Chapter 20: Consequences
Mind trailing slowly back to consciousness, Clary was first aware of the lingering weariness weighing down her body. Secondly, she was pleasantly warm. That made opening her heavy eyes even more difficult.
The brushing touch that had woken her skimmed down her bare back again. A breathy chuckle sounded by her ear. Clary made a muffled, half-groaned complaint and burrowed her cheek further into the crook of Jace's neck. Almost painful waves of feeling raced down her numbed right arm as she readjusted, curling tighter against his side. She let the hand splayed against his chest slip half an inch or so. To her satisfaction, she could feel the measured thudding of his heart quicken at her touch.
He pressed a small kiss to the tip of ear, "Good morning, Lady Herondale."
In spite of how tired she still was, Clary smiled at the morning rasp to his voice and slowly cracked her eyes open. She peered up at her husband, God, it was sublime to call him that, and slowly, blearily propped herself on one elbow.
Jace smiled gently up at her, reaching out to tuck a lock back behind her ear, before sliding his fingers along her cheekbone. "How are you?"
It was a deep question, lightly though it was posed. Clary perceived precisely what he was asking and conducted a momentary self-review. Other than feeling less than fully rested, she was not too profoundly discomforted.
"I am well," She reassured, leaning in to touch her lips briefly to his. Another smile peaked at the new sensation of the stubble she encountered.
Drawing back, Clary rolled over until she lay on her stomach beside Jace, one arm still draped over him. She pressed her chin into the back of her wrist and sighed. She could quite happily lay like this forever; wound up in Jace and their bedsheets, without any pressing responsibilities or worries.
Unfortunately, she was beginning to sense that the price she'd pay for these pleasures was a great deal more responsibility and worry in her future. Clary's thoughts must have been upon her face, for Jace's smile turned a little wry.
"Ready to return to the circus?" He gestured with a tilt of his head to the closed bedroom door. Despite the early hour, there were already noises of movement and subdued voices beyond. "They've been waiting impatiently for the best part of an hour."
Clary groaned, pressing her head into her arms and wriggling further under the blankets, defiant.
Jace chortled and resumed stroking down her back, "It is a small miracle no one has yet run out of patience and burst in. Namely, your father."
Clary gave a small, snide laugh and turned her head to the side to answer. "Yes. He will want to know the ah- deed, is done."
Jace snickered distractedly by way of response. "I expect so. He and the rest of Idris."
Clary tried to duck away with a nervous, tittering laugh, but Jace caught her. His hands slipped back under her jaw and he tilted her head upright again. Given that no servant had dared venture in to resurrect the fire from last night, Clary was grateful for the warmth of his fingertips, still hot from where they had been tucked around her skin. Jace pulled her back for another lingering kiss, letting one hand tangle in her hair and the other resume tracing its way along the ridges of her spine. When he at last pulled away Clary refrained from opening her eyes, leaning in until her forehead touched his. As if clinging to him could chase the rest of the world away, along with whatever consequences for this were skulking on the horizon.
Jace's wandering hand travelled over the small of her back, sliding until it cupped her waist. He pulled her body perfectly flush against his once again. "Well, since we are no rush to rise," Eyes still tight shut, she smiled again, willingly leaning into him and landing a few fleeting kisses against his lips. "And the matter at hand happens to be one of state importance…" Jace proceeded, with masterfully smooth persuasion.
To her credit as a girl of good birth and holy upbringing, Clary offered no more than a short burst of laughter by way of assent and encouragement as her husband hauled her under the sheets once again.
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Princewater Palace, Alicante, Mid-December 1536
Despite her firm ideas about how a lady ought to behave, it seemed Mayrse Lightwood was not prepared to pay much heed to decency when it inconvenienced her.
She burst into her daughter's chambers late one afternoon, dark blue skirts swirling around her like a stormy night, with a matching thunderous expression.
Isabelle, startled by the sudden entrance, jerked upright and moved to shield her modesty.
