Chapter 16: On my Word of Dishonour
Princewater Palace, Alicante, Late September 1536
Staring at herself in the looking glass, Clary marvelled that her face did not betray the many years she felt she had aged in the weeks since she had last sat in these rooms. If she was not mistaken, her remaining childish plumpness had been stripped away. Her cheekbones and chin were more defined. She would never be the prettiest girl at court, not by a mile. But she was no longer as preoccupied by it. Beauty was the most apparent currency a woman had to hand, but there were other means of making herself valuable. And if nothing else, her father's court had taught her not to trust appearances. Little was ever as it seemed.
Clary's eyes no longer flickered away from her own reflection out of despair at her plainness or worry she would be accused of vanity. She looked herself dead in the eye.
"The pearls?" Rebecca enquired behind her, to which Clary nodded. Once they were in place, she brushed her forefinger against the garnet locket which hung between her collarbones. She drew a final piece of confidence from the bright colour before turning away from the mirror altogether. She rolled her shoulders back and pinned in the matching earrings by herself as she marched out of her bedchamber.
"His Highness agreed to meet with you, Princess," Aline chimed as she passed by, "He awaits you in his rooms."
"Good." Clary declared humourlessly, making straight for the doors, "You and Maia can join us."
The court was at long last inching its way out of its shell, now that the last of the rebels within the city had been put down or chased out. There were more occasions on which the women and men of the court came together. Be it dancing or feasting, Clary never let her eyes stray too far from her brother. So far, Jonathan behaved impeccably. Clary credited that to her father's fury, rather than to anything she could possibly ever do to cow Jonathan.
Having seen how the King treated his son behind closed doors, Clary had the beginnings of a sympathy for her brother. That did not mean she trusted him. Nor did it mean he was not still doing his utmost to unseat her place in their father's affections. Or do greater harm still.
Though Clary may find it in her to pity her brother, she could also recognise that stream flowed only one way. It would not lessen his irrational hatred of her, and to let her sympathies cloud how dangerous Jonathan could be might prove fatal.
And yet, her brother could still have his uses.
Clary once thought the King was the only person on this earth Jonathan feared. That was not true. Her brother was more frightened of Jace. Those fears were stoked the the moment Jace had returned to Idris and Valentine had only urged the flames of Jonathan's distress since. Returning Jace's title, his position at court and on the Council; now they lived in one of Jonathan's nightmares.
When she finally came to the doors of the Prince's apartments, Clary was startled to note it was the first time she had ever done so. She could count on one hand the times she and her sibling had willingly and personally sought one another out. On each of them Jonathan had come to her.
What she had expected to find in Jonathan's personal rooms Clary could not have said, but she had been anticipating something to the effect of a torture chamber. Dingy walls, the eerie yelp of water dripping onto stone, bits of animal carcasses dangling from the ceilings- that sort of thing. A holding pen for whatever perversions he could not pursue in the public eye.
On the contrary, the Crown Prince's apartments seemed not so very unlike her own. But where Clary's were full of blues, greens and pink, Jonathan's were dressed in masculine colours, reds, browns, silver, and black- a great deal of black. She glimpsed a small oil likeness of a silver haired woman over the mantelpiece. Their grandmother, Queen Seraphina, Clary recognised eventually, who had died before she was born.
The only objection she could make of her surroundings was that they were something of a mess. Cushions were squashed into chairs and not plumped up again, a hat tossed onto the first surface by the door (which so happened to a gilded candlestick). The fallen soldier of a quill lay injured, withering in the open air, the bleeding ink blots hardening on bare wood. It would seem the reluctance to tidy after one's self ran in the family.
She approached her brother, who was lounging in a seat by the window. One long leg folded over the other, his foot resting upon the opposite knee.
He did not stand on ceremony, opting to crack a vicious grin up at Clary instead. "Sister, you never cease to intrigue me."
She had left her ladies loitering behind her, far enough to not appear obnoxiously intrusive but close enough to remain in hearing distance. Clary knew she would require witnesses.
"I should hate to bore you," she replied mordantly, to which he narrowed his own gaze and reassembled himself on the seat until he was leaning forward.
"Never that, Clary."
Clary scoffed, but just as she began to frame another sharp retort, Jonathan pressed on, "Listen, much as I adore sparring with you little sister, I do have better things to do. It just so happens that the Council has a spot of anarchy to deal with. Since we only get one life apiece, let us not waste any more time pretending interest in one another. Say your piece and go back to your psalms, or charity or... whatever it is you do with yourself here."
Clary's hands had drifted to her hips. She had to force them to smooth down her sides before she really did adopt the stance of a scolding housewife. She could not let him irritate her, not now. She had too much to lose. If this plan of action failed, she did not know what else she could do.
"I hear I have another suitor on the horizon," Clary deadpanned, scrutinising the Prince with what she prayed was a blank face.
Jonathan lost interest in the fingernails he had been pretending to clean, sweeping his eyes up to hers. "You heard correctly."
Clary sucked in a breath as best she could past her skin-tight stomacher.
She had not wanted to believe it when it had first been whispered to her by Maia three days ago but had not doubted for a moment it wasn't true.
"The Dauphin is scarcely cold in his grave." She rubbed her hands together, sighing ruefully, "Such is the advantage of an unofficial betrothal I suppose. No expected period of mourning. No reason for another not to be immediately pursued."
