A/N:... Better late than never?
Honestly, if you're an original reader from before, you may be entitled to financial compensation.
If we're to seek a silver lining, I suppose we got to live out the time jump the story is set to experience in real time?
This version of the story is a rewrite- sort of. I couldn't just leave it as was. Try reading something your teenaged self wrote and not wanting to cough up blood. For the most part, the nostalgia of it was oddly endearing, so even some of the clumsier bits have retained much from the original. However, the chapter count has changed because I did make some cuts. No major plot changes, but some mild characterisation tweaks. I also had to break up sentences that were longer than the gap between updates. If you still see typos and grammar errors, no you don't. :')
I do intend to finish this story. I had always planned out how I would end it and that hasn't changed. Please be patient with me a little longer.
Chapter 25: Snares
Princewater Palace, Alicante, October 1537
Deeply immersed in her thoughts, Emma Carstairs nipped at the end of her pen. The brow of Clary's newest and youngest household member furrowed, oblivious to the blob of drying ink that had clung to her nose. The Duchess narrowly curtailed a maternal pang. She knew her impulse, to reach out for the girl and offer to laughingly scrub the stain away, would not necessarily be welcomed.
Young though she was, Emma was already strongly self-possessed. She did not shun affection from her mistress entirely, but she did not seek out the embraces and petting another child might. On the contrary, she was determined not to be a child at all.
At twelve years old Clary had been running wild in the fields, tangled hair and skirts, escaping the convent at any opportunity to ramble the forest with Simon. Half-feral, far from womanhood and even further from ladyship. She supposed her mother had indulged her, anticipating where Clary had not how short her childhood would be. But Emma already walked, spoke and behaved as the perfect lady in miniature.
Perhaps because, unlike Clary, she was growing up at this court. Even before she'd been sent to keep Clary company for a few weeks, Emma was used to visiting the court with her father. The world that had seemed so strange and daunting to Clary a year and a half ago was no more unfamiliar to this girl than the air she had always breathed.
Emma was John Carstairs's sole heir. It was a curious lot, that of a well-born girl without any brothers.
Emma would have a sizeable inheritance one day. Money and estates. But, as a woman, Emma could not inherit the Earl of Chene's title, nor assume his seat on the Privy Council. Lawfully, all of that would pass to Emma's husband, whoever he may one day be.
If Clary had thought the emphasis put on her marriage intense, at least she had a brother to carry the family name. Little Emma knew she had to be impeccable, worthy of her grand destiny. She needed to attract a worthy man although, ultimately, the decision would be made for her.
Now that Clary was a respectable matron, the task of finishing the adolescent Emma's preparation for marriage as now fell to her.
The arrangement, brokered between Jace and the Earl at the start of the summer, was designed to be of mutual benefit. First and foremost, the wardship proved a solidification of the alliance between Jace and the Earl of Chene. In another regard, it aimed to prepare Emma for married life as a noblewoman, free of the pandering a mother may do. It would also introduce Emma to a wider circle of the kingdom's gentry, as she took up residence with Clary at court.
It was an honour, Jace emphasised to his wife, that John Carstairs had agreed to trust them with his daughter's welfare and education.
For Clary, it was also a pleasure. In the months since she'd arrived, Emma had already become a firm favourite in the Duchess's rooms.
A few months shy of thirteen, Emma had suffered no troubling homesickness. She'd had a wardship prior to this, at the Duke of Lyn's Bellgate estate, an arrangement only terminated due to the Duchess's untimely childbed death. It had not been deemed seemly for Emma's education to continue in a household without a lady to oversee it. Nevertheless, Clary had still been prepared for some melancholic pangs from her young maid, since she no longer had the luxury of her family home being the neighbouring estate, just on the other side of a lake. Yet, no tears ever surfaced.
On the contrary, Emma seemed to thrive in the court environment. She enjoyed the excitement, the hustle and bustle. She listened to Jace's mocking recounts of the wrestling of the various court factions with the same keenness she did the gossip of Clary's ladies.
Perhaps that was why Emma reminded Clary a little of her husband. She imagined Jace would have been similar at that age, although the certainty of Emma's future could not contrast more with the uncertainty of his at that time. It was, mayhap, that curious blend of solemnity and irreverence that they shared. Of seeming both so young and foolish, yet also wise beyond their years.
And these days, Clary was glad of it, from both quarters. Her pregnancy had progressed without incident, but as her baby grew and her belly swelled, she found herself easily wearied and even more easily exasperated.
"Done." Emma proclaimed cheerfully, sprinkling sawdust over her completed translations with a proud flourish.
Clary granted an indulgent smile, "That is enough work for one day, I think." Emma passed the sheet over for her makeshift tutor's inspection. Jace had promised a shortlist of possible tutors to join both ladies in their studies but had yet to appoint anyone. King and Council kept him busy.
"You may have the rest of the afternoon to yourself."
She expected the girl to bound up and away at the first grant of release. Had she not been the heaviest she had ever been, Clary herself would have been glad to escape her rooms. The autumnal afternoon was unseasonably warm, and her other women had been delighted at their early release an hour ago. But Emma leaned forward instead, catching her lower lip in her teeth- the very picture of indecision.
"Emma?" Clary prompted, "What's wrong?"
"Naught, Madam" she insisted, "Naught wrong, as it were."
"But something does trouble you" Clary identified softly, "You may speak to me on any matter."