The doors rattled on their hinges. Izzy's hasty movements sent some scalding water surging over the lip of her tin bathtub, slapping to the floorboards. She was still curled in on herself, wide-eyed, when Maryse finally snapped her body to a halt.
Her mother lifted her skirts out of the way of the spreading puddle.
"Really, Isabelle, there is no need for that. I did bring you into this world. I am perfectly well acquainted with your body."
"What are you doing here?" Izzy demanded, horrified.
"I already told you. The King was gracious enough to extend my wedding invite to the court Christmas celebrations."
"Yes," Isabelle began, internally pleased with herself for keeping her voice so even, "I didn't mean at court. I mean here. Now. What possible discussion could not have waited another half hour?"
Her mother raised a haughty brow, "Mayhap you can answer that, daughter. It is the oddest thing- in the weeks I have been here our paths have barely crossed." She leaned forward until her fingertips were skimming the edge of the tub, blanketed by soaked linen to protect the bather from burns. Highly necessary in Isabelle's case, as she insisted upon her bathwater being all but boiling.
"One could almost think I was being avoided."
Izzy scowled, hugging her knees to her chest. "Lady Mother, I have been busy. The Princess finds me invaluable- her words and not mine- and can hardly bear for us to be parted. That is what you wanted when you sent me Idris, is it not?"
Her mother smiled sardonically, "Partially, yes. Yet I expect the Princess cares little for the company of anyone beyond her husband these days."
Isabelle responded with a shrug, delighted when the manoeuvre slopped another wave overboard and forced Mayrse to leap backward.
Mayrse began to pace around the bathtub, scrutinising every inch of Isabelle's skin, the entirety of which was on display. She became hyperaware of her heat-reddened skin, as well as of how the steam had opened every pore she had. A strand of clean hair had escaped from where she had messily pinned it up, out the way of the dirty water. Now that strand clung limply to the back of her neck.
"Do you still bathe in rose water? Is that what I smell?"
Isabelle was too taken aback to muster a smart response, "I suppose so."
"Hmmm. You are keeping out of the sun, I hope? We cannot have your skin browning like a peasant's."
"Mother!"
"I suppose those hot baths must be purifying. Still, I have my doubts. Have you tried egg whites? They pale the skin and halt wrinkles."
"I have no wrinkles!"
"You look like a prune just now."
"Only because of the water!" Isabelle shot back, growing pricklier the longer she was needled.
Mayrse kept circling the tub, running her palm along its lip as she moved. Eventually, Isabelle's already sorely tried patience was sapped, " I am hardly hideous, Mother. What is the meaning of this scrutiny anyway?"
Having completed her lap, the Countess halted and leaned forward, hands braced on the lip of the tub. "I hear the Crown Prince is captivated by you."
Isabelle's naked skin erupted in gooseflesh while her stomach undertook an acrobatics routine. These physical signs her mother happily misinterpreted.
"You always were such a pretty girl. I should have known you would snare a big fish."
Isabelle lurched forward and scrabbled for the towel hanging on a nearby stool. She stood and wrapped it around herself as hastily as she could.
"Mother it is not like that at all."
The Countess's ears might as well have been stopped with wax. Mayrse chuckled to herself and straightened. "Modesty never suited you, Isabelle. Nor could you ever lie to me."
Isabelle tried to compose herself and fix her mother with a serious stare, "I am not bedding Prince Jonathan. Nor will I start to."
"Good heavens, no!" Mayrse made a show of flicking droplets of water off her billowing sleeves, "Although considering your whoring got us into this mess, there would be a certain justice to your seducing our way out of it."
The offhand comment knocked the breath out of Isabelle. The colour slithered off her face. "What do you mean?"
Mayrse shot her daughter a withering look, "You thought your father would not tell me? Isabelle, he was incensed enough I feared you had murdered someone. I rather wished you had, when your betrothed informed us of exactly why he could no longer wed you."