Jonathan hummed in agreement, returning to his preening, "Father is most heartened by the values of the situation. Though I daresay that even had you been officially contracted, he would not have paused too long before seeking out another match. The King knows he wants of you Clary and he will not dally in getting it. The ambassador arrives from Nancy this afternoon."
"I know."
He taunted her with a gasp, "My, my. Aren't you well informed."
Clary did not deign to respond to that, pressing on her one line of enquiry, "So it is the Duke of Lorraine?"
"I cannot tell you that; all on the Council are bound to secrecy on the matter." He laughed then brashly, "Father seems to think that were you aware you would meddle."
"But you already just told me of it." Clary pointed out, exasperation rising.
"No, I did not. Though I cannot think who did drip that pleasant titbit of knowledge in your ear, since even our favourite Herondale is still in the dark. His Majesty knows he may as well have Father Jeremiah bellow it from the pulpit as tell Jace. His tongue could hardly move quick enough to tell you."
Clary strove to stay focused. She wouldn't fight with him over Jace, not now. She needed an accurate assessment of all possible threats here, and only Jonathan would be well enough informed and easily enough goaded into telling her all of it. "What of the previous bachelors? I know the King of Scotland has since married, but what of the Hapsburg boy?"
"He'll not be ready for a wife for nigh on another decade," Her brother finished for her, still refusing to diffuse the blatant mockery in his tone. "As for dear old James, Madeline de Valois broke her father's heart in insisting that he let her marry him. She is a sickly thing and will not last her first Scottish winter. Unless the Duke of Lorrraine is as impatient to close the deal as our father, then you could well find the King of Scotland back in the game soon."
"Let us be frank with one another then, for a change. I do not wish to marry the Duke of Lorraine."
Jonathan's mouth twisted into a smile in earnest. He seemed genuinely amused by her. "Dear heart, I do not care what you want."
Hidden behind the flare of her yellow shirts, Clary's fingers twitched. Seeing her barely curbed infuriation Jonathan had the audacity to dart his hand out and pinch at her cheek, tugging ardently on the entrapped flesh. "Come now! It is not the worst match! Yes, the Duke of Lorraine is old enough to be your father, but take comfort, that means he may well be impotent. Even should he find the energy to paw at you, he is already a widower with issue, which takes the pressure off you to present his heir."
Her cheek still ached from where her brother had nipped it and Clary's stomach rolled in riot at the prospect of being wedded to a man almost forty years her senior. But Clary made herself smile.
She took several bouncing paces backwards, wrapping her fingers around the smooth back of the nearest chair and then hauled it over to where Jonathan sat. She dropped merrily into it and clasped her hands before her, prepared to talk proper business at last. "There are many differences between the two of us brother, anyone may see that. But the real distinction? Unlike you, I make it my business to care what you want."
Jonathan stiffened, lowering his arms to the armrest and dropping his leg to cross his ankles. He asked with hefty bemusement, "Which is?"
A slow, vulpine smile unfurled on Clary's fine features, "You like the notion of my being married almost less than I do."
"What makes you say that?"
Clary swallowed and calmed herself. She had some insight into the workings of her brother's mind at last and she intended to use it. Was that not how her father operated? Knowing a man meant knowing his fears and desires. Then you threaten one and offer the other, whichever the situation may warrant. She shook her head slowly, as though she were about to reveal some terrible tragedy, before uttering with sharp melancholy: "Our people do not cheer as you ride past."
"The people do not cheer as any of us ride past," Jonathan snapped, the terseness in the phrase declaring to Clary she had begun to really get under his skin. She continued her lament as though he had not spoken, "The courtiers obey you, but they do not respect you. There is no enthusiasm to carry out your bidding. Fear, but no loyalty. Few would choose to follow you."
"How-"
"Now, let us say that I do become Duchess of Lorraine. Let us say that from the union a son is born. Another boy with Morgenstern blood in his veins. Denied an inheritance of much merit, as you yourself just said, by his elder brothers from his father's first wife. What then, if he turns to his maternal line? What if he starts to look at Idris? What, indeed, if he becomes the sort of man who men will want to follow? Idrisian men, even."
Jonathan made a show of snickering at her, "You and your wild imagination. Am I supposed to quiver at the might of this prince who does not yet exist?"
"You are supposed to see the mutual benefit in my remaining unmarried." She offered another smile.
Jonathan tapped his chin and rolled his eyes at her.
Clary dropped her voice, "Am I supposed to pretend you require encouragement to remove my bridegrooms?"
He threw her a gaze sideways, "Careful now Clary. You have pushed far enough as it is."
She shrugged, "I hear that the late Duchess of Lorraine died of negligence. They say that a doctor was not called for her illness until it was too late."
"You hear too many things," her brother chided irritably. Oh, she had him eating out of her palm now, though he was too furiously thinking to fully see it. "Our father has too many eyes on me as it is, sister. I do not wish to antagonise him further by interfering in the matter. Although I suppose I can investigate the Duke somewhat, if only to allay your fears that you would not be well cared for. That I can promise, on my word of dishonour. " He gave her the beginnings of a smile that was anything but merry.
"I thank you." Clary found herself feeling more hopeful than she had for days. Ruthlessness was the one aspect of her brother she could be sure of. She gratefully trusted in it now.
She was not utterly heartless, she had suspected that the King had Jonathan all but under lock and key and he had confirmed it. She need not fear for the life of the new favourite for her hand. There were still many ways to wreck a betrothal. Even should Jonathan fail to completely halt the coming one, he could at least hamper it. Time was a much greater luxury than costly furs or jewels to Clary now. One she would not squander.