Emma returned the smile, "I only wondered… Well, I heard some indication of my betrothal." She swallowed and fidgeted on her stool, "I thought that if anyone should know if my father was making arrangements, you would."
Clary nodded and sighed. Truthfully, Jace had divulged to her that the Earl intended to consolidate a betrothal contract soon. But although Emma was- technically- of a legally marriageable age, there was no reason to expect her nuptials to take place for some years yet. Clary opted to begin by reassuring her ward of such first, but quickly sensed that the subject could not be dropped there.
She folded her hands in her lap, "I only know what the Duke has told me, which is precious little."
"I would know," Emma stated, with steady, firm conviction.
Clary was not inclined to dissuade her. She could understand the frustration of having your future decided over your head.
"There is no formal contract, not yet." She hazarded sternly. In noble matches there was a great deal of shifting terrain which could alter arrangements between the betrothal and the wedding day. "I'm given to understand your father is in discussion with the Duke of Lyn. He intends to make a match with Lyn's son."
Emma's brown eyes sparked, then her nose wrinkled. Clary noted the prevailing reaction seemed to be one of relief.
"I am glad. Our parents have always talked of it, but I was not sure if-or when-the contract was to be confirmed. I've thought about it, being married to Julian." Emma confessed, "I have known him so long. All my life, really. It is still strange, to think of us together like that."
"I knew Jace when I was very little" Clary advanced softly, "Feelings change, as you grow up."
Emma tipped back on her seat, still thinking furiously, "Maybe so" she mused, and as the moments passed her cheeks began to colour. "I am glad." She pronounced at length, "I should not like another girl to marry Julian."
Clary stifled a laugh, quashing her relief. She was convinced of the virtues of the union herself, having heard the Duke's young son feature frequently in the tales Emma had recounted. Emma knew the boy and liked him. She trusted him as a friend. That was more than most girls had in arranged marriages.
The comfortable quiet that followed was shattered by the clatter of the outward chamber door, wood striking wood, and then the rapid, graceless clatter of feet. Clary and Emma's eyes met in alarm, and they both shot upright (Clary with significantly more difficulty) as the door to their chamber swung open.
Jace stood panting and wild-eyed on the threshold.
"What is it?" Clary demanded.
His chest heaved and he shook his head, words a struggle. Then he spluttered out, breathless with panic and exhaustion. "They are searching all the palace rooms."
"What?" Clary's mind whirled to take in his proclamation. More questions sprang forth in a heated succession. "Who? For what?"
"The Cardinal's men," Finally her eyes swooped to the package he was proffering to her lamely in his hands.
Books.
Clary stepped forward, bewildered. As she extended her arms to take them from him, Jace lurched back, as though her touch may taint them. The ensuing struggle was bleakly comedic until a defeated Jace surrendered.
A quick study of the contents of her hands revealed to Clary with a fresh, clanging horror that it was not a book her husband possessed.
It was the Book. A Bible. Not in the sacred, mystical Latin. In crude, vernacular French.
A forbidden translation.
With this observation, the rest of the puzzle clicked together.
The palace was being searched for heretical texts. And here stood Clary's husband, his arms full of them.
Fear seized her heart like a fist. She knew that while they had been at Chatton during the spring Jonathan and his protector the Cardinal had intensified their hunt for heresy in the cities, especially Alicante. But she had never imagined what their purge would invade the court itself.
"Clary." Jace was visibly shaking. "The servant said they were coming toward my rooms. They are likely there by now." His eyes were frightened and pleading.
His wife's affront flared, "Who dares bring you under suspicion?"
Jace shook his head, giving the brittle answer she already knew, "Jonathan is leading them."
Clary swore, then swore again as her panic rose and spiralled. "They will be here next, if it is you they seek."
She swung around, throwing her eyes about the room desperately. For any feasible hiding place. She saw none that could suffice.
Jonathan would be like a bloodhound. True to form, he had come spearing for Jace, whose flight alone would give her brother the scent of guilt. And in this instance, there no smoke without fire.
A shaky idea formed. "The hearth!" Clary gasped frantically.
Jace took a stumbling step forward, even as their joint realisation set in; the weak curls of yellow flame in the grate would never suffice.
Jonathan would give them no time. When he found Jace's rooms empty, Clary's would be his next target. They had minutes at best. Even if her low summertime fire could be stoked to devour the pages, there was no way that it could be incited to burn hot enough or high enough to destroy the bindings.
Were they caught like this, with the forbidden heresies in their very hands, no one could save them. Not even their royal blood could secure a pardon. Nor would the precious heir Clary carried.
After treason, heresy was the second great disobedience Valentine would not tolerate. Not in his kingdom. Certainly not from his family.
Clary's stomach churned, and her babe gave a futile flutter of movement. One hand flickered to her belly on instinct, the other still clutching her death sentence.
"Your Grace!"
Both Jace and Clary leaped out of their skins, spinning toward to the forgotten Emma Carstairs, whose pale face was resolute. Clary opened her mouth, to tell the child to flee, but Emma hastened to words first. "Your stomacher. It is already let out."
It took all of a single, shallow breath and then three blasting heartbeats before Clary's mind caught up.
Their plan was hare-brained and beyond stupid. It could never work. Escape was surely impossible. But if ever there were a time for so desperate a measure, this was it.
Another small stirring in her womb spurred Clary into action.
When the Crown Prince burst into her presence chamber some ten minutes later, flanked by his most righteous cronies, he found his sister serenely sitting by the fire, belly bulging a little thicker than it had been that morning and back held rod straight by the last book strapped to her back. Emma was reading aloud to her in trimerous Latin, the shakiness of her voice hopefully excusable by her unfamiliarity with a complex language she was still learning.