Her wet hair kept splattering onto the floorboards miserably as Isabelle clambered out of the bath in the most ungainly fashion, with every intention of fleeing. "You left me no choice," she began to argue her case hotly, "You refused to believe that I would not marry him. I told you, I swore in fact, that I would do anything to stop the wedding."
"I am afraid your father and I thought too well of you to imagine the lengths to which you would actually go. Christ have mercy, Izzy, what demon possessed you to take it into your head the escape route was to seduce his father?!"
Pretend to seduce she contemplated amending, though judging by her parent's face the denial would not be believed. Isabelle tried for some of the dry wit that would have served Jace so well in this scenario, "Perhaps I thought that would make him want to hasten the wedding?"
Her mother's eyes were blank with disgust, "For your father to have to sit and hear from your betrothed's lips that since you had known his father in the biblical sense your union would now be incestuous in the eyes of the church!"
Any further words failed Mayrse. Perhaps that was for the best, for already the stinging weight of tears were beginning to press behind Isabelle's eyes. She had borne her father's ranting and roaring on the same subject in a white-faced silence, gratified to know that for once his not knowing the half of it worked to her advantage. A few sharp words on her mother's shame made her want to weep. The two of them were historically allies on most things, with Isabelle the only girl in the family. Mayrse had always spoiled her, seeing her own likeness in her daughter. Now she was looking at Isabelle as though she no longer recognised her.
"It is a miracle Robert did not pack you off to the nunnery. Truly."
More than her pride had been wounded, otherwise the next words to burst from Isabelle Lightwood's mouth would never have done so, "If we are to speak of affairs, surely you must know mine is not the reason father banished me here! I knew about his whore in Paris for years, just as I watched him flirt with the prettiest serving girls for years- but I kept my mouth shut! But he had her wearing the finest of clothes, eating well and making merry while you were trapped in Adamant, re-hemming your best gown from five years ago and scrimping on meals. When will you all get it into your heads that I am not stupid! If we are counting our pennies, Lady Mother, it is because Father's harlot is spending them! You deserved to know! I was tired of holding my tongue. That is why Father sent me here, that is why he hates me now. For he is hardly in a position to condemn debauchery."
"Isabelle that is ENOUGH." To her spiralling horror Isabelle noticed her mother was shaking now, her hands clapped to her bodice as if she did not trust them to be free. Mayrse's chest was heaving as though she had run a race. "I will hear no more of this. No more, I say. Not ever." She sucked in a series of shallow breaths and then steadied herself.
Though her next words shook, Isabelle had no doubt of their sincerity. "Not a single word more is to be said on the subject again. Do you understand?"
Scalded to muteness, Isabelle nodded.
"If we cannot pass you off as pure, you must appeal to the Crown Prince in other ways." Mayrse shot Isabelle a meaningful look, "Regardless, you must never succumb. Not ever. Lead him on without relenting. Tease him and promise him everything but deny him your bed. Make it clear that if he wants you, he will have to marry you. It has worked for other women and so it will work for you. Believe me, if you get his blood hot enough, a Morgenstern man will flatten anyone who tries to stand between you." Her final afterthought fell disdainfully, "God knows, it was like that for his father."
"Jonathan will never marry me. He does not care for me that way."
Her mother's bitter eyes sliced back to Isabelle's, shooting up and down her half naked body. "Then you make him."
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A sterner mistress would have lost her temper by now, Clary thought to herself, wincing yet again as another pin pricked her scalp.
"Apologies, Madam," Rebecca mumbled, frowning in concentration as she prepared to wield yet another. Clary was beginning to feel her head resembled a pincushion but refrained from commenting on her discomfort. Wives were supposed to be uncomfortable, she reminded herself ruefully.
Eventually she'd get used to added weight atop her head. She had grown used to the courtly hood in time. But her days of free-flowing hair were behind her. Now it was to be plaited and pinned in a coil out of the way of the veil. Henceforth, like any respectable married woman, Clary would be veiled under her hood. Long hair belonged to maidens. Now, like the rest of her body, her hair was for her husband's eyes only.