The Princess nodded to her new unlikely ally now, "Shall we have some wine?" she suggested chirpily, "To celebrate our being on the same page at last?"
"Later," Jonathan growled, "I do, in fact, have another appointment this afternoon."
"A pity," She uttered it the way another girl in another scenario might have said 'a party'.
Without the slightest reluctance, Clary bounded up and made for the door. Jonathan called after her, voice stridently curious, "Say Lorraine's suit is rejected by His Majesty, for whatever reason, what then? If you truly wish to stay unmarried Clary, you would save us both a great deal of trouble by opting to return to that convent permanently. God knows, you pride yourself enough on being pious. Holy orders shouldn't be much a stretch."
Without turning Clary smiled once more to herself, the expression no longer feeling as foreign or false as it had moments ago.
She pressed through the doors, Aline and Maia a solid presence at her back. Outside, she answered him in a muttered confession, "I said that I wished not to be wed to the Duke of Lorraine, Not that I did not intend on marrying at all."
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Summer began to surrender to the autumn at last, but it was still fair enough to make a walk in the palace's walled gardens enjoyable. A pastime made all the more pleasing by the frequency with which the Princess was located amongst the shrubbery and fading roses of late. She had developed quite a penchant for outdoor pursuits.
If the new Duke of Broceland happened to find himself stumbling into the company of that lady almost every day, that was played off as pure coincidence. Jace hoped.
Each time he would bow, she curtsey and invite conversation by enquiring how he was adjusting to his raised status at court. She would offer various lines of advice or consolation and he would offer his arm. Once he had her small hand tucked in the warm groove of his bent arm, they would wander onward. Clary's accompanying ladies would then develop an inexplicable lethargy and find themselves incapable of keeping up.
Clary had once mentioned in passing that this were the tried and tested method employed to maintain a friendship with Simon, a fact Jace battled to accept in silence. He crushed the wriggle of jealousy under his skin with the argument that surely it was of no consequence who had been at her side before when he were there now. If anyone had cause for envy now it would be Simon, not he.
Jace gently scouted that terrain as best he dared, "And your musician friend does not mind the deposition in favour of me?"
Clary had laughed and shot him a conspiratorial look, "Oh I daresay not. Simon has his own distractions these days."
"Dare I enquire as to the meaning of that?"
She had scrutinised him with some disbelief, then shook her head, "Naught. It means naught."
Jace entertained the possibility of pressing her, then dismissed it. They bickered enough as it were, a continuity he was glad of. Besides, of all the many people on this earth that Jace found interesting, Simon the lute player was not one of them. Clary did get a tad flustered when he teased her about Simon's commitment, enough for him to garner that he had been a sometime suitor.
"Is this a particular vice of yours Princess? Men beneath you?"
She glared, but lacked the incensed response that would have revealed a grasp of both layers of his lewd jest. She really was too pure for him.
"There was nothing of the sort between Simon and I. And you are not so far beneath me anymore, Your Grace." She teased him ceaselessly with the honorific these days. As she taunted him, her eyes slid down the tawny doublet, new jewelled dagger, heavy golden chain and boots that were- for the first time in perhaps twenty years- perfectly polished. Not that he had donned rags before, but Clary seemed to approve these trimmed coats.
"I should think that of the two of us, you have a longer line of scorned suitors." She was only half-jesting and did not meet his eyes as she spoke.
Jace should have anticipated the chiding enquiry sooner, since they had elected to explore... whatever this was. If they were to engage in this most unconventional courtship (had he been permitted to court her) then they must be honest with one another. This must have been troubling her for some time, and the tension of her shoulders and quickened pace indicated how deeply so. Clary strode in the direction of the little labyrinth recently installed in the palace grounds for the King's pleasure.
Jace swallowed and forcibly slowed their strides. He pulled them to a halt under a wilting apple blossom tree, its pink and white splotched flowers sagging. They were subjected to a drizzle of damp leaves and sodden petals, one of which Clary had to prise off her cheek.
Jace loosened his hold on her a touch, gauging the deliberately loud giggles of Aline and Helen at a safe enough distance to pursue the subject he was about to.
Much as Clary seemed to trust them, Jace could not share in her faith. Perhaps she had secrets of their own in her pocket, but that did not mean the girls stopped whispering in the ears of whoever it was might bulk up their wages, or assist in the finding of an advantageous husband. Or even, should that ardent listener prove to be the Crown Prince, promise protection from whatever terrible, clandestine knowledge Clary held over them. Jace had lived in this world a little longer than she had; he knew every man and woman had their price. Even those who swore they could not be bought had something they would do anything for, or someone. Aline Penhallow for instance, was a full cousin to Sebastian Verlac and every noble family was its own faction at court. For God's sake, even Jace had his spy in the Princess's chamber: Isabelle.
He still weighed his words when addressing Clary. Unless they happened to be closeted in a bedchamber (which was distressingly unlikely in the immediate future) he assumed someone was listening.
Still, this had to be said now. "Clary, whatever it is you wish to know I will tell you. You know of Kaelie, but believe me, that was not something that meant anything. None of my past...affairs...ever meant anything. I am rather ashamed of that. Yes, there have been others besides Lady Whitewillow. However," he stared her straight in the eye, heart pummelling his ribs, trying to impress every piece of sincerity he had upon those openly hopeful eyes, "there has never been one like you Clarissa Morgenstern."
Her mouth trembled to a smile, that breath-taking flash of happiness that Jace would happily tred hot coals to keep there. So he added, "I must admit, this love, all of it is as knew to me as it is you."
