Chapter 18: Felix Culpa
October 1536, Princewater Palace, Alicante
It seemed like a lifetime ago Clary had wished for her mother and her childhood at the convent back. It seemed like a life that belonged to another girl. Clary had just begun to think that perhaps she might truly belong here, at this court.
But just as she felt she had found her footing; the terrain had changed completely.
The rooms Clary had been occupying were no longer hers, a stipulation she had been informed of as she met servants carrying her belongings out of them. She had been relegated to a smaller and comelier environment. It was a far cry from any sort of austerity, but it was still shocking.
Almost as shocking as the proof that the rumours rang true.
On admittance into the rooms she still considered hers, Clary found Jocelyn Morgenstern sitting by the fire.
Her mother rose, shifting the dark stain of an ill-fitting day gown which must have been borrowed. There were no other ladies here, no other household attendants. Joceyln had none. She'd had none of the trappings of queenship for years. They too, would have to be borrowed from her daughter.
Jocelyn's eyes flashed with recognition. She took a step toward Clary, then faltered. Her hands fluttered helplessly in thin air.
"Clary. Lord, look at you. You look the perfect gentlewoman. You have grown up." The wistful comment fell like a slap on the Princess.
"I have had to."
Jocelyn kept staring at her expectantly, awaiting an embrace or glad weeping. She was getting neither, Clary thought tartly as the astonishment wore off.
She was so very weary of living according to another's expectations. And she would not be grateful for her mother's sudden reappearance. This woman had flung a lamb into a lion's den.
Jocelyn's mouth twinged into a bitter smile. "I think you were better prepared than you give credence to."
Clary would love to know what it was Jocelyn thought her so nicely shaped for. Her book learning was scowled upon by most of the men here and theirs were the only thoughts that mattered. None of the lessons her mother had been so zealously instilled stood Clary in any kind of good stead. The workings of politics, history and languages were not womanly. Here, women who could not execute dozens of the dances at the drop of a hat were not in high demand.
Evidently, Jocelyn had swept in the same side door she must have slipped out with not a word of warning and now sat by the King's side once more. From what Clary could glean, no one knew which way was up at this court any longer. No one knew what had transpired behind the closed doors of Valentine's private chapel. Whatever that conversation had entailed, all would appear to be forgiven between the King and his wife.
Jocelyn was to be returned to the queen's quarters and served on bended knee again.
There was no part of this which was not disconcerting. Not the way Valentine had calmly put the woman back on his arm. Most certainly not how chests full of Jocelyn's old dresses had been returned to her chambers, as though they had merely been waiting for her.
Which brought Clary to her particular errand of today. The reason she'd used to come see Jocelyn with her own eyes.
"Your jewels are just outside, waiting with Lady Aline Penhallow in your presence chamber. She too, is at your disposal."
Miraculously, in a messianic turn of events, Clary had decided to let the blind see again. Aline had proven she could look tactfully the other way. Now Clary needed Aline to watch closely for her. To precisely what Jocelyn may say or do. And report fastidiously back.
"It has been made known to me that you will have need of some of my women until you can establish your own household."
If, indeed, that was what Jocelyn intended. Sending for noble companions and the hiring of maids all bespoke permanency. It would all indicate Jocelyn meant to stay.
Her mother said nothing which could confirm or deny as much.
Clary supposed she couldn't really begrudge returning the jewels which had all been Jocelyn's anyway. And yet, she found she did. She'd become rather attached to them, just as she had grown attached to being the first lady at this court. The acts of surrender had not come easy. Not helped in the slightest by the denial and confusion muddling Clary's head.
"You'll have to forgive the arrangement of the jewel chest. It was packed in something of a hurry." Clary sucked in a sharp breath and heard the accusation in her voice as she stated, "You gave no indication you'd be coming in any of your letters."
Jocelyn's letters had contained very little of anything. She'd answered Clary's enquiries about the convent in succinct sentences and said nothing at all to soothe Clary's homesickness. Jocelyn's responses had all been short, containing precious warmth. Clary had kept them all, nevertheless. Though nothing in them indicated these were fond missals between a mother and daughter parted for the first time.
Clary had found her own feet at this court for herself. No one had helped or watched over her, apart from maybe Isabelle and Luke.
So now she found herself facing Jocelyn again so unexpectedly, Clary found herself with alarmingly little to say to her mother. Rather, there were things she needed to hear.
An apology, for not protecting her better, for sending Clary here blind to her father's commandeering and her brother's cruelties. For hiding away in the convent and leaving Clary to fend for herself all these months. For the audacity of finally re-emerging, now Clary was coming into her own did not really need Jocelyn.