The past few weeks had been about adjustment, after all, and she was starting to come to terms with a lot more than changes to her dress. Now she had new rooms in the palace, which she and Jace shared.
Although formally they had separate bedchambers, she also shared her bed with him. This had proved something of a small scandal. Of course newlyweds were expected to lie together- but a husband who came to his wife every night of the week?! They had appalled at least half the court with such goings on.
The pinnacle of the debacle came when Clary started to bleed away the King's first hopes of a grandson, a week after her wedding. That same night Jace had arrived in her bedchamber, in his night clothes, undeterred.
The Marchioness of Edgehunt had been rendered a daunting purple at his appearance. She had flapped like a fish out of water, trying to convey as politely as possible that he could not possibly share his wife's bed for the next week, adding she'd sent a message to that effect some hours hence. Jace, cheerfully cavalier as ever, had merely patted Lady Penhallow on the arm and told her she need not fret. "The Duchess's pillows are more comfortable than mine, that is all I mean by it," He'd informed her jovially and then dismissed her for the evening.
Contrary to what their retinue may say, the two of them were not entirely depraved. On that occasion, the first of its kind, Jace had pleaded to stay as all he wanted was to fall asleep next to her. Mortified as she had been after the Marchioness's ousting, Clary had still not been inclined to look him in the eye and deny him. God knew, Jace had been lonely long enough.
Nonetheless, such things were not to be borne. The next day Clary discovered that the complaint had reached the ears of the Queen. Following what was undoubtedly the most unpleasant conversation Clary had ever had with her mother in her life, the young couple had agreed to cease the impropriety.
A promise they had not kept, as it transpired. The following week they had returned to Princewater Palace, where the Duke and Duchess's bedchambers had an adjoining passage, hidden to the public eye. Thanks to that, Jace could come and go unbeknownst to anyone, and as often as he pleased.
He made just one of those entrances now, albeit through the main doors and fully dressed. The Duke nodded a brief greeting to Rebecca and then passed his new wife a piece of parchment. Clary spared a downward glance at the list of names before raising her head again so Rebecca could adjust her headwear. "What is this?"
Jace sauntered over to the fruit bowl and began crunching at an apple before answering, "Your petitioners for the day."
Forgetting her handmaiden entirely, Clary whirled to face him, the sudden movement causing the unpinned hood to slide over one ear.
It must have looked comical, but Jace chose to be a gentleman and held back his laughter as she impatiently restored it. "I have petitioners?"
Jace nodded and swallowed his mouthful of fruit, "Of course. You are the King's daughter and the Duchess of Broceland," He smiled teasingly and fired her a wink, "Therefore a very powerful lady."
Clary scoffed, rubbing her hands together as she started to contemplate it. "Are you certain it is wise for me to hear petitioners?"
Jace leaned back against the table and crossed one ankle behind the other, the very picture of nonchalance. Clary tried not to get distracted by how the cobalt of his doublet brought out the brightness of his hair.
"Of course you are ready. I daresay you have been for some time, only your father saw no need for you to engage with such things when you were expected to be sent away to marry. Now you are an Idrisian noblewoman through and through. You need to start concerning yourself with the issues of Idris's people."
"Naturally," Clary hazarded, chewing at the inside of her mouth, "But would it not be best if I waited until we got to Chatton? There I would be dealing with our tenants."
"On the contrary. I should think it good practice. Besides, it will be well into the new year before your father will release us form court. Surely you want something to do with yourself until then."
Clary shrugged, the knotted anxiety in her stomach showing no signs of abating. Yes, she was desperate for something useful to devote her time to, but her last interaction with Alicante's commons had not exactly been amicable. Noting her silence, Jace moved forward and reached for her hands, "Sweetheart-" Damn him, he knew that would be her undoing- "I am not asking you to judge a murder case. Only a few petty squabbles. Anything you are uncertain of, or feel incapable of judging, can be deferred to me. Or in an extreme case your father. Think of it like a novena; you are offering your intercession."