Clary's eyes batted downwards and Jace felt a dash of distress as she blinked hurriedly. He should have known the pain an admission of his past exploits would inflict. She was sickened, despairing. His hands released hers and caught at her face, fingers tucking naturally under her chin as he gently tilted her head upwards again, "I meant not to upset you, sweetheart."
"You have not," Clary insisted, one final flutter of her lashes drying the buds of growing tears, "But that is the first time you have told me you loved me."
His thumbs swept as soothingly as they could over her jawline. "I do."
The edge of her usual humour crept back and Clary unsheathed the blade was her tongue once again, "Sweetheart? Really?"
Jace attempted to swat it aside with another laugh, as she returned her hand to its perch on his arm.
The endearment had just slipped out. Normally such play names sickened Jace. But it had felt right in the moment, despite the obvious torture he was about to endure for it.
Clary laughed alongside him and nudged him onwards. They struck up their walk just in time, for her companions turned the latest corner and came within sighting distance once more. The Duke lowered his voice anyway lest they heard, as a precaution. "You dislike it?"
"No." Clary said with quiet satisfaction, "Not at all." The kept walking in a comfortable silence for a short time, before Clary broke it with a sideways glance and a more sober question; "Can we be serious for time?"
Jace flicked her a crooked smile, "If we must."
She pinched at him in reprimand. "We must. There is a new battleship on the horizon, sooner than expected."
Jace frowned, "Is that a metaphor? If so, I am hopeful it is the request to resume our night-time explorations."
Careless of what her ladies witnessed, Clary shoved him headlong toward a hedge. Jace only righted himself in the last moment, his palm skidding some thorn bushes. "I take that as a no," he muttered once he regained his balance, clapping a hand to his head to right his cap and stumbling after her.
"It is code, you dolt."
"I am going to separate you from Izzy. She is a bad influence. A code is something you agree with all parties before-hand Clary. Not words you simply fling at them and then fling them into a wall of greenery when they fail to comprehend!"
"You know that is not why I pushed you. And you agreed to be serious." She snapped, though lessened the hostility by taking hold of him again. "It means," she said, in a voice scarce skimming the head of murmur, "That the Duke of Lorraine has approached my father for my hand."
He knew aught like this was coming. It did not prevent the swooping trepidation in his gut. This must be akin to what a condemned man felt when he walked out of his trial with the axeman's blade pointed toward him. A death sentence.
"Jace," Clary's voice dredged him back to the present, where she was peering up at him with a curious blend of sympathy and impatience. He cleared his throat and played at being calm. Unleashing the full extent of his panic on Clary would not reassure her any. Whatever he felt she must too, only a hundred times more strongly. He must ease her fear as best he could, until he could contrive a way to defeat this scheme.
"That would explain that odd cross-eyed man from Nancy."
"I have it under control."
Jace's dismay amplified at the annunciation. "What the devil do you mean by that?" he demanded, more harshly than he had meant to in his disconcerted frame of mind. "Clary, you cannot simply dig in your heels and refuse to marry him. Nor can you sweet talk the King out of it."
Clary's head jerked up defiantly, "No. I know that."
Jace continued anxiously, "He will not have you prying in the matter either. You know how he felt about your manipulating the French suit. He does not expect you to have a mind in the matter, much less speak it! Have you forgotten the catastrophe that was that damned stupid request you thought to make?"
They were whipping their way through this spiralling maze now, tossing up scattered leaves and strewing stray pebbles underfoot. Their voices were lifting with their tempers, Aline and Helen long forgotten.
"What possessed me to tell you of that I will never know," Clary grumbled angrily, "Perhaps you should reconsider the value of my 'damned stupid' pursuits Jace, since you are one!"
Jace sighed, the sound rather strangled and not unlike the noise usually made after one was winded.
"That I did for you, folly though it was. But I do learn from my mistakes. I have no intention of being so direct this time. I may be prohibited from meddling, but Jonathan is not."
Jace had to squeeze his eyes shut and almost had to bite down on his tongue. Here he was, trying to counsel Clary against the extreme folly of baiting Valentine while her solution was to enlist Jonathan, who was unspeakably worse.
"Yes, Jonathan is a dangerous enemy. Therefore a useful ally, no? Come, you know how it is: 'the enemy of my enemy.'"
"If you think that you can harness Jonathan for your bidding or exploit him, think again. He is your primary enemy at this court, Clary. Your downfall is his aim and if you give him a foothold in this, in us, then you are aiding his arsenal. You are playing with fire with hands smeared in gunpowder."
"I do what I have to." Clary continued stubbornly, "Jonathan knows nothing of us, nor of what I want. Anyway, it is too late to retract now. It is done, Jace."
Jace looked away in grim despair. They quarrelled and needled one another but never before had such opposing stances.
Yet Clary had a point, however much Jace disliked it. There was no rewriting the past. It would appear he and Jonathan were now allies.
"I will not grow to like this," he grumbled bluntly, while Clary tucked her fingers firmly back around his arm in a move of reconciliation, the tips of them starting to cool in the outdoor air. She extended her free hand to skim over the velvet material of his sleeve, as though she hoped a few strokes would lull him back to a peaceable state like it might a dog or cat. Rather than annoying him yet further, Jace felt the edges of a laugh scratch at his throat.
"It is not that I have enlisted Jonathan's assistance here that vexes you," Clary began knowingly, "But that I did not turn to you first."