That, assuredly, was what stung the most.
Jocelyn's lips did not move. She continued staring at Clary as though she were the ghost in these rooms.
Eventually she croaked out, "Clary I… I thought you would be pleased to see me."
Clary recoiled, then steeled her features. "I am pleased when it stays dry in the afternoons, I am pleased when it is duck for dinner, I am pleased when a travelling minstrel asks to play for me. You are my mother. I needed my mother."
And perhaps it spoke volumes, that Clary had been bartered like a prize sow, disregarded and undermined in so many ways by the great men of this court, that she was so hesitant to trust now. Unable to look into the face of the person she had once loved most in the world, once trusted without pause, without doubt, and not wonder- what was in it for Jocelyn? Why choose now to return to court and start playing the queen's part? It was impossible not to suspect that this was some ploy of Valentine's, to lull Clary into security or distract her until another betrothal was arranged.
Her hands had crept to her throat with her thoughts, and Jocelyn's eyes tracked the movement.
"I see you've gained jewels of your own, Clary." Cold had seeped into her voice to match Clary's standoffishness. Her tone was part wondering, part accusatory as Jocelyn studied the sapphires shrewdly. Slicing to the heart of Clary's secrets like she was a small child again, lying about having washed her face before bed.
The necklace had been dropped into Clary's lap with an eye roll by Isabelle, accompanied by a short curl of paper which read: Since the fashions of previous decades have grown popular once more.
The sapphires, Clary soon deduced, had formerly belonged to Stephen Herondale's ill-fated second Duchess. A wedding gift to Jace's mother. Proof that he had grown deadly serious. Proof that Clary had only to say the word, give the signal, and she would have much more than a necklace from the new Duke of Broceland.
Jocelyn plainly recognised them. And remembered precisely whom she had seen wearing them last.
"Costly ones, I do hope you know."
Her mother could still read Clary like an insultingly simple book. No matter. No secret could be kept forever anyway. And, much as Jace had, Clary was growing weary of hiding. And each graze of the fine pear drop jewels reminded Clary that she owed Jace an answer.
If only she could be certain of which to give.
Jace would marry her. Consequences be damned. He would spirit her away to Adamant if need be. Or he would throw himself on the King's mercy after the fact. Jace was a nobody no longer. Once the scandal died down, the court could be inclined to accept their union.
But Valentine was changeable as the seas. He had raised his wife up again in a heartbeat, what was to prevent him throwing his daughter down twice as quick?
Clary may have faced down rebel hoards in the last few weeks, but she had never once considered herself especially daring. What she had steeled herself to do ought to have been unthinkable. It was sometime hard to believe she had such defiance in her.
Which was why it was so difficult to stand here and have her mother talk down to her. Like she was still a little girl playing in the convent meadow.
Jocelyn didn't see Clary much differently than Valentine did. As someone who constantly needed coaxed and steered. A piece to toy with, to use in their old vendetta against one another. Incapable of independent thought or action.
They'd never believe Clary capable of executing what it was she was contemplating. That much was evident in Jocelyn's chiding.
Perhaps that could work to her advantage.
"Not a cost you need concern yourself with, Mother." There was nothing Jocelyn need to concern herself with here at all, though Clary refrained from saying so as bluntly. Grown though she had, Jocelyn was still her mother. She would always quake at direct impudence.
Nonetheless, Clary had learned to get by on her own.
So, she excused herself, with the pretence of her errand complete. She wouldn't pretend anything other than disappointment at her mother's lacking response. She supposed she would have to wait and see what Jocelyn's intentions were. But Clary could not afford to sit idle in the meantime.
Some things were irreversible. As the doors to the queen's apartments sealed behind Clary once again, she let the fear that she and her mother would never be as they once were sink into her chest.
Come nightfall, Clary crept out of the small antechamber she closeted herself in for prayer now. She winced at the snick of the door reverberated in the quiet of her outer chamber.
Reliably, Rebecca had seized the opportunity to make herself scarce and pray in her own, hidden fashion. Isabelle, equally but distinctly reliable, was snoring softly to herself by the fire, her head lolling against the back of the seat.
In a time when men were filled with a religious fervour so great they would tear one another apart for the denial of the smallest part of the sacred mysteries, it was strangely relieving to find Isabelle's apathy unchecked. Isabelle was the sort of Christian who lived a practical faith. She could see the good in works of charity and striving to be a more Christ-like individual, but the ins and outs of theology bored her. Likely for the best; the last thing a woman ought to do in this world was question anything.