The thrill of the hunt written plain across his face, Jonathan's nose twitched, as though he could scent their thinly screened fear. His flinty gaze glinted as he latched onto Jace, painstakingly correcting Emma's translations at the table just vacated by his wife and ward.
"There you are," Jonathan crooned saccharinely, "It was rude to make yourself scarce when we visited your quarters."
Jace lifted his head unhurriedly, "I was not expecting you."
"What do you want, Jonathan?" Clary demanded; ignorance feigned but impatient edginess entirely real.
Jonathan snickered, whisking out a paper from a pouch in his belt, "I am under orders, dear sister. Every room in the palace is to be searched, by order of both the Cardinal and His Majesty." He flourished it so she could see the joint signatures.
"What do you hope to find here? I let my ladies have the afternoon free, so we could concentrate on Virgil."
Jonathan's ensuing smile was utterly vulpine, "Ah yes, but the King wishes to make a decisive stand against the Lutheran heresy. And how can he declare a total intolerance in the kingdom if he does not act against it at home?" He shrugged, the picture of obedience, "All merely a formality sister." He spread his hands, palms up, signalling to her more of a I cannot help myself than a This cannot be helped. "I know that you have nothing to hide. We are merely setting an example."
"And were your own rooms searched in this demonstration of orthodoxy?"
The Prince parried with another razored grin, "Mine were the first."
He then cocked his head, "I should think one with a piety as widely renowned as yours should share my conviction for the cause. Careful, Clary. You seem almost uncooperative." He was savouring every second of this, crossing the room with predatory purpose bouncing through each unhurried stride.
Except she was no mouse, Clary told herself, even as she trembled in her laces and a cold sweat began to break. "I simply do not appreciate the interruption." She retorted, not daring to look at Jace, forcing herself to hold Jonathan's stare.
"I'll make it quick" her brother promised, snapping his fingers at his cronies and directing them to action.
True to his word, the hastily cobbled together zealots wasted no time in tearing through the Brocelands' things. Clary's could not help recalling the last time her rooms had been looted so thoroughly, and just as gracelessly. This was the more terrifying, for this mob was a hundred times more purposeful- snatching up her books of love poetry, her psalms, her Latin, even rifling through the writing desk full of personal correspondence. Clary's statues were all sized up, papers were seized out of Jace's very hand.
All of them perfectly orthodox. Jonathan's determination only rose. Walls were rapped for secret panels, her carpets were churned up in search of loose floorboards, the fireplace was inspected. Clary bore it all in the hardest silence of her life, making her eyes disdainfully track every movement in her periphery, fighting not to wince at the clattering and thumps resounding from her bedchamber.
At which Jace's silent fortitude broke, "This is a very thorough formality" he remarked cuttingly, "I highly doubt Martin Luther is hiding under my lady's bed."
Jonathan cornered him, with a curled lip that made him look a touch feral, "No one is above suspicion."
"Clary ought to be. She grew up in convent, for Christ's sake. A convent she still supports financially."
Jonathan thrust his face into Jace's "Perhaps. But she was my father's daughter then. Now she is your wife."
Clary's breath hitched, and her hand pressed tighter to her almost bursting stomacher, a desperately maternal reflex.
The unspoken message rang clear. Clary was not under suspicion, but Jace was. At the fresh clenching onslaught of fear, her baby's tiny feet thumped against her ribs in an accompanying, agitated tempo to her frightened heartbeat. Clary fought to calm herself, for the baby's sake. Her distress was bad for him.
It could have been minutes, months or years before Jonathan had to give up. The pile of her books had been all been inspected and, surely enough, none of their titles matched those on the Cardinal's freshest forbidden list.
The curl to his mouth now was a deeply frustrated sneer as Jonathan glowered down at her rosary beads, strung between his fingers. Flinging them back onto her prie-dieu with a loud clatter, he furiously clapped his empty hands together and his troop tramped out with as much decorum as they had come in. Sebastian Verlac failed to repress a yawn.
Jonathan lingered last, a vein pulsing in his neck.
"I could insist you rectify the mess you made here." Jace stood up, scowling at the Prince with a level of arrogance only his sharpened fear could conjure.
Jonathan was dangerously close to combustion, as it was. Jesus Christ Clary thought breathlessly, Bait the bear no further. With escape so tantalisingly close, she dared not utter a sound, every muscle seized painfully tight.
Jace bent to collect a toppled candlestick and return it to the table, closing the gap between himself and the Prince, eyes blazing as he got as obnoxiously close as Jonathan had earlier, "Consider it a demonstration of our loyalty to the cause that I do not."
A crunch. Jace reeled backwards.
An outraged cry had wrangled itself from Clary. Her ascent was halted by Emma's smaller, but stern hand clamping on her shoulder.
Clary sat still, trembling in her seat.
Jonathan's whole body shook, face contorted, and fingers clamped tight in a reddened fist.
Jace was straightening slowly in shock, peeling his hand away from his smashed nose, stained with blood.
For once, he was speechless.
After an awful moment of silence, Jonathan's rage struggled into his mouth, each syllable spiking. He held a trembling index finger in front of Jace's face. "One mistake. You only need make one mistake and I will finish you, you upstart whoreson. You can die in the same gutter we raised you from." His hand was now clenched on the hilt of his knife.