"Should it be so terrible if that were so?" Jace demanded with gruff exasperation, "I cannot bear being helpless. What is the point in having a title and a seat on the Council if I cannot use it to aid you? I swore to serve you Clary, yet you will not let me."
"That is not so. What I need from you I cannot ask from anyone else." She wheeled them around another corner and all but sprinted a few paces, dragging Jace after her. This was utterly absurd, all these ungainly dashes out of earshot. Jace wondered if they were not lost in this little maze by now as Clary spun to face him.
His heart gave another jolt as she spied that she was biting her lower lip and the hands she had just detached from him were being rubbed ferociously in a fit of nerves. "I know there is no guarantee that Jonathan will be able to prevent my marrying the Duke of Lorraine. Even were he able to, Jonathan is the sort of person who may well sit back and do nothing to spite me. There was another thing he spoke of while he was mocking me earlier. It was intended to distress me, I know that, but I cannot dismiss it."
Wanting to batter the Crown Prince was not a new desire of Jace's but this was perhaps the most keenly he had felt it since the day of Tiller's invasion. "What did he say?"
Clary shook her head and nipped at her own fingertips, her eyes sliding from Jace's and weight swaying a tad as she hastily stated her fears, "He spoke of my marriage bed."
Jace did not know what to say to that. He could not lie to her; very few women had good words to say of their first experience of marital union. He respected Clary too much to fill her ears with shallow reassurances. Jace could not guarantee that a spouse selected for her would be gentle or care for her pleasure. Husbands tended to look elsewhere for nights of passion. Wives were for siring heirs and all other gratification could be purchased elsewhere, in houses and taverns of ill repute.
Thankfully Clary kept speaking for him, "I could not help but think of what occurred between us that night by comparison."
Jace could not lie to himself either, memories of their brief embraces in his bedchamber were not likely to dull anytime soon. He wanted all of it, all of her, again, properly.
Admitting to that, however, was likely to do the opposite of remedying anything.
"My wants and needs are never going to matter." Clary stated plainly. "But I do not want to lie with a man for the first time and that man be a stranger to me. It seems nonsensical, when there is a man right by me that I love. Who I want."
"Clary-" Jace made to stop her half-heartedly, both alarmed and allured by what may come next.
"I am supposed to be a virgin on my wedding night, I know that. Yet I have heard things. Women have their secrets and I know that there are tricks, ways of pretending-"
"Clary!"
"No one would know of it but us." He could hear the begging in her voice, shredding at whatever vestige of restraint, of honour, Jace had left.
"Even were I discovered in my deceit, I would already be married, the alliance with my father already agreed. Let us not pretend that Valentine's friendship and gold is not all my husband wants from our union. Particularly Duke Antoine, who already has sons. He could overlook a young bride's transgression. Besides, I may never be caught. Come Jace, you cannot deny you want this too!"
Jace was uncommitted to a stance of resistance now, if indeed he ever had been committed.
"One night," She whispered pleadingly as the sound of her approaching ladies grew closer, "That is all I ask of you."
One doubt thrashing about in Jace's brain remained most prominent, so he voiced it while he still, could much as he did not want to, for the stakes of such a gamble were too high; "Those are not the only risks. What if I agreed, and you conceived?"
Clary shook her head impatiently, "We would plan it close enough to my wedding- the last possible moment- so a child could be passed off as my husband's."
"You have truly given this a great deal of thought."
A crack in the clouds sent some wavering beams of sunlight spilling across the grass.
Clary's gaze had brightened with the day, "Does that mean that you mean you will?"
"We shall see. Much could change. It may never come to that."
Whatever Clary might tell herself, Jonathan did know what was between them, at least partially. So too did Valentine, unless he had been rendered blind and deaf unbeknown to anyone. He must have at least an inkling of why his protégé and his daughter seemed to find so many happy coincidences which allowed them to see one another. Still, it was permitted to continue. They had drawn themselves short of entering one another's bedchambers again, but they were hardly subtle.
Was this Valentine's way of giving his blessing? The Council by and large would object heatedly to Jace courting the Princess, of that he was certain, and while Valentine had to pander to them as King... his silence and determination to look the other way could be his method of indirect encouragement.
If Jace were right and Valentine did want him to keep pursuing Clary, then the plan he had started to form may not be suicide after all. But then why entertain Lorraine? Perhaps simply because it offered so much Jace could not. The best he had was a debt drowned estate and tenants with a rebel streak he had yet to properly lay eyes on. Duke Antoine would bring gold, a political alliance and a line of defence against the heresy Valentine feared worse than the plague and loathed more than disobedience. Besides, His Majesty was not a sentimental man, he certainly would not waste his only daughter's hand to make Jace feel more included in the closest thing he had to a blood family.
"There is another way," Jace began now, words that had been weighing on him for so long springing loose with lightening haste. Hounds out of a gate: "You could not be packed off to satisfy a foreign treaty if you were already married."
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Canal Street, Alicante, Late September 1536
The house by the canal felt alien, strikingly empty in the cold light of day. The gardens were deserted as Alec trekked through them to locate the main thoroughfare. Not so much as a gardener or an errand boy crossed paths with Alec in all the time he wandered. It was as though the house was one of a fairy story, the magical grandeur of its nights disappearing come the dawn.
The gardens themselves seemed a little worse for wear, with huge clods of earth churned up and footprints scarring the once neat lawn. The hedges had also become a little oppressive, their former symmetrical cubes now bedraggled.