Clary's brows slipped to a frown, "Isn't that blasphemous?"
Jace shrugged and continued soothingly, "The audience will take place right here in your presence chamber, my guards will be just outside the door." He lifted their entwined fingers to his lips and dropped a slow, sweet kiss on her knuckles.
"What of you?" She asked at last, "What will you be doing in the midst of all this?"
A smile with a glimmer of sheepishness surfaced on the Duke's face, "The King has arranged a hunting trip downriver and begs my company."
"Hmmm. Strapped to that new chestnut hunter of yours against your own will?" She enquired drily.
Jace tutted, "Married a fortnight and already a source of such disapproval to my bride. You know, the invite was extended to both of us."
Clary gasped and shook off his hands melodramatically, "No need for such threats."
Jace spread his arms in play surrender and began to retreat. Clary granted him a smile and pretended to shoo him out, "Away with you then! Leave me be to get ready and put the day to good use."
"I shall bring you back a nice boar!" He called over his shoulder as he left. Clary laughed quietly to herself as she turned back to the looking glass and Rebecca, whom she had almost forgotten was there.
For all her complaints, Clary did not begrudge Jace his manly pursuits. She knew from hearing him speak of it how he loved the thrill of the hunt, the freedom of speed on a good horse. And after the weeks he had been cooped up she was glad to see his joy in the outdoors rekindled. Besides, he was always in the finest fettle when he came back with muddy boots and a face reddened by the winter gales, even if they caught nothing.
If this list was to be believed she had a busy day ahead of her even without him. Her first taste of real courtly life at last. A smug little smile rose at the thought. Finally, her voice and her brain would matter. She could rule with a Duke's authority, even if only in a debacle over what a suitable price for a chicken was.
People were wrong. Marriage was not simply another form of bondage.
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Princewater Palace, Christmas Day 1536
The general consensus held that this year's festivities to commemorate the Saviour's birth had been a mighty success. The commons for one were glad of their second holiday in a month. If among the merchants and traders of the capital there was a dampening memory of how the recent rebellion had proved a commercial setback, they hid it well. Among the nobles there was certainly no such annoyance. The celebrations had commenced after dawn Mass and now stretched on late into the evening, with no signs of abating.
Where the money for another great feast was coming from was of no one's concern but Magnus Bane's. Anyone who did spare a thought for the co-ordinator would have found no hint of worry in his overt gaiety. Nor did the King seem discountenanced, smiling supremely from his place of honour and nodding only once to his Master of the Horse, his Crassus, who could always conjure the funds from somewhere.
It was clearly a season of miracles. Idris's lost Queen was perched on her husband's arm once more, wearing a warm plum coloured gown to consolidate her restored royal status. While that may have been the source of His Majesty's glee, no one was looking at the Queen.
All eyes were on her daughter.
The Duchess, as she now penned herself on all her correspondence rather than 'Princess,' was in a dress almost as bright as her face. The berry red of her skirts swirled around her merrily as she clapped and spun her way through the court dances she'd finally found her confidence for. She chatted and laughed with her Father's court as if it she had been years among them rather than months.
Though the matrons smirked to one another and slyly muttered that the delight of marriage's first days would be lost to her soon enough, none of their daughters were listening, enraptured instead by the lithe, jolly form of the Duke of Broceland beside her. All in vain, for his eyes were not like to stray from his bride.
Even Prince Jonathan could not wrench his attention from his sister. She was beautiful, he noticed for the first time with no small amount of unhappiness. Not that Clary wasn't pretty before, but the awkward, timid girl he had first encountered in that swaying barge had been stripped away. Now there a was a lively, savvy young woman in her place. Jonathan swirled the spiced wine in his goblet around absentmindedly and reflected that he did not know how to bridle this Clary.