"Jonathan," Clary found her own voice at last, crisp, shaken and yet still steely. "Go. Go now and we need never speak of it again."
Her brother pivoted toward the sound of her voice, still tremoring.
He hesitated. Emma Carstairs, he sliced from head to toe with a look.
"Go." Clary repeated the quiet command, weighed down by the books, danger, and an unshakeable sadness, "Before you truly do something to regret. If you leave now, we will not speak of it to Father." And Jace's bloodied nose could come from a fall from a horse, or a drunken stumble into a doorframe, and the two of them could be spared Valentine's wrath. Brotherly rivalry could be tolerated, brawling would not be.
The pent-up fight fell from her brother's tense frame at the mention of their father. White face, bruised knuckles, he stumbled away.
The outer door tumbled closed with a bang, echoing in the fraught silence Jonathan left behind. Clary's breaths kept tearing up her throat, hollow where she should have felt relief.
"I think it's broken" came Jace's muffled mumble, as blood began to seep through the white kerchief he'd plastered to his face.
Sitting without any reply to give him, a hot tear slid down Clary's cold face.
-000000000000000-
Afternoon bled into evening. Despite the mildness that had clung on even after the leaves had loosened their hold on the branches, Clary shivered.
Noting her shudder, Jocelyn leaned forward and shovelled another mouthful of coal onto the fire. It was a distinctly unqueenly gesture.
When they had lived at the convent, alone together, they had tended to their own fires, swept their own floors, drawn their own water. It had taken Clary some time to grow accustomed to stepping back and allowing others to get their hands rough and dirty for her. It was comforting to see the remnants of the stern, matter-of-fact caretaker her mother had been in those years.
Jocelyn had arrived within the hour of Jonathan's graceless departure, by now Clary was certain the whole palace suspected that he and Jace had come to blows.
The King's sons, scruffling under the King's own roof. A token of obvious division and discord in the royal family. Valentine would not be pleased.
Mayhap Jace had been summoned to give his account, since he had scuttled off at the first opportunity and had yet to return.
Clary could admit that move was prudent. Now that she was no longer solely afraid for him, she was very angry with him.
Clary knew Jace stirred up trouble everywhere he went, that he possessed an indomitable spirit. She had fallen in love with it. She never thought it should extend to his soul.
It was one thing to play fast and loose with his own fate, but today he had put her at risk too. And worst of all, imperilled their child.
Yet again, Clary's hands moved to tuck themselves against her rounded belly. It was more than reflexive today. It was a source of mutual reassurance. She had been like this when the babe had first quickened in her womb too. Every slight movement had been cause for marvel, had sent her palm to her belly, to give a touch back. I am here, I feel you.
Jocelyn clucked, tucking a shawl tighter around Clary's shoulders.
Her mother knew her too well to accept Clary's frail protestations that she was alright, that she did not need anything.
To be truthful, Clary did not want to be alone.
She knew they were beyond her throwing herself into her mother's arms, pressing her damp face into Jocelyn's shoulders and listening to promises that everything would be well. Clary still wanted her mother, sitting in the chair opposite and fussing, just the same.
"Your brother will be sorry. You shall have an apology by nightfall, I daresay. He did not mean to frighten you."
Clary had unwound her hair from its coil, now she tugged it from its braid. She shook her fingers through the freed copper locks, fixing her mother with a stare, "He did mean to frighten me." She tempered her tone: statement of a known fact than an accusation.
Jocelyn's still uttered a sharp breath, as though she had been kicked.
Jocelyn felt culpable for Jonathan's callousness, his cruelty. Clary let her silence speak, for Jocelyn's guilt was deserved, at least in part. Jonathan had never known anyone's love to balance Valentine's endless demands.
Love. Without measure, without need for anything in return. It was the least any child was owed.
Clary would never understand how any mother could abandon her child. She had yet to hold her son, but Clary could not bear the thought of ever being parted from him indefinitely.
There was little to gain from lecturing Jocelyn on past mistakes. It would not remedy anything. And Clary was tired of carrying around her resentments.
Thus far, Jocelyn had observed the unspoken terms of their truce. She had refrained from enquiring as to what precisely had unfolded here.
"I am afraid" Clary admitted into the quiet. There was no one else she could say such a thing to. She stared into the flames, thinking of the long winter evenings when the wind had whistled between the walls of the convent and she and Jocelyn had entertained themselves pointing out shapes in the fire, inventing stories for the figures that danced there. "I am afraid that I will do something wrong, during the pregnancy or the birth, and I will lose him. Or that once he is here, I will not know what to do, how to be. That I will not be very good. I do not know how to be a mother."
Clary had never been around small children; did not think she had ever held a baby. Her women laughed when she said such things, the Marchioness of Edgehunt insisted that Clary would feel differently when it was her own baby in her arms. But what if it did not? She knew she loved her baby, without even having seen his face or heard his voice. But children needed more than love. They had to be tended, taught.
To her surprise, Jocelyn laughed softly, rocking back in her seat. "Oh Clary. No one does. I certainly did not. For now, you must trust your body knows what it is doing. The same is true of the childbed, I suppose. As for being any good, you simply learn from those around you." With further, furtive guilt she added, "And those who have gone before." She reached for Clary's hands, chafing some warmth into them, "You will not be alone, there shall be nurses and midwives aplenty. Several of the women around you have borne children; the Marchioness of Edgehunt, the Countess of Adamant and myself. We will all help you."
Clary blinked fiercely, cursing the perpetually raw emotional state her condition left her in.
