CW: Seizures and period typical (insensitive) responses to such /
Please see any of chapter note for historical attitudes to neurological issues such as those addressed to in the chapter.
Estoncurt Hall, Eastern Idris, January-February 1540
Isabelle was hurrying along her usual morning wall walk along the fortress's curtain wall, her mind elsewhere. She didn't notice the patch of black ice until she lost her footing on it.
For a heart lurching moment her whole body slipped sideways. The stone walkway was narrow and the edges were roughly whittled away by the elements and the wear of days gone by. The snow-laden bailey swung beneath into view beneath her, fatally far below. Desperate