute horror of the other lords. The Prince's expression had soured from one of irritation to utter loathing. His glare promptly switched to Pangborn, mutely demanding an explanation. It would appear His Majesty was the only one expecting Jace.
For once Jace found he felt exactly as Jonathan did; more than a little annoyed and completely lost. He had anticipated a private opportunity to beg for his freedom. There was no way that could occur in front of the entire Council.
Valentine pinned Jace with a stare and gestured toward the empty chair, the sapphire on the ring of state blinking up at the tense young man on the threshold. "Have a seat."
Jace had not paid much attention to the remaining seat, knowing as he did that the Council only ever consisted of ten of the King's inner circle. Usually, the greatest of the realm's peers. Or, in the case of Starkweather, Pangborn and even Graymark who had been a fairly minor lord once, nobodies who had particularly impressed the King and whose services were valued. The eleventh seat was an honorary one, granted to the kingdom's heir on his eighteenth birthday. Jace had encountered Kings who had up to forty councillors to hand, but Valentine liked to answer to as few men as possible.
Jace hesitated.
At which dawdling Valentine's gaze hardened, chips of obsidian now boring into the younger man, "Time is not a luxury we have at the moment, Jonathan."
Jace drew out the chair, its legs scraping with a reluctant yowl into the quiet before he dropped into it and tucked his legs under the table.
"Father, what is the meaning of this?" Jonathan snapped from the far end, not bothering to pretend he possessed a shred of patience. There was a nasty new mark on his face, what looked like a raw scratch. Jace was certain it was deserved.
"We need a plan of action." Valentine stated calmly without looking at his heir. The edges of his voice were roughened from what could be either frustration or nerves. The King appeared discountenanced. It urged Jace to reconsider the table's other members. Sure enough, Jonathan's normally sleek silvery hair was rumpled, and the others also seemed dishevelled and tired. Jace concluded that they had been sitting here all night, and God knew how many hours before that.
"Jonathan Herondale here has proven himself a man of swift wit and word, as well as one of resource. He's had the most experience with these lowlifes. He is the only one here to have faced them and prevailed. I would hear his opinion on the matter."
A muscle in Jonathan Morgenstern's cheek jumped at the explanation, "You do not need any further opinions on the issue. There is only one course of action, the one I have outlined to you." Ah, so that would explain why the young royal's nose was so spectacularly out of joint. This was personal, or at least to Jonathan's petty mind. Not that Jace did not know how frustrating it could be to be swept aside by His Majesty, but he was equally as exasperated by his rival as Valentine seemed. It was the merit of the plan which mattered, not the one who proposed it.
All stony gazes now weighed on Jace once more, the King's heaviest.
"I would know more of the matter at hand before I formed an opinion on it."
Valentine waved at Graymark to speak, and the chosen lord chimed dully, "There is a rebel army, hundreds strong, surrounding each of the city's main gates as we speak." He gestured to the map of Alicante sprawled before them and to the five points marked upon it. "Yet we understand that the bulk of their force is camped by River Gate and Merchant's Gate," He pointed to each of the thoroughfares on the map. Jace snatched back a curse at the first revelation, the River Gate was the closest to the Gard- indicating that these men knew exactly where to find their King. As for the Merchant's gate, it was easily the widest of the gates in the city's walls, designed to allow the bulky carts of farmers and lines of livestock access to the city markets. Again, that suggested they knew where to strike to get the most men possible through. This was no amateur rabble.
Luke pressed on tonelessly, "It goes without saying that it is at those points our defence is centred. The one who has emerged as their leader is some Jacque Tiller, an Oldcastle native and unknown until recently. He is with the group by the River Gate."
Jace knew better to ask where all this information had come from.
"Those by Merchant's Gate are headed by a Sir Thomas Highsmith, also a nobody, but one of a half-dozen country knights who rallied to the cause. He is not in the first flush of youth either, unlike Tiller. He's a veteran fighter who has the experience of a successful military career in His Majesty's own army to boast of. He is well into his fifties now- but as I say- well accustomed to the waging of war."