"Mother…" She did not know where to begin.
Wordlessly, Jocelyn nodded, accepting the blame and the regret.
"I am proud of you Clary." Clary reeled, taken aback by the unsolicited praise. Jocelyn raised a humourless eyebrow, "I have never told you that, have I? I should have."
It stirred the question Clary really longed to ask. She doubted she would get so ripe a moment again. "Why did you leave?"
Jocelyn spared a pause to ponder, "Because I was afraid." Clary was startled to hear her own admission echoed back.
"The years after your brother was born were difficult. My father's health failed. When he died, my mother came to live with me at court permanently. I was glad of her, for I was losing ground here. Stephen's betrayal rattled the King badly. He had suspected Stephen's discontent for some time, admitted to me that he had arranged the second marriage because Celine was biddable and would report on the Duke's actions to him. She, innocent little fool that she was, scarce more than a child herself, played along as Valentine's spy. She gave Valentine the proof of Stephen's plots because he promised her that if she did, then the Duke would only be reprimanded and then forgiven. Celine thought her testimony would save Stephen from himself. Of course, after the conviction, Valentine reneged on that promise. He had not honestly expected Stephen to find the courage or conviction to act against him. When he did, Valentine could find no way to forgive him. For a brief time after Broceland's fall, I was among the very, very few that Valentine implicitly trusted. Then I fell with child again, and by the time I came out of confinement the landscape had changed again. The King had surrounded himself with a new crop of men he had handpicked to be endlessly loyal. When the child- our first daughter- sickened and died I became… very despondent. I struggled to find reasons to rise from bed each morning. I thought I would never recover from the grief.
Jocelyn swallowed with difficulty. 'It created a rift between us, your father and I, which only worsened as my next two pregnancies ended in sorrow. I bore another little girl who never drew breath. And then another boy, named for his father, who never lived long enough to crawl. Though my Jonathan thrived, he was taken from me in another way. He was their king in waiting, all those lords staked a claim. He was ferried off and given his own little household at six months old, while the Council insisted my duties as Queen keep me at court away from him. When I did get to visit him, he shrank from me. I was a stranger to my own child.
'I believe my unhappiness frustrated your father, for he hated how helpless it made him feel. He was King, but he could not make his wife smile, could not stop his children from sickening and dying. It was a slight to his manhood. I confess, I was not as kind to our ward as I otherwise might have been, but I thought God was cruel, to let Stephen Herondale's son flourish when my children were in graves. Every smile Valentine spent on him, each time he spoke with pride of the boy's progress, I boiled with jealousy and heartbreak. And then, just as I had begun to give up hope, began to lose sight of anything to live for, you came along Clary."
Jocelyn sighed again, threading her fingers in Clary's tighter. Her cheeks shone damp in the fading light.
"I did not tell the King I was expecting again for months. Until I could no longer hide or deny it. I did not want to give away another piece of my heart I might lose. I could not bear any more tragedy. I tried my hardest to forget you were there, did not permit thoughts of how you might look or what I could call you. But you were insistent, from the very first. You demanded my love and devotion. When you were first born, I heard the full-throated cry of a healthy baby. The first I saw of you was a tiny pink fist shaking up at the midwife." Hoarsely, Jocelyn laughed, and Clary had to join her. "You were so full of life, so determined to live. And you were the first of the children to have my colouring. I was not disappointed in the slightest when they told me you were a girl. I held you tight and I knew your sex meant you would be mine, in all the ways your brother never would."
As Clary looked on, Jocelyn's brief, defiant joy crackled away. "At first your father was relieved. He saw how you revived me and agreed that you could stay at Havenfold, just down the river from us. I knew the Herondale boy was there too, but I was happy to compromise. And for a while, things were better. You healed, Clary. Not only me, but my marriage. The King was happier in turn, more forgiving of his enemies, more inclined to mercy. But he started to complain of Jonathan; said that the boy was heedless, too hot tempered and disobedient. I asked if he could come live with us at court, but it would not be heard of. On the contrary, Jonathan was sent off to Edom, high up in the mountains, on the other side of the kingdom."
Jocelyn shook her head, the green of her eyes glinting like chips of broken glass.
"It broke my heart, for it seemed so needlessly cruel, to send my boy so far away for no good reason. It seemed deliberately devised to punish me. I fought back, the only ways I could. I raged at Valentine and I threatened him. I told him if he didn't bring Jonathan home, I would leave him. I'd take to a convent, for by then I was sick of this court in my soul and saw naught worth salvaging of my marriage." She lowered her voice, even behind closed doors, criticism of the King was dangerous. "Valentine swore that if I did any such thing, I would never see either of my children again."
Clary feared that to speak at all, even to offer sympathy, would impair her mother's momentum. If Jocelyn did not finish her story now, she never would.
"And then, when you were ten years old, some events in the Holy Roman Empire drove your father south unexpectedly. I knew I would not get another chance. I knew that within a year or two a betrothal would be brokered for you and then you would be lost to me forever. I wanted to go for Jonathan, Clary believe me, but he was at Estoncurt, too far away. He was the heir to the throne and heavily guarded. There was no guarantee I would get near him, much less get the chance to steal him away. Besides, Jonathan was old enough to have a mind of his own by then. He was never close to me in the way he was Valentine, for I was so listless and unhappy when he was small and so rarely permitted allowed to see him as he grew.