Drawing her cloak around her with as little rustling as possible Clary had to nip at the inside of her lips to quell a nervous giggle as she contemplated what the conclave of cardinals might make of Izzy. Isabelle may be more successful than Martin Luther had in getting the Vatican to listen. Partly to distract herself from the tension and peril that lay in what she was on the cusp of doing, Clary amused herself thoroughly by imagining Isabelle Lightwood as the face of the reformation even as she made for the servants' steps.
Trudging tentatively downwards Clary was grateful for her velvet slippers. For all their hushed scuffling against stone at least there were no wooden heels to betray her. She tucked her fingers into the pockets of her cloak, letting their tips brush against the warm metal circle within.
A ring.
It had not been particularly difficult to procure. Most of the jewellers in the city were still recovering from their stores having been sacked by the traitorous rabble. At the merest hint the Princess had a collection to replenish, a torrent of silver and goldsmiths were soon requesting an audience to present their wares. This particular one -plain gold with a single opal embedded- had not been difficult to slip amongst her purchases. Clary liked it best because it was beautiful in its subtlety, easy to pass over at first glance. But once held to the light, the stone illuminated a myriad of rainbows and patterns. The lover of art that still slumbered within her had not been able to resist.
An unconventional ring to seal an unconventional deal.
Clary was also beginning to feel she had at last mastered the art of navigating the underbelly of this great palace, her nerves spiking as she emerged at the end of the hallway that led to deserted Chapel Royal. The bronze hinges glinted in the torchlight, winking a signal that they shared in her conspiracy.
She turned a corner, halting short of colliding with the figure lingering in the doorway.
Jace was early. Uncertainty flexed its claws in her stomach. She had requested the chapel as their meeting spot because it would be the only place she could contrive a plausible excuse for visiting should she be discovered. Now she reflected how a request to meet at the Church door might have sounded.
But surely he'd appreciate it couldn't happen tonight? They would have to find a priest, persuade one of the King's clerics to do it in secret? Then there was the minor matter of witnesses. Clary would have to convince Simon and probably Isabelle to stand for them.
Her feet skipped and skidded onward.
By the time the cap was removed to reveal a silvery white head, it was much too late to divert her course.
Clary's father turned and caught her arm in a vice like grip.
-000000000000-
"What I cannot for the life of me understand is why we have to move." Isabelle grumbled, somehow managing to be both sullen and charming at once.
Simon finally secured the buckle on the bulging case before him and rose gratefully to his feet. While he bounced his weight from one leg to the other and felt the tingling of feeling flood back into his lower limbs, he could not help but smile at her pout. "That is the only part I believe I do understand."
Izzy's frown deepened as she continued to cram yet another load of Clary's books into a similar case with impatient vigour. "It is unjust. We were in residence here first."
Simon internally reflected that the "we were here first" argument had never served his people very well historically against the Christians. Outwardly, he moved to assist Isabelle as best he could, prising a book of Spanish translations out of her fingers. He meant to free the book from any further rough handling that would bring down the wrath of their Princess upon his sweetheart.
If that was what Isabelle were. Simon felt a frown burrow lines across his forehead as he recognised the tongue the manuscript advocated. It was not one of Clary's strongest languages, she evidently sought to enhance her ability.
Simon wished she would not. It was not the language itself that unnerved him, but the connotations of it.
Spain had a great deal to answer for as far as the treatment of his people were concerned. He was suddenly struck by the irony of the two pieces he now found in his hand, having instinctively relieved Isabelle of another: a prayer book. So here he was- a Jew caught between Spanish and Christian prayers. He need not fear the Inquisition; he was the Inquisition. Chortling ruefully, Simon dropped them back onto the boxed pile.
He lowered his elbow and squashed them downwards with all the strength he had. The sound of the pages being crumpled together was finer music than his lute could ever produce.
Isabelle raised one of her exquisitely shaped brows. Simon chose to respond to her first question. "I think you will find that, technically, the Queen was here first."
It was not likely to get any less strange in the immediate future, referring to Jocelyn as such. To Simon she was much a second mother. A much sharper, more demanding and judgemental mother, perhaps. More like a governess, if Simon had been well enough born to have had one. Nonetheless, Jocelyn had been content to be called "my lady" or simply "madam" in all the years Simon had known her.
Isabelle just tutted, resuming her ill-tempered flitting about the chamber, sounding and looking a little like a demented chicken in a coop. "Of course. Then why not have her own ladies prepare them for her?" She paused in her snatching up some bottles of rose water and gasped theatrically- "Oh yes- she has none."
"Well, we are members of Clary's household and these are Clary's things..." Simon trailed off his injection of reason, seeing that it would only inflame her further. Isabelle was not about to launch any attempts to resign herself to their afternoon duties.