It would appear he was alone on his unshakable melancholy. Jonathan had hoped the Yule revelries would bring him some of the peace of mind that eluded him for so long. Some good wine and fine food should at least prove a distraction from how spectacularly everything had gone to hell this year.
Fortune's tide would have to change soon.
Sooner than anticipated, it would transpire. As a soft hand landed upon his shoulder, the Prince pivoted in his seat to face his father.
Valentine offered a thin-lipped smile no warmer than a Baltic winter. One Jonathan was well accustomed with. "Yes, Sire?"
The King gestured in the direction of the side door, which was close to the high table. It had been designed that way in case the royal family should ever require a swift exit, given that the great hall's gallery was designed to admit Alicante's public to view the spectacle of mealtimes here.
Tonight it was his own nobles Valentine wanted to flee. "Come. Quickly, when we shall not be missed." A brief scan of the hall confirmed that their departure would cause no ruckus. The unquestioned centrepiece of the party remained the glowing Broceland newlyweds, still out dancing on the floor.
Silently, Jonathan slipped out after his father and followed him into the nearest antechamber. Someone had lit the fire and the Prince made straight for it, chafing his bone white hands together over the low, wavering amber flames.
The cold of the empty room came as a shock after the stuffiness of the busy hall. Sadly, this fire not been long lit. There was no great heat emanating from it, flames rimming only the edges of the haphazardly piled logs. Jonathan stretched out his fingers anyway.
Valentine came to stand opposite his son. Languidly, he propped his elbow upon the mantelpiece and pressed his free hand to his hip. Jonathan was not fooled by the seemingly louche stance. He had noticed the tension in his father all day. Valentine seemed more tightly wound than usual, however cheerfully he might present himself. For a moment the King peered into the fire, watching it gain momentum and the flames darken to burning oranges and reds.
Simmering with impatience, Jonathan waited.
"You are aware, I am sure, of the many unsettling rumours flooding into the city with every passing day."
Which ones? Jonathan longed to enquire. Instead, he flicked his tongue along the roof of his mouth and drew it back and forth across his front teeth until he could bear the pregnant silence no more. "Appertaining to?"
"Our newest family member."
Again, Jonathan waited. For all he knew, his father was attempting to entice him into saying something untoward about the new brother he would rather gouge his own eyes out than acknowledge.
Thankfully, Valentine soon spoke again, "He has made quite the glowing reputation for himself. All of which circumstance, and ourselves, have allowed."
Jonathan shrugged. "The hero of the peasantry. I cannot fathom why. Their leader died suspiciously during that little parley."
"And now they have found another. One which I have welcomed into the bosom of my own family, You know well what is being said of that. That he seduced my daughter under my nose, and I had to construct a wedding in hasty reparation. Herondale seems impetuous. Worse, he seems to have the upper hand."
So why do it? Jonathan had to literally bite back the words. He tasted blood. If giving Jace a dukedom and Clary's hand made them look like helpless fools, then why had Valentine been so insistent? He was a man obsessed with image and perception- how could it not have occurred to him how all of this would look?
Valentine leaned in closer, dipping his voice to a pitch just loud enough for Jonathan to detect the following growl, "They are singing his praises in every county. From Broceland, to Edom, to Lyn. The final Herondale, the champion of the common man; the People's King." That final, deadly word clanged into the quiet, setting Jonathan's teeth grinding and fingers curling to fists.
Finally releasing his tongue when he deemed it safe, the Prince did venture a question, "Surely the time has come to remind them who is their king?"
Valentine nodded, apparently deep in thought. "What would you suggest we do, Jonathan?"
Jonathan pressed his palms to the stone fireplace, feeling it at last begin to thrum with heat under his fingers. "What we should have done weeks ago." Instead of wedding planning, he added, only to himself. "We know the names of the main men among Tiller's allies and followers, as well exactly which farms we let them scurry back to. They should be hunted down and reminded that disobeying their King comes at a price. That the punishment for treason is death." He started to tap at the stonework now, the coming tempo of his thoughts providing a far merrier tune than any of those he had danced to earlier.