'I considered, then decided. I would rather preserve you than risk losing both of my children. So, I took you into Broceland forest, to the convent. Where no man, King, Councillor or soldier could disturb us. I knew I had only delayed the inevitable, but I wanted to protect you for as long as I could. Valentine must have raged, he must have cursed me with every name imaginable for defying him, but ultimately, he let me have my way. We both knew that when the time came for you to be married, he'd summon you back.
'In the meantime, I doubled on your education. I know I was unforgiving Clary, that I often demanded what you felt to be too much. But I needed you to be pushed. I needed you to be ready."
Jocelyn swiped at her cheeks ferociously. Clary gripped the arms of her chair, watching the tension bleach the colour from her knuckles. She needed to grasp on something.
"I was not so nicely prepared as you think."
Smouldering coals in the grate hissed as they shifted. One tumbled down out of the fire and onto the hearth. It lay there, its upturned side a glowering orange.
"I think you were better prepared than you give yourself credit for." Jocelyn's insisted huskily.
"Did you know?"
Her mother had intimated that she knew what Valentine had in store for Clary, but Clary needed to hear it directly from Jocelyn's mouth.
"Of what he plans for your issue?" A curt nod. "I suspected he would pursue the dream he had spoken to me of long ago, although then it was just a means of solidifying the bloodline or neutralising the last Herondale threat to his throne. I understand now his idea has grown over the years." Jocelyn drummed her fingers together in her lap. "I convinced myself that there were worse matches. This one would keep you in Idris at least, and I remembered how fond the boy had been of you. Of course, you were merely playmates then, but I hoped he would bear friendship enough toward you to be kind as a husband. In fact, I thought it may be preferable to a love or lust that may flicker out."
Clary felt a rebuttal rise to her lips, only for her mother to catch her eye and smile, "I have since appreciated that no such concerns are necessary." She shrugged, "For as long as he continues to treat you well, I can tolerate it."
Clary did not meet her eye. Yesterday she would have had more to say on the subject, today she did not know where she stood with Jace quite so clearly.
Her whole life she had been taught to fear heretics, the great threat of their age. Now, she discovered herself wed to one. The one person whom, bar the life she carried, she loved most in this world.
Jonathan had once accused her of blindness when it came to her husband; that she saw only in Jace what she wished to. Her brother had spoken some truth. It was appallingly obvious, in hindsight, that Jace should find so many odd reasons to slip off into the city. One day, as Clary had fumbled about his writing table for a fresh inkpot, she'd encountered a locked drawer.
She had been so naïve, thinking Jace kept no secrets from her.
She forced herself to think back on her mother's story. "Is that why you returned? To ensure my good treatment?" She wondered what Jocelyn would have done, what she could have done, if she had found Valentine forcing marriage on them and Clary and Jace unwilling.
"Partly" Jocelyn admitted with a thin-lipped smile that failed to reach her eyes. "I also decided I was of better use here than rotting alone in a convent, stewing only on my own thoughts."
A rattling doorknob interrupted them.
"Clary?" A familiar voice called, alongside a drumming pattern of steps Clary would know anywhere, awake or asleep. Jace turned the corner and came into view. He halted, observing Jocelyn sitting beside her daughter, their brushing shoulders, sharing confidences.
He cleared his throat. His face had been cleaned up, though his nose remained out of joint. He still sounded uncommonly nasal. "Forgive me, Madam, I-"
"I was just taking my leave" Jocelyn insisted, rising. She assessed the tension between the Duke and Duchess, but at Clary's nod continued her departure. "His Majesty will be seeking me, no doubt. It is almost time for supper."
"I suspect we will all be dining later than we are accustomed this evening. The palace is in uproar." Jace told her with cool courtesy. He was on edge again, likely in turmoil worrying what Clary may have told her mother.
"Well," Jocelyn sighed, brushing down her skirts, a nervous habit Clary knew she had inherited. When she did it she looked flustered, but only someone who knew Jocelyn well would view it as a chink in her composure. "An odd evening to follow an odd day. Goodnight, Clary." She dipped a curtsey as she passed Jace, "Your Grace." With a final whisk of her silk skirts, Jocelyn departed.
Clary and Jace surveyed each other in a long, uneasy silence.
In the end, Clary broke it, "Sit down." Her voice shook.
"They're gone" He said instead, in a low, grave tone. "They're all gone, Clary, I promise you."
He did seem repentant. A little of the tight, angry knot in Clary's chest lessened.
"There is nothing else that they could find. Not here. And Jonathan is gone to the Cardinal's palace to make his report. It is over."
Clary lowered her head. Jace was only sorry he had almost gotten caught.
She struggled to stay calm, to not trouble their baby again. To not fling herself or something heavy at her fool husband.
"Jace. Have any appreciation of how close we came to losing everything today?" Clary's heart was speeding, her hands shaking. By God, it was a good thing he had not come closer. She heard the fear in her voice, despised it, "What were you thinking? How can you even contemplate it?" She shook her head, bewildered and distressed, "Rebelling against the King is one thing, but to defy the Church, God himself? It is worse than treason!" She hissed the accusations, terrified to even do so.
Jace sprang closer, reaching for her hands. Childishly, she jerked away from him. Clary saw the hurt her recoil caused him.
That almost made her angrier. Jace did not expect this of her. He truly had not fathomed the damage he'd done. What did he expect? That she would laugh off the whole episode as another of his antics? That she would turn a blind eye and say nothing while he truly damned himself?
"Clary," He was beseeching, falling to his knees before her, "Times are changing. There is more to this world than you know, than anyone knows-"
"What was it like for you Jace? Growing up without your father?"