Jace swallowed, chancing a flickering look up at motionless Valentine who stared back intensely, waiting still. "How are our numbers?"
"Cut off in Alicante? We would be lucky to patch together two hundred, relying heavily on the city watch. His Majesty's personal guard will not engage unless it is absolutely necessary. They are needed here to protect the royal family. Aid is on its way. Every lord that has men to raise has sent promise of them, on pain of death, but we have another two days until they arrive. This Tiller and Highsmith will know from their scouts."
"So they will strike before that" Jace mused gravely, meeting Luke's uncharacteristically dismal expression. Luke sighed and shrugged, falling back in his seat, the lack of reply speaking volumes.
"There is no need for us to engage anyone!" Blackwell spluttered at the lapse in conversation, "His Majesty and his family are perfectly safe here in the Gard. We ought to pour our energies into the defence of these walls and wait until our supporting army arrives and chases them back to whatever hovels they came from!"
Spoken like a true aristocrat, Jace thought with burning bitterness, "Then you'd permit them to breach the city walls!" He flung back twice as ferociously, appalled at the attitude he could see nestling into the minds of several of the lords present. At the growing resolution tightening on the faces of Starkweather and Verlac strongest. They would move to save their own hides and let the rest of the world go to hell. Although he was not precisely astounded, Jace remained sickened. "You think they will book rooms in inns and wait patiently for a rival force to arrive? No. They will sack Alicante. They will burn, plunder and rape their way through our city! There are thousands of innocents out there, who it is our duty to protect!"
"We cannot slam and bolt the Gard's gates, then raise the drawbridge and leave them to their fate. It is un-Christian and cowardly," Luke rumbled in agreement.
"Thus, we strike first," Jonathan hissed emphatically, leaning into Valentine as though closer proximity would make what he had to say more appealing, "We send our men out under the cover of night to slit every one of their commanders' throats. Before they even know we've opened the gates." He flung an upturned palm toward the King as though it were obvious, then slammed it back to the table with such force the whole structure shook, accentuating his following sentiment. "We treat them as you would any dog who forgets who his master is. You put it down!"
Jace's already rapidly waning store of patience ran bone dry, "Have you learned a single thing from Oldcastle? There are only so many times you can beat a dog down before it turns on you!"
"What then would you have me do?" Valentine demanded, before Jonathan could flip that great table with his temper. Jace forced his attention back to Valentine, "What you need is time," he said slowly, looking to Luke for reassurance, "You believe two days would suffice?"
Cautiously, Graymark nodded. "I pray so."
"Do more than pray," Jace fired back before he could stop himself, as his plan began to properly take form, "If you need time then you buy it. Parley with them. Send word to the leaders that they will be met at a time and place of your choosing, I would recommend Tiller by River Gate, since it is closest to here should the need for a hasty retreat arise. Then you make a show of listening to what they have to say. Once they have an army at their backs, they will no longer be so willing to attack, I daresay. They shall disband and disappear, while your demonstration of concern for their woes will mitigate claims that any plea for justice in Idris will fall on deaf ears."
Valentine pondered it all in a frightening silence for what seemed an age before he loosed a slow, serpentine smile. "And should our spokesman's merciful offer of peace on our behalf be ignored and this mass fail to disband, then we show our wrath instead." He inclined his head slightly to the right, toward Jonathan, as he added, "Under cover of darkness."
Jace's blood and adrenaline was still pounding through him, but he did register further disappointment at word of a spokesman. He had expected Valentine to speak to Tiller himself, leader to leader.
Yet his pleasure that his plan be chosen, chewed rapidly away at Jace's wariness. He was slow to see that he had made an uncomfortable seat for himself, right where Valentine wanted him.
"I am glad you think parlaying with them prudent, very glad indeed. You have obvious skill with that tongue, all controlled by the pragmatic and persuasive mind we require." Valentine pressed a forefinger to his chin and smiled in earnest. "It is most excellent that you wish to talk to these men. For it is to you they wish to speak, Jonathan Herondale."
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