Technically speaking these were only her allotted tasks. Much as Isabelle might dislike them, they had been issued by the queen herself. Clary herself had yet to appear for the day.
Simon was more confused than usual. He should think Jocelyn's return was a good thing for his friend, in fact he had assumed it were. Surely with her mother back, Clary had a real ally in the lion's den at last.
It suddenly struck Simon that the one person who may know Clary's mind on the matter was before him and not himself.
These days she saw far more of Izzy than she did him, he had to admit that there had grown a distance between he and Clary that had never existed before. How could there not? Not only was there a physical distance, but where once she had hours free for him and he alone, now Clary was lucky to be able to spare a dozen minutes to speak with him. Clary lived in a world of women now.
And what they did speak of... once they had just been a small boy and a girl whose common interests were easily found in the form of an expedition to the nearby creek to see if the frogspawn had hatched. Now Clary's mind was full of state dinners and the Duke of Broceland, thoughts Simon was happy for her to keep to herself.
Not that there were any hard feelings betwixt them. The leisure time Clary now spent on Jace, Simon spent with Isabelle.
He opted to quiz Izzy on her now. Although having to admit he needed help in reading and understanding Clary caused more than a little discomfort. At his stilted and envious line of enquiry, Isabelle ceased her folding of some furs, a chore to which she leant the most delicacy he'd seen yet.
"How would all in her mind be well? Even I am struggling to comprehend what her mother's presence here means and if it bodes well for Clary or not."
"How could it not? Jocelyn is her mother. She has always wanted the best for Clary, always pushed for Clary to be her very best."
Isabelle laughed dully, "I did get the impression Her Majesty ruled Clary's childhood with more than a little tyranny."
Simon tried to leap to Jocelyn's defence, but Isabelle sliced through his hastily driven charge with ease, "Clary has spoken to me of the strict routines, harsh even. From the ungodly hour at which Clary was instructed to rise, each minute of the day was filled with endless lessons. It seems Clary could never know enough, nor do enough to impress her Mother. Even mine has never been so domineering." She appraised Simon now keenly, and was speaking with quiet speculation. "You must have noticed by now that Clary is exceptionally learned for a girl."
Simon shrugged, "I was under the impression that all noble girls were educated thus."
Izzy shook her refusal vehemently, "Clary has the education of a prince. As it happens, she had an upbringing not altogether dissimilar from our Prince. She and Jonathan were raised in different ways by different people, but to much the same ends."
Simon mirrored her shaking head with perplexity, "Izzy, I know not what you are trying to say."
Isabelle's fingers skated repetitively over the mound of sables she had gathered, "Nor do I. Not particularly. It has just struck me that Clary and Jonathan are a mirror's image of each other just as much as Jace and Jonathan. Players on opposite sides no doubt- but at the same game. No, not players. Not really. Pieces. Jonathan intended to be his father's and Clary her mother's."
Simon was shocked at how troubled she appeared, rubbing the soft fur between her fingertips with such agitation that he felt the need to hasten to where she stood and grasp at the fingers to stop the motion. "Peace, Izzy." She raised her eyes to his slowly, the glimmer of true agitation still there. Simon marvelled that they were close enough for him to feel the warm wisp of her breath across his cheeks, "What has you so distressed?"
"I am not distressed," Isabelle protested, the indignant denial allowing some of her old humour to leak through and seal the cracks. Bricks and mortar. "Merely irritated. Alec is perpetually in the city these days and he will not tell me why and as for Jace..." Her eyelashes flickered as she blinked and sighed, taking a decisive step backwards and releasing herself from Simon's hold. She massaged at her wrists and stared off into the distance, "And I cannot puzzle out what has brought Jocelyn back. Clary was on the cusp of a betrothal before, then we were all under siege by a rebel army, still she made no move. She spends four hours locked in the King's chapel alone with him and emerges queen again? To be treated with every courtesy and honour as though she never left? There has only been one great change at this court since then. Jace being given his birthright and father's title." Isabelle's eyes slid back to his with no great hurry, but held the kind of contemplative gravity Simon had never associated with her before. "The two must be connected."
Simon closed the gap once more and took hold of her shoulders. This was not the first time Isabelle had backed away from him of late. It was starting to unnerve him. Which was not a good sign at all, since he and Isabelle were strictly to be one another's distractions and nothing more. If the novelty of their dalliance had worn off for her…Truth be told, Simon was not prepared to let that happen just yet.
Instead, he opted to keep the passion alive. He needed to be more spontaneous, more dangerous, Eric had assured him. So be it. He did not think you could get any more dangerous than an embrace in the Princess's- now the Queen's- bedchamber when someone could walk in at any moment.