She had struck where it hurt, in a way that only she could. It broke something within him, she saw it in his wide, burning eyes. She stood, so that his face was level with her belly. "You wished that on our child today. You have been wishing that on him for however long this has been going on."
Jace was appalled, "I told you, I am rid of them all!"
Their gazes locked. It was not only that Jace had done a reprehensible thing in questioning the unquestionable- God's Church and the Eucharist - but he had lied to Clary, deceived her.
Clary stared intently into the face she thought she knew so well, despairing of the mind behind it.
She had heard Alec berate Jace once for being too clever for his own good. She had never understood such an expression, she had been taught to treasure knowledge as a privilege. She once believed there was no such thing as being too clever.
"For good?" She demanded of him, "Or for now?"
Jace merely shook his head.
"God, I knew you danced through life with half a death wish, but I thought that now, of all times, you might be inclined to try learn a sense of self-preservation."
His eyes followed her hand gesture to her belly. Another time, she might have recognised that she spoke unfairly. Life had dealt Jace a hand that had required he learn the art of self-preservation, even if by only scraping through, a very long time ago. But today Clary was rattled, she was angry, and she was still afraid. These were not trifling matters. Questions of faith were not the sort one could afford to get wrong.
"Clary." She shivered, the way she always did when he spoke her name like that. Deeply, wonderingly, as though her name itself was something precious. Like a prayer. "I am so sorry. You are right, I put you at an unforgivable risk today." He reached out and laid his hands against the bump, "Both of you."
Clary found herself leaning into the warmth of his touch, knowing that she would do so deaf or blind, at the ends of the earth.
"I am so sorry that I came here, I am beyond sorry that it ever came to this. In the moment, I panicked. I needed your cleverness, your courage, just as I always do. I will never be so reckless with our family again, I swear it." He pressed a kiss to where their son twisted and kicked, as he always did when he recognised his father's voice, when Jace murmured to him late at night and in the quiet of the morning.
Stiffly, Jace rose to his feet. This time Clary relented and let him pull her into his arms, though she no longer fit there neatly as she had. He kissed the crown of her head, toyed with her hair. Then a kiss to her cheek, her jaw, each another silent, sweet apology. A plea. He kissed her neck and his lips lingered there.
"You wonder what I believe in? You fear I treasure nothing as sacred in my heart. But I do. I believe in us, I believe in the good that you see in me, even when I cannot see it in myself. I have no greater faith than that."
That was not the great recanting Clary wanted, but as the worst of her fury ebbed away, she appreciated she was not going to berate genuine contrition into him. Not after one conversation. And she did not want to fight with him.
Her fingers drifted up, circling his wrists. She no longer knew what to say, any words dried up on her tongue. She thought of her mother's story, of the years she had spent in fear of her husband, shackled to a man who kept her miserable.
Her husband was not a bad man. He was wrong, he was mistaken, he was straying down a dangerous path but he wasn't lost to her. Not yet.
Clary let him hold her.
-000000000000000-
Banc Palace, Eastern Alicante, October 1537
The Crown Prince was in worse than a foul mood.
Hodge Starkweather gathered this from the moment the Prince and his attendants stampeded into the courtyard, as he glimpsed the royal mount being led away with its flanks heaving, speckled from his master's spurs.
Now, far from safe in the Cardinal's private parlour, Hodge drew another tentative sip of his ale and attempted to console himself that Jonathan's anger was more predictable than his father's, and thus easier to steer.
If the Cardinal shared his anxiety, the prelate did not show it. He continued to turn the pages of the massive, leather-bound manuscript spread on the table before him with what appeared to be his full concentration, even after Jonathan had burst into the room and stood, legs parted and hands pressed to his hips, chest heaving.
With only the merest of delays, Enoch rose, and tilted to a minute bow. "Your Highness."
Jonathan dispensed with pleasantries, "You told me, assured me that Broceland was up to his neck in it." Hodge marked the spittle flying from the young man's lips at the pronouncement. Jonathan advanced on the cleric unceremoniously, muddying the Persian carpet underfoot, gaze intent and teeth bared.
Enoch lifted his palms upward in a placating gesture. "My lord, I would remind you of the nature of our task. Oft we are charged with chasing whispers, of testing shadows. That said, it remains widely held that the Duke of Broceland's" his lip curled, "theological curiosities-for lack of a better term- are Alicante's best known secret. The only setback from today is our discovery that Broceland has covered his trail a little better than we presumed." He sighed dolefully, folding his fingers together into a little pyramid, level with the weighty crucifix which always adorned Enoch's chest.
The Cardinal pointed at a vacant chair in invitation. Jonathan ignored it, much to the dismay of Hodge's aching joints. For as long as the Crown Prince remained standing his servants must do so, even Starkweather, who hovered on the periphery, a witness.
Hodge brushed his thumb over the knuckles of his left hand, muffled under his thick trailing sleeves, a tic he had developed from his earliest days orbiting the Prince at Valentine's command. There was nothing more to teach him, for he was a man grown, but Valentine still needed his son watched and advised. Hodge was more adept at the former.
Jonathan was not yet prepared to surrender. "I tore their rooms apart. I found nothing."
"Mayhap he had some sort of warning. Your sister, perhaps, knew more than we presumed."
Jonathan scoffed, "My sister is a conniving little viper, but even her love has its bounds. She can have had no inkling of her husband's preoccupations. Father all but keeps her locked in her rooms these days. She is, after all, mere weeks from whelping."