This was not one of the districts that had been among the worst pillaged by Tiller's men, Alec knew from having assisted Jace in his readings of the reports. The rioters had targeted all of the finer homes, making no distinction in what belonged to the ancient gentry and what the nouveau riche possessed.
Alec was beginning to wonder if the owner of the house had not disappeared with his party guests. His heart hammered in time with the pounding of his fists on the door.
Long seconds trailed by without a response, but just as Alec was preparing to give up hope, he heard at last the dull thunder of approaching feet descending steps. Then came the clatter and the scrape of an opening bolt until the door was swinging open.
Whatever scraps of a plan Alec devised on the impulsive barge ride downriver were scattered to the wind at the sight of Magnus Bane answering his own door.
"Ma-Magnus?"
"Why who were you expecting? The King of England?"
Alec, who had already worked himself up and down the rocky mountain path of a real fury found his blood heating quicker than anticipated. "That is what you have to say to me? After all this time, after all that has happened, you think you can address me like that?"
He flung out his hands and they fisted in the chain dangling around Magnus's neck. The cold metal bit into his fingers. Alec twisted the links around his knuckles, hauling Magnus forward until there was scarcely an inch between their eyes.
"Alec, are you going to hit me?" His voice may have spiked with disbelief, but the way in which Magnus presented the question implied that he had no interest in evading the blow should the answer be yes.
Alec closed the distance between them with a kiss instead.
It was one hell of a risk. If Alec got this wrong, if Magnus did not return his affections, if he had been misreading all of the signals- he could pay for it. If Magnus told people of the advance, Alec would be disgraced for his desires in the best instance. Actively prosecuted in a Church court for sodomy at worst.
And yet, Alec couldn't help himself. Jace had thrown himself into the hands of fate, galloping down that road to a potentially hostile army. His courage reaped reward. And Alec had been playing it safe for so long.
This was his battle charge.
His lips caught Magnus's.
Perhaps this was heresy. For fire certainly caught.
Their lips ground together, hot and demanding. But damned though they may, Alec discovered burning brought no pain.
Lips parted, and everything became a blur of teeth and tongues.
After what may have been seconds or centuries, they had to break apart for air.
Alec and Magnus blinked at one another, panting and hotter than ever.
Alec wondered if he should say aught, clarify his position perhaps. Then, why so? He did not think, reading the hunger and satisfaction of Magnus's expression now, there were many words needed. Alec had been asking a wordless question of the world his whole life, and now here he was, in a smashed garden, on the threshold of an empty house, and Magnus was his answer.
Magnus reached out, taking firm hold of Alec's collar. Although there were a dozen places he should otherwise be, Alec crossed the threshold.
The door thudded behind them, a hailstorm in the hush. Feet stumbled over one another and ludicrous laughter bubbled between them as their bodies bumped together, as Alec stumbled on the stairs. Fingers tugged at buttons and ties, lips charted out the dips and hollows at throats and collarbones.
They left a train of fallen clothes in their wake, boots, and doublets and even undershirts.
Markers of a carelessness Alec never thought he'd have the chance to display. But there was no one else in this house, no serving eyes at keyholes, no master to offend. Only Magnus. They two might have been the only two people left in the world for all Alec cared.
There was only Magnus, bare foot and bare chested, facing Alec, likewise, who faced Magnus and the bed behind him.
Alec swallowed.
"I- I have never."
"Oh." Magnus did not sound pitying or condemning. "We need not. If you don't wish to, there are many other things, many other ways. I would be content to just kiss and hold you, Alexander." Magnus cradled Alec's cheek in his hand. Tracing over the curve of delicate bone with a calloused thumb. A betrayal that he was not the gentleman he purported to be under all the fine clothes and fripperies. That he was real, and sincere, that he had lived and loved before. "God," Magnus whispered, with the kind of reverence he'd never shown at prayer, never at any Mass. "How long I have wished to hold you. Since you first looked at me with those blue eyes, I think."
"I too" Alec confessed with a shudder.
If he was a sinner, then he was glad to sin. "Since I first saw you. You were so unlike anyone I've seen before, yet I knew that you were exactly what I needed." To breathe life into what had been a hollow statue of a man. To show Alec precisely how empty he'd been before. To prove beyond doubt he had been skating by on survival and thinking that was living. Never taking any risks, and never finding any peril, true. But finding no gain either.
"I want to," He assured Magnus. "Will you show me how?"
Magnus brushed over Alec's loosened waistband, steering him in for a kiss. Teasing their noses together. "Most happily."
Then he tilted his head and kissed more heatedly down Alec's neck. Magnus tongued over the tiny cuts Alec had given himself shaving. Kissing it better. Like he would kiss away every wound, even every papercut Alec had ever received.
Alec groaned. His eyes fell shut.
Magnus led him to the bed, left unmade, and took the last of his clothing off.
Alec spread himself out on the bedsheets, breath catching when Magnus followed suit. He was shaking, from anticipation and lingering uncertainty.
But Magnus was patient, and gentle, and good. He murmured a litany of soft reassurances, as he laid his body over Alec's and laid more kisses too.
Coaxing and teasing and challenging with every plea, with each caress.
For Alec, who always had to be the one on control, the responsible one, the one ready to guide and protect, it was a relief to just lie back and take what was given. To do as he was gently bid.
To let his mind empty of the trouble Jace or Izzy may get themselves in, of having to pre-empt every possible thing that may go wrong and have a solution to hand. He listened to his body, he let himself just want, and want, and want.