"Then we ought to find ourselves some better occupation." He spared the only slightly ajar door one last look then drew her close. After a brief sway of reluctance Isabelle allowed herself to be pulled in until her nose brushed his. She hummed in agreement after a moment's pause, "Fretting means frowning and frowning means premature wrinkles. I should very much like to dwell on something else."
With that, they settled it.
Or at least, attempted to. No sooner had their lips touched than the bang of the door handle colliding with wall plaster interrupted them.
The two lurched apart, casting about for who would have opened the door with such force. Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may prove to be, it was not the Queen who was darkening the doorway. It was Alec Lightwood.
Simon had come to appreciate that while Alec usually hid his emotions as well as the Jews had concealed the Ark of Covenant. On the rare occasion Alec did allow them to come to light it was only so that he might look as if he had just discovered doomsday upon them.
He looked as such now, in enough of a panic that not even the present position of his sister was sufficient to distract him from. "Isabelle, Jesus."
"My name is Simon, actually." The unaddressed party corrected, realising too late that was unforgivably blasphemous. At least he went to the stake with a sense of humour.
Not even in his moment of crisis was Simon worthy of any attention.
The Lightwoods ignored him.
"What is it?" Isabelle demanded.
Alec swept his cap off his head and allowed his chest to heave several times as he caught his breath, eyes skirting the entire room as if he had misplaced something that may be there. "Tell me you have seen Jace today."
"Seen Jace?" Isabelle's annoyance spiralled, then her expression cooled with realisation, "Not of late. Not at all today, now I think of it. Why? What has he done now?"
Alec laughed, sharply hysterical before he offered a shrug of surrender. "That is what I would know. I just returned from the city, but no one has seen him anywhere today."
"Did you try his chambers?"
Alec shot her a look of unspeakable exasperation. "Yes. Oddly enough. That was my first port of call."
The biting sarcasm rather impressed Simon, but he had not very long to appreciate it. "He is not with the Princess?"
"No," Isabelle shook her head, thinking furiously.
Alec swallowed, dropping his voice and stepping close enough to grasp Isabelle by the arms, "Izzy, have you seen Clary today?"
Isabelle's mouth hardened into a firm line. She could not answer him, Simon comprehended as the silence stretched on too long.
He did it for her. Clearing his throat awkwardly he admitted, "We were waylaid by the Queen as we tried to reach Clary's apartments today. She sent us here and gave us tasks that would take all day. Apparently, Clary has a cold and taken to bed."
For the first time Alec looked him in the eye and spoke directly to Simon, "Has anyone in her household laid eyes on the Princess this day?"
Simon shuffled uncomfortably and shrugged, appalled that none of this had occurred to him sooner. He was supposed to be Clary's closest friend, yet he had not taken his banishing from her rooms as suspicious.
He had gone too happily with Isabelle, rather than insisting if Clary were ill she would want his company. Too trusting of Jocelyn, without accepting that he was no longer seven years old, and the woman's word no longer ought to be taken as gospel.
If no one had seen Clary today what was to say she was even still in the palace? She was not a stupid or flighty girl by any stretch of the imagination, but that abominable Frenchman, he could well have persuaded her to do something immeasurably stupid.
"Not even Jace would be so foolish." Isabelle began, her thoughts evidently travelling the same road as Simon's.
"As to run away with Clary? Why not? The pair of them are old romantics are they not? And this is their love story, fitting of a troubadour. They would think it fitting." Alec grew more and more agitated with each passing word, while Isabelle reddened and looked increasingly guilty.
Simon sidled closer to hiss under his breath "You encouraged it?"
While Alec may not have truly heard him, he could at least guess as to the gist of the conversation, for his stare bored into his sister more intently.
"No" Izzy snapped back in a whisper, "At least not directly. I did fall asleep on duty last night."
"Isabelle!"
Alec set himself to launch into a tirade, but Izzy cut him off, "Before you heap the entirety of the blame on me perhaps you should contemplate wherever it was you were last night." She shucked his hands off her and raced on, "I know not where it is you disappear to Alec. But that I can manage, trusting in you and loving you as I do. What I will not do is sit back and let you berate me for being distracted as though you are not. If Jace is gone, then it is because you have not been here for him. You have not listened, and you have not pressed him to speak. "
"I won't ask him questions I myself could not answer, were they posed in reverse" Alec shot back, face flooding with colour again. Alec shook his head, "We do not have time for this. We need to find out what is happening." He paused and rubbed a hand over his face with bewildered dread, "Or what has already occurred."
-0000000000000-
Jace had experienced the displeasure of many moments of apparent helplessness in the past, but all of them were dwarfed in comparison to the trifle he found himself in now. Quite literally he had naught to do but twiddle his own thumbs, swiping the pad of one thumb over the joint jutting out at the base of the other. While doing his utmost to avoid eye contact with the queen.