"Yet that alone would not be enough. If we truly want to show all of Idris who holds the power, we need to carefully select our instrument for exercising that power." For the first time in weeks, months even, Jonathan found himself growing excited. He lifted his head and let a smile inch its way slowly across his lips. "By the same token, we cannot tolerate a peasantry who have proven they will rise against us worshipping a Herondale. We must make it clear that the King's hand is behind all our Herondale does. Send him to dispatch the rebel leaders, Father. Have him show them consequences, not clemency. They will feel betrayed, in the least. At best they will never forgive him. Either way, it shall be clear that the last Herondale shall only ever be a Morgenstern puppet."
Jonathan lowered his head again, to hide his rising exhilaration as the myriad benefits of his plan took root, "Alas, you know I am more than happy to do your bidding, Majesty. I would gladly be your servant in this, as in all else, but when one considers the climate; do you suppose we could spare our Duke?"
Valentine skimmed the back of his knuckles along his chin in silence. Balancing his options.
Eventually, Valentine nodded slowly. "Ideally he would stay here, with Clarissa. But as you say, given the situation. Yes." He laid his hand upon his son, clapping Jonathan several times on the back.
"You always told me the art of kingship is knowing when to exercise mercy and when to be ruthless. I do not feel that this is an occasion for the former."
Valentine had already moved on, both in mind and body as he moved toward the door and the continuing revels beyond. "All the same, Jonathan, I worry that lesson eludes you still."
Jonathan felt his mouth pop open, to deny Valentine's implication but before the first syllable formed, Valentine interrupted him, brisk and business-like again. "Say nothing to anyone of this. I will be the one to tell your brother."
Somehow, even denying Jonathan that pleasure could not dull the moment.
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The messenger arrived around noon on St Stephen's day, startling Alec out of his reverie by the window. He had been hiding from his parents and trying to kill the hours until Magnus came back from the city bank, so he had opted to spend some quality time with his old foe Plato. Or rather, he had been peering out over the courtyard and wrapped up in a rather pleasant daydream when the knock on the door came.
He found himself leaping up and raising the book to his chest in a flimsy, papery shield, mayhap in anticipation of a similar intrusion to the one Isabelle had suffered.
Such was the case, and tender were the eggshells tread upon, for as long as Mayrse Lightwood remained in Alicante.
Mercifully, when Alec did open the door, it was not his rampaging mother. Just a lone man in blue and gold livery which sported a familiar beech tree badge. Alec sighed and ran his fingers through his ruffled hair, "Yes?"
"The Duke of Broceland begs your presence, my lord" the lad sniffled.
Nodding vaguely, Alec set about righting his appearance and dragging his boots out from under the bed.
A few minutes later he was at the doorway to the Broceland apartments. Before the herald could make it to the second syllable of Alec's name Jace had emerged to wave him away, looking particularly distracted.
"You know," Alec tried for a stab of amusement, "If you are to really to live up to the address, 'Your Grace' needs to start putting on some airs and graces."
His friend failed to crack a smile, draining what was left of Alec's good humour. Jace made for the door to his bedchamber, bypassing a still mumbling clerk on the way, leaving Alec to trail after him nervously. "Oh no. What ails you?"
"Close the door." Once he had done as instructed Alec took proper stock of the room, attention latching on the freshly polished breastplate and gauntlets hanging in the corner. Though there were the usual feminine accoutrements he was growing slowly used to finding in Jace's room-a scrap of lace here, a scent bottle or earring there- the lady herself was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is the Princess?" Alec could not shake the habit of using her old title.
Rather than brightening as he tended to at the mention of his new wife, Jace's expression grew grimmer. "Clary has taken a walk to clear her head." He raised his hands to screen and wipe at his tired eyes despondently. Now they were face to face Alec appreciated that Jace looked ill. His skin was pale, and his mouth trembled.