He took eagerly and then he gave with more hesitancy, practising out all Magnus showed him and doing everything he asked. Finding that giving pleasure came as easily as taking it, with his hands and with his mouth. Not being afraid to laugh when he first got it wrong, striving to find his blushes as endearing as Magnus seemed to.
Afterward they both lay sated, breathless on their backs. It was still bright, the room was waxing in soft white light, there were birds singing in the rafters. This house was not as quiet as the palace, Alec thought, as his breaths slowed. But not enough to trouble him. He felt he could grow to like the croon of the canal on the walls, its song of rocking barges and paddling ducks. Though the daylight seemed odd. Alec had always thought of such exchanges of skin as clandestine, as dark desires best sought in the dark. Confined to cloak and dagger pursuit in the small hours for quick and covert gratification.
Yet here he and Magnus were, naked and unashamed, sprawled out together in the middle of the day. It felt like they'd been lying together for hours, but it cannot have been more than one.
And Magnus, desirable as he's been before and during, remained a vision afterward. In delightful disarray, all long, lean brown limbs and a riot of dark hair. Sleepy, sated eyes and knowing smiles.
He rolled over, after a moment, to lay his head against Alec's chest. After the smallest of hesitations, Alec put his arm around him. Tugged him closer.
"How was that?" Magnus asked, "For a first foray?"
"I don't know," Alec felt colour pool in his cheeks again, which was preposterous, given all he'd just seen and done, "Well, I think. Perhaps you'd better tell me."
Magnus laughed, and Alec's heart soared further still. This could not have been further from the snatches in the shadows and promises of secrecy he'd thought such exchanges could amount to. Inherently seedy, and shameful. A secret you died with.
Yet here he was, still receiving soft kisses and laughter.
"A most valiant of pioneering expeditions," Magnus reassured following the line of Alec's blush down his throat with lightly tickling fingertips, "A very promising start, indeed."
Alec glowed at that. Not so much at the praise but more at the assurance there would be a repeat. Still, that niggle in the back of his head sought reassurance.
"You'll see me again?" The blush darkened, "Like this, that is."
Magnus drummed his fingers against Alec's sternum and pretended to think. "I suppose so." It was nice, to see Magnus without all his loud clothes. It felt as though Alec had been entrusted with something rare and precious. It was doubly nice to see nakedness didn't strip Magnus of his swagger. "I still have much to show you." He breathed the sultry promise with a kiss over Alec's skipping heart.
Alec was loath to let the real world invade this space, but he didn't think ignoring things to be any remedy. He traced over the dip of Magnus's shoulder before asking in a graver tone, "You are coming back to court? You were missed" he felt compelled to warn, "Not just by me."
Magnus shrugged. It dislodged Alec's hand. "Valentine will forgive me. I'll throw enough gold at him that he'll forget I was ever out of his sight. Or I'll procure some jewels. He is a very reliable magpie, the King."
Alec stiffened under the flippant discussion of such vast wealth.
People said money didn't solve your problems. That wasn't true. Alec was sure money would solve most of his. He'd settle his father's gambling debts, assure his sister a generous dowry so that she'd have the freedom to marry anyone she wished. Get Max a proper gentleman's education. Refurbish their castle, give his mother an appropriate home to live in. Maybe even make it comfortable enough that Robert might be tempted to call it home again.
All of which made him uneasy with the ease with which Magnus could untie his coin purse and solve all his. And he still, despite their new closeness, had no idea where a man with no family and rough hands got all that wealth.
"You're sure Valentine will be so easily bought?" He asked instead.
Magnus hummed, looking at Alec as though he'd realised it wasn't just in the bedchamber that he was naïve.
"Alec, darling, everyone always is."
-000000000000000-
Princewater Palace, Alicante, late September 1536
Valentine prayed intensely, even with Tiller cold in earth and his followers in flight.
Jonathan decided that the only time he was likely to get a moment alone with his father was if he requested permission to accompany Valentine to the final Mass of the day, which His Majesty always attended in private.
Jonathan had ever been able to find the peace in prayer that others savoured. On the many occasions he found himself on his knees in the royal pew beside his sire, he never found the solace Valentine did in the services.
As a child, Mass had been another of Jonathan's many stresses. For though Valentine was sure to be enraptured for much of the ordeal, he did not lose the keen sight or hearing that his son had once been convinced was supernatural. Should Jonathan stumble over a single syllable of the droning Latin responses, or should he make to stand when he ought to kneel or sit, there would be Hell to pay for his accidental slighting of heaven.
By now, Jonathan had mastered the art of appearing bodily engrossed in the Mass while allowing his brain the freedom to whittle away at whatever his greatest problems happened to be.
Tonight those took the form of Jace Herondale. The past week had been a tumult of wrestling with his qualms about doing as Clary bid and cutting this new suit off at the legs before it might stand. He feared that should he do so he were playing right into his oldest enemy's hands.
Yet it was difficult to ignore the truth in what his little sister had so irksomely chirped at him. It seemed that the planets of their ambitions had- perhaps for the only time- aligned. Jonathan did not want her married, he wanted Clary so irreparably dishonoured that she would be consigned to a spinsterdom of shame. He had even considered urging Sebastian to seduce her, since his friend hardly needed inspired to pursue debauchery, but even the young Earl had his limits. Sadly, he was not as stupid as Jonathan had hoped and was unwilling to risk his life for a night of carnality with the Princess. There was also the matter of Clary being heavily guarded and watched, how she was managing to continue her present affair was a mystery.