He kept his mind focused on his knee, bouncing up and down on the spot. It was supposed to work off some of his agitation. At the moment, it served only to accentuate how chained he was to the spot. Not physically, of which he supposed he ought to be thankful, but the grim expression of Queen Jocelyn opposite him left no doubts as to how far his misdemeanours of late had been revealed.
The Queen looked unnervingly like her daughter. Until now Jace had presupposed that those who swore to Clary being her very picture had merely been saying that politely, to fill an otherwise fraught silence or in the hope of currying some kind of familiarity with the young royal. Now he saw otherwise with his own eyes. He could also tell, in the vague, hasty sweep of the lady's hard expression he chanced, that she was not at all ignorant of what she detained him from tonight.
One did not refuse a Queen's summons. Not even for a Princess's.
Jace took his seat in the Queen's parlour, and they had fallen into their silence.
Though armed guards at the door confirmed Jace was not free to go. And Jocelyn made no move to dismiss him.
This was preferable to the Cardinal, Jace urged himself to consider. Despite that, this entire tableau was perhaps more unsettling than the prospect of another interrogation. Jace knew better than to think he would twist his way out of the noose a second time.
There would be no quick escape from this, even as the Queen's seemed disinclined to pay attention to anything other than the clasped hands in her lap and the occasional sideways glance to where the closest clock ticked by.
Jace had summoned and discarded several lines of excuse making as the silence stretched, telling himself that there was no use in it when he knew not what he was about to be charged with. Well, perhaps that was not strictly true, but he was ignorant as to how it was going to be phrased.
His fingers twitched toward his pocket, toward the crinkle of paper Helen Blackthorn had passed him at dinner. There was no way in hell they could possibly know the extent of it. Clary was not about to tell anyone; of that he could be certain. The woman had a will of iron and thicker skin than most presumed.
The rumble of approaching footsteps, a simple, brief order from beyond and then the door creaked open to see Valentine enter.
The King sauntered over to the where a jug of wine awaited, the trickle and splash of falling liquid filling the fraught room like the cascade of a waterfall.
Clearly his consort was out of practice when it came to Valentine's long games. Or maybe she had simply run out of patience with them, "Where is Clary?" she demanded. Valentine drew a long drink and made no haste to reply. "Where is my daughter?" Jocelyn demanded next, all pretences of calm disinterest shattered as she clenched the arm of her chair, "We agreed-"
"Hush, my love." Jace wondered if there was some hidden sarcasm in that concluding sweet nothing. He decided he did not care, for he wanted the Queen's question answered as dearly as she did. The King hardly blinked, however, before continuing, "Our daughter has been safely restored to her chambers." At last his focus fell upon Jace, "We shall return to her when we have finished here."
"Should I not-"
"You shall stay here, Jocelyn. I shall require a witness."
Jace doubted if the King could have said anything less comforting in that moment.
"Now, Jonathan," The King settled himself into the chair facing opposite Jace's, "I expect it is high time we discussed your relationship with my daughter."
Wildly, he contemplated playing this the way the Jace of a few months ago might have; What relationship sire? But he sensed they were far beyond that. Everyone in this room knew he was in love with Clary. Valentine had probably known it for even longer than Jace had himself.
Hence all the favours showered on his embassy. Not because Valentine had ever been particularly attracted to a French marriage, but because he liked Clary keeping the then-ambassador in her company. But to what end?
The contemplation of past titles in turn made Jace wonder if he was about to go down in history as the man who held the shortest ever dukedom.
With that thought, Jace realised that the only scenario he could not live with, the only crime he could not absolve himself of- which Clary would never forgive- was not staging one final battle. Either way, it would be worth it. Besides, he had not sinned in deed. There was no treasonous act he had committed. Jace was glad that they had stopped where he had that night in his bedchamber. So, he cleared his throat and started to speak. "By all means, Your Majesty."
With a soft swish of fine fabric, the King crossed his legs and reclined on the chair beside his wife. Jocelyn was on the edge of her sat more than figuratively, a handful of her skirts still clutched in her right hand. She had frozen just as she had made to rise, now her eyes flickered between the two men and the faraway door.
Her phrasing "my daughter" took centre stage in Jace's mind. Mayhap Jocelyn was the one he needed to sway here- but no. The woman would likely be even tougher to melt than Valentine. Jace remembered her icy distaste from his childhood well enough. Moreover, he knew that Valentine was the sort of man who, if you sought one of his possessions, would make you prise it from his stiff, dead hands. And Clary was, in the eyes of the law, very much her father's property. Jocelyn could protest it all she wanted; she could not actively do anything to stop it. Still, Jace had to get 'it' in motion first.