"Her Grace is a true friend of the faith." Enoch chose to concede, "The Mother Superior of the convent of the Holy Cross speaks fondly of her still. She has done many good works in the Broceland parishes."
Jonathan looked as though he would have loved to scoff at that too, but even he, in the grips of his distemper, knew better than to mock piety to the Cardinal's face. Unlike the Prince, Enoch sincerely believed in their cause.
"Have faith, Your Highness" he urged, slate grey eyes glistening, "The evil cannot prosper, for it is God's work we do."
Hodge could not stop himself from squirming on the spot. He wondered how the Cardinal could say such things with feeling, when the present renovations of his stately city residence evidenced just how far he was personally prospering from the plunder.
The persecution of heretics, especially those wealthy and well connected, was proving a lucrative enterprise. A generous portion of any confiscated property was given to the church, as penance for the wayward souls.
Hodge was certain that this was only partly the attraction in pursuing heretics for the Crown Prince. Valentine had occasional murmurs of hope for his son over the years, and this had been the most recent. When Jonathan had asked to personally figurehead the attempts to decisively eradicate the Lutheran heresy from Alicante, its hotbed in Idris, Valentine had experienced just such a glimmer of pride. The King wanted to believe Jonathan cared for something, wanted to protect something other than himself. That his heir cared about the spiritual integrity of the Church, of the Idrisian people, to the same degree the King himself did.
Hodge knew Jonathan simply enjoyed a hunt. Any form of bloodsport would suffice.
Enoch tilted forward, fanning his fingers across the table, the dark wood making them seem whiter, bonier, "I would also remind you, Sire, that I bear no great love for the Duke of Broceland."
God knew how much sleep Idris's primate had lost as he watched the once harmless, helpless nobody he had gladly persecuted at Jonathan's bidding became one of the King's most trusted advisors. A man whose power increased every day. Learning that the same man nestling into the bosom of the royal family had connections with known heretics in Paris, that he was an alleged patron of several unauthorised meeting houses and communities here in Alicante… Enoch was determined to cut the snake off at the head.
It had been the Cardinal's idea to train the search for heresy at court. The networks winding the city streets were nigh impossible to penetrate. One could never be certain what was said and done behind each householder's closed door. By eliminating the wealthy and powerful with Protestant sympathies, Enoch trusted these networks would collapse on their own. The wandering flock would return to the folds of the one true faith.
It was a clever plan, and although the Cardinal's carefully veiled disdain of the Crown Prince was detectable to Hodge's keen eyes, Enoch recognised Jonathan was a useful tool in his crusade. Once Enoch indicated the trail could lead him to the Brocelands, Jonathan had required no further encouragement to spearhead the Cardinal's Holy War at home.
Jonathan continued to simmer, jaw tense, teeth grinding.
Hodge had wondered, briefly, if Jace Herondale could be a brighter, more benevolent star to attach himself to. He certainly appeared to be in the ascendance. But in the end, Hodge could not detach himself from the safety of the known evil. At least he knew the Prince's worst habits and how to circumnavigate them. Just as he knew by the tilt of Jonathan's chin and the hum of his breath when he was in a sunnier mood and could be steered.
And some stars burned too bright. Herondale's favour was hinged on the King's daughter's first flush of love, which would surely wane. Hodge had known the boy's father, after all, and even Stephen's fondness of his first, beloved wife had not stopped him straying into other women's beds. When the novelty of being newlywed wore off for the Princess, at best in a year or two, Jace would no longer be of much consequence.
If he did not destroy himself first. If even a quarter of what the Cardinal suspected of Jace's religious persuasions was true, his head would roll. Hodge thought of the Duke's golden hair and golden smiles, his easy, deep-chested laugh. How he had charged toward those rebels outside the city gates as though he were invincible. If Hodge could draw, or if he could write in verse, he might have committed the Duke's star to paper. Burning bright and brief. A young Icarus.
Herondale was not invincible. No one was. He was simply lucky. Luck would always run out.
Apparently, the worst of Jonathan's fury had also burned out, now it was obvious the Cardinal was not going to be riled into giving the Prince the fight he was spoiling for. Jonathan paced over the chair Enoch had offered earlier and nosily kicked it out from the table before swinging himself down. As he slung his right arm over the back of it, Hodge noted his knuckles were bruised.
"Today was not a complete loss" Enoch soothed, sweeping a hand almost tenderly over a heap of papers beside him. Hodge inched as close as he dared without attracting attention, straining his weak eyes to see. One sheaf of paper protruded a half inch above the supple leather covering. An unfamiliar, rough hand, and the only word Hodge could decipher was Hendonne. The Earl of Chene's residence.
Enoch at last looked rather pleased with himself. "There are other means of reaching the source of a sickness. The Duke has few enough friends."
Jonathan perked up, wetting his lips.
Enoch tapped at the papers again pensively, "Even Our Lord was betrayed by one of his own."
-000000000000000-
A/N: The quibbling over theological particulars may seem trivial, but in the 16th c. this was serious business. Apart from the immediate peril to their lives. Discovering Jace's Reformist sympathies puts Clary in a real moral and religious bind. She has been raised in an intensely Catholic environment in the earliest years of the Lutheran Reformation. She genuinely fears people who split from the Church that has stood for centuries- the only Christian Church in her mind- could go to hell. She is struggling to reconcile someone she loves with someone whose soul is in jeopardy. And it will change the nature of their relationship going forward.