Much as he hated doing what Clary and her Herondale wanted him to, Jonathan could not see a better option.
He'd neutralise the threat of Lorraine as best he could. Once he had his father's ear again, Jonathan would make good of it and have Clary packed off far away to an eighty-year-old with a terrible army and even worse breath. That he could pray for.
As he exited the darkened chapel at the King's side, Jonathan expressed his concerns of the heresy seeping from the Germanic states to the east.
"The Duke of Lorraine's faith is unquestioned." Valentine protested half-heartedly, fixing a sceptical look on his son. "Antoine is firmly loyal to Rome" Valentine's voice mingled with the echo of their footfalls down the stone corridor, "He has been tireless in his efforts to root out the false Christians in his territories."
"Of course," Jonathan amended, sensing that the words of defence were shallow. The King kept looking at him again with silent invitation to continue. "The fact remains that there are so many of these so-called reformists in Lorraine, seeping over the border with ease and infecting the Western churches. While the Duke himself may be of sound conscience and faith, the same cannot be said of his entire court. There are bound to be rats in the rotting nest, and his heir is young and impressionable."
"Is that so?" Valentine enquired, pausing at the doors to survey his son with one of those penetrating stares Jonathan so loathed. "So be it. I suppose your sister will not be Duchess of Lorraine either." He sounded teasingly tragic, but Valentine never jested. Especially on such important matters.
Jonathan's breath caught, "You are decided? You will not wed Clary to Lorraine?"
"And desert our only daughter in a den of heretics? We cannot have that."
"You are...easily swayed Father."
Valentine chuckled, resuming his stride, "When I wish to be. Rejecting an alliance, however unlikely, immediately out of hand is poor kingship. As is entertaining only one possibility. I wanted to measure the merits of Duke Antione's suit before I made any rash decisions." Prior to Jace Herondale's instalment as Duke of Broceland, Jonathan thought his father hadn't the capacity to make a rash decision. Then again, he had married Jocelyn Fairchild before consulting anyone after only having known her a few weeks. Mayhap Valentine had something of an impulsive streak. Or perhaps the haste to the altar had cured him of it, considering how that had ended. Once bitten, twice shy.
"Truth be told, I never considered it a fortuitous match." Distanced from their conversation as he was it took Jonathan a moment to recollect himself and realise it was not of his own marriage Valentine spoke.
"No?" Jonathan was inching toward relief himself, albeit most cautiously. On one hand, some success at long last tasted sweet, on the other: that had been much too easy. Valentine shook his head, not managing to shake the half smile still crested upon his lips. "There is too much at stake to squander Clarissa's hand."
Jonathan tensed, as though anticipating a blow. Valentine's response left him more conflicted than ever. He needed to pick apart any possible way this turn in Clary's fortunes could prove detrimental to him.
Much as he hated it, going on the offensive had not helped Jonathan thus far. Time to mount a self-defence. If only he knew what to guard against!
For a moment, Jonathan even contemplated finding Clary and imparting all that had just occurred. Uneasy and unlikely allies as they now were. He could tell her all Valentine had just said and judge her reaction for himself. Or better still, hastening to her might be sufficient demonstration of trust to entice his sister to confide in turn. Jonathan might be able to deduce what Clary meant to do next.
Jonathan had never been unnerved by the dark, not even when he was very small. Tonight, he found himself moving as fast as he could while maintaining an appropriate gait toward the exit. The sedately twitching candles made him jumpy. The many icons now caped in darkness seemed ghostly, their smiles or downcast expressions suddenly grotesque.
His restless agitation spiralled at the sight of a hooded figure blocking the aisle near the exit.
Valentine stopped dead beside him.
Nobody could just barge in on the King, not during prayer, not ever.
And yet here she was, a lone woman, standing still outside the Chapel Royal. Waiting.
With a swooping breath, Jonathan recognised her. Plain clothed in a dull grey dress and a simple white cap. Standing very still, tremoring as though primed to charge or flee.
The simple garb could not disguise the clear poise in her stance. Jonathan had not laid eyes on the woman in nigh on ten years, but Jonathan knew her instantly- and not merely because she was arrestingly similar to Clary. It was like looking into his sister's face, twenty or thirty years from now.
"Jocelyn," the King uttered her name with dull awe.
Valentine paused, just for a moment. Jonathan watched, in a state of utter shock. His father tightened his shoulders, bracing for impact. Tightening with them his composure. He cleared his throat and advanced, as if this were a petitioner he'd been expecting and not a long-lost living ghost returned to haunt both father and son.
Jonathan didn't know what to think or feel. He didn't know what was happening. He didn't, in any real way, know who this woman was.
His mother drew closer, her gaze glittering wariness. Trained on Jonathan, not on the husband rapidly closing the gap of a decade between them.
Only at the last moment did she unstick her eyes from Jonathan, trapped on the spot.
She flicked her eyes up and down Valentine. The candles guttered, the silence stretched.
The corners of Jocelyn's mouth tweaked. More a grimace than a smile. She swiped her palms down and then back up over her skirts in a swift, rallying action. Like she was flicking dirt off them.
Then she took the King's proffered hand.
-000000000000000-
My apologies are extended to Antoine of Lorraine, who I launched something of a smear campaign against in this chapter. Still, I think any teenaged girl would struggle to find the guy attractive. Most of all though I have to apologise to his wife, Renee du Bourbon, who was very much still alive in 1536. Not for very much longer, but still. RIP.