The King sipped his drink again, waiting. His expression was as clear to read as a line of print, so Valentine did not need to sully the atmosphere by being verbally direct. What do you want?
"Sire, I would present another suit for the Princess's hand."
Valentine assented with a vague swipe of his hand.
"The advantage of a match outside these borders are plain to see. But I urge Your Majesty to consider the convenience of an Idrisian marriage. Foreign rulers can be fickle, and faithless. They are not your subjects and they are not required to do your bidding. There you are reliant on good faith. But-" He allowed the snide edge of a smirk to rise, eyes travelling to the fireplace, seeing in his mind books rather than logs being eaten by the flames- "We no longer live in an age of blind faith. Would it not better to have a lord whose obedience you could be sure of, whose door you could be at in several days? A local nobleman would not require the dowry of an Emperor either, so it would be the economical choice. Beyond that, he would not be dragging you into any conflicts abroad either. There would no risk of Idris getting involved in someone else's wars, the only reward of which would be whatever measly crumbs Spain or France saw fit to throw us. It would conserve lives as well as coin." He ceased to draw breath before proceeding, only to be curtailed by the raising of Valentine's hand.
"I know better than any man you can plead a case. That is not what I need you to prove."
Jace released a shuddering breath, clenching the armrests and feeling a bunching frustration seize his muscles, "Then what proof? Tell me and I will give or show it. Or perish in the attempt. I will do anything, Majesty."
"Anything?"
With a quiet scoff Jace accepted his fate. For Clary, he would sell his soul. It was already too blemished to be of use to anyone other than Valentine Morgenstern anyway.
"Anything."
Valentine should hate to be predictable; "Tell me Jonathan, do you love her?"
Surprisingly it was the Queen who answered, "Would it matter if he did not?"
Jace tensed, utterly thrown.
Valentine smiled, humourlessly. He cast his wife a mere sideways glance before swivelling his head back to Jace.
"I love her." Jace set his jaw and lifted his chin. There was no point in being half damned, now was there? "More than my own life."
Valentine snickered, indifferent to the other parties' inability to grasp the jest. He did turn to the unsmiling Jocelyn, a definite silent 'I told you so' delivered. Then all mirth evaporated, "A valiant effort, my boy. But you always were too soft and sentimental. Too often are you ruled by your heart, no matter how well you think you screen it with pretence at cunning or ambition. That will never do. My daughter needs a husband who will break her in. Teach her obedience, not one who will indulge her out of love."
From the corner of his eye Jace glimpsed Jocelyn's brows sloping to a frown, but paid it no heed. His world was beginning to collapse around him. He fought to keep from surrendering to that despondency. He swerved into the panic and grabbed for his final, lone straw:
"My lord, you promised me a debt." Breathlessly grave, Jace clenched his hands together and lowered himself to a solemn pleading. "One gift, were it in your power to grant."
The queen looked to her husband in puzzlement, Valentine did not remove his eyes from Jace. "I ask it now. Please God, grant me your daughter's hand. You know you will not find a more faithful son in marriage." Or one who will start the match indebted to you and not demand twice Clary's weight in gold as a dowry.
Valentine smiled. Latent, pure satisfaction.
His wife laughed quietly to herself, shaking her head in amused disbelief.
Because Jace had done exactly as the King wanted, the understanding resounded somewhere in his spinning head, wasted that wish on something Valentine had been inclined to give him anyway.
Valentine took particular delight in experimenting with just how far he could push a man and still have him snap back to where was convenient for him. And yet, today Jace could not find it in him to care. Not when his transgressions with Clary may bear reward.
The King of Idris slowly and smugly extended his hand to the dumbfounded young man before him.
If this was the price of a fall from grace, perhaps Jace should do it more often.
-0000000000000-
Filling the atmosphere as much with disbelief as the dense silence, Clary contemplated the misting of her breath before her and wondered if she was to be left here to freeze to death. An hour ago, she might have imagined that her fury was such that her very breath smoked. Her reserves of anger had been swamped by dread long since.
If she were to be honest, Clary was not surprised enough to feel indignant. She should have seen all this coming. Perhaps not in this sequence of events, but for every sin there came a reckoning.
The dark, quiet chill of the rooms was oddly placating. It was nice in a way to have the time and peace to count her breaths and with them her thoughts. Clary could have risen from the floor and gone to the fireplace. A few embers still lurked there. Much as it may have made a poignant image for her to be crouched over the dying heat, she felt immensely weary and could not bear to stir herself. She made a perfectly good image of despondence as she was, slumped against the leg of the chair she had shunned, her head skimming the bottom of the table top.