"Clear it of what?" Alec questioned warily as he edged over to a vacant seat.
Jace fidgeted on the spot, mouth twitching soundlessly before he finally took a seat too. He dropped his head into his hands, the manoeuvre setting the gold chain around his neck rubbing the tops of his calves. When he raised his head, he continued to rub at his temples before speaking, "I have just told Clary and decided it would be easiest to do all the necessary declarations in one go, so then I sent for you." He swooped in a breath, "The King has a task for me."
Alec listened carefully as Jace imparted the details of what was expected of him, dread and anger stirring and rising higher the more Jace said. When Jace finished, looking more despondent than he had in months, that ire had subsided, leaving only tremors of pity.
Resisting an unhelpful frown, Alec tried to urge the wheels of a plan into motion, "Can you not work your verbal magic? Convince His Majesty to take another course?"
"Not this time," Jace shook his head glumly, reaching over to shakily pour himself a glass of wine before adding, "I tried, but Valentine is most resolute in this masterplan. I can only do as I am ordered."
"God, Jace, you promised to fight for these people, not punish them."
Agony ripped across Jace's face, "I am not ignorant of that! That is precisely why I have been chosen!" He broke off and swallowed gruffly before continuing in a sterner, lower voice, "People are talking and the King has started to look weak. I dismissed any rumours I heard about my ascent or marriage, knowing them all to be untrue, but even stories which lack substance can be dangerous." He shook his head, "I do not want to do this. Yes, I said I would try to help the commoners' cause. But I hold my promise to serve Clary in higher esteem. It is the oath more binding. Anything that threatens her father, threatens her. I am Duke of Broceland in name alone and only with the King's blessing. Moreover, my wife is my chief responsibility now. I must provide for her and protect her from any harm. All of which can only be achieved if I am in His Majesty's good graces."
A pettier man may have commented that having Clary Morgenstern as his bedwarmer was not such a consolation for dirtying one's hands at Valentine's bidding after all. Alec chafed his hands together, thinking furiously. Not long ago Jace would have resisted this order with everything he had. But he was not the man he had once been. Alec found himself thinking of an old marriage custom he had once read of, when the bride and groom were handfast as part of the ceremony. Now his friend's hands were indeed tied, by both his marriage and by his title. By welcoming Jace into the folds of his family Valentine was neutralising the last Herondale threat. Using Jace to dispatch Valentine's enemies was the final masterstroke.
Leaving Alec Lightwood to decide once and for all where he stood in all of this. He was not a reckless man by any stretch of the imagination. Alec calculated his moves before he made them. Mostly.
"You know I would follow you anywhere."
Jace's eyes sparked with disbelief, "No. Not to this hell."
"Especially to this hell."
His friend tutted, "Just because I am to lose what is left of my honour does not mean you have to do so with me."
"If I break my promise to stand with you, brother, I could no longer call myself a man of my word either."
"God damn you Alec, why do you always have to make sense?"
Laughing humourlessly, Alec shrugged, "Would that I could take my own advice every once in a while." He glanced back to Jace's terse face, "You are sure you have no choice in this?"
"None whatsoever. I am beginning to believe none of us ever had a choice in this."
"There is always a choice, if only to refuse," Alec maintained stubbornly. "You always, always have your own mind. The only question is whether or not you act upon it."
Jace returned to rubbing his eyes instead of answering, leaving Alec struck by the slump to his shoulders. These past few weeks he had grown so used to seeing Jace lively and joyful. Telling Clary they were to be parted from her so soon, and for such a task. must have taken that vigour from him.
"In this I dare not refuse. I might be the King's son by marriage, but I do not have any leverage with Valentine. Not now." He pushed his agitated fingers through his hair, the way Jace always did when he was thinking ahead or perplexed. "God willing, when we return, I shall start remedying that position." Jace's eyes skid to the sealed door before continuing in a mutter, "I have no intention of being powerlessly pushed to the next square in another man's game again."
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