The last thing she wanted was to move. If anything, unbearable though this waiting was, it was still preferable to anything the future may hold for her. Given what was likely to be on the horizon when the sun rose, she found herself half-wishing this night would go on forever and ever. She could keep this vigil for eternity if need be.
Clary was so weary. How long had she been here?
Her father had simply instructed her to wait. That could have been hours ago. It most definitely felt it. The interior of the room had been dark when she had arrived but beyond the nearest windowpane pure darkness remained. No hint of a dawn.
There was no way that Jace would get to walk away from this, no matter how clever he was. In fact, knowing Jace, he would not be inclined towards a witty evasion, not anymore. Had he not made himself perfectly clear? He was finished with the creeping around and lying. Well then, Clary did not want an escape from this either. She would take whatever came, whatever disgrace or punishment.
Her eyes must have slid shut, for the next Clary knew she were jerking awake again. Clary blinked her still tired eyes several times, recollecting piece by piece where she was and why. She clenched and unclenched her numb fingers, rubbing at her neck briefly before tucking them under the mountain of her skirts. Even that slight move sent spasms of icy pain through her cramped limbs. Wincing, Clary wondered how long she had dozed for. She heard the unmistakable croak of a cockerel nearby.
What was taking them so long? There was not so much to her indiscretions with Jace that it would take all night to divulge. She had been wrong, Clary feared, scrunching up her stinging eyes. Jace must have denied her after all.
Stubbornly she resisted sleep as best she could. She had to think. Keep alert. It was growing impossible.
Her hand crept back to the ring she had concealed.
How had she ever believed she might steer the course of her fate? Evade the inevitable?
"Clarissa," The stern disapproval bolted her awake. She hadn't been aware of dozing off again. Clary's head collided with the corner of the table top as she jerked upright.
For the second occasion in a too short space of time Clary found herself confusedly blinking up at her father.
He was annoyed, she noticed first, likely that she had missed his grand entrance. Or that she had not spent the entirety of the night writhing about in trepidation, shirking from the thought of what was to come.
She sincerely hoped her debauchery had kept him out of bed all night, though she could tell his hair had been recently combed and his beard just trimmed. No, he had decided what to do with her hours ago.
Clary forced an unsteady rise. Her legs barked irritably as she bade them hold her. Clary met her father's gaze. "Majesty?" She sounded hoarse.
"Clarissa," he repeated, gaze sliding up and down her with distaste.
"Forgive my appearance. Had I known when to expect you I would have readied myself."
Rather than sparking his temper, that remark caught the King's amusement. Clary would not easily rile him today. Valentine was very, very pleased with himself at the moment.
"We shall see how long that spirit lasts in marriage. We have found the ideal husband for you at last."
Stunned, Clary had no reply, at which the smile grew.
"You see? You are learning. I have realised that a disobedient girl like yourself could be sent to no foreign court. You would only disgrace me," Valentine declared with snide pleasure. Reaching for her elbow and seizing it up, the King turned her none too gently around until she was at his side. Then he began to march her toward the door.
Still, Clary would not satisfy him to voice as much as a squeak of protest.
"We will keep you here, we think. Where an eye can be kept on you."
Clary stayed stonily mute, though she dragged her heels as much as she could. None of this made sense. Her father kept yanking on her arm, "Come now, Clarissa, your betrothed awaits." He pushed the door to her outer chamber, the ease with which it swung outwards mocking her earlier plight.
Clary took account of her rather wan mother and the reliably congested Pangborn, but then quite forgot their presence as she recognised the third person waiting.
Jace glanced up with alarm as she entered, dragged along limply by her arm like a doll. The three were crowded around a document, she noticed as Valentine continued hauling her over. When he finally released his hold, the return of blood flow down her arm was just as pinching as his fingers had been.
Jace kept staring, saying nothing of course, but there was an immense pleading in his face. To do what?
Her attention snapped back to Pangborn, who cleared his throat and stirred the quill in the inkpot before him noisily, eventually extending it to Clary. With his left hand, the King's Master Secretary rotated a sheet of precise, concise legal print.
A betrothal contract. With the first spiked signature still damp upon it. Jonathan Herondale.
Was this some kind of trap?
Valentine leaned forward until his breath brushed her ear. "Not your will but mine, daughter. For once, Clarissa, do as you are bid." His hands landed on the small of her back and gave a little shove.
On the stumbling step forward, Clary reached for the quill.
She looked to Jace one final time, long enough to spy the smallest of nods he dared.
Clary pressed the nib to paper.
-0000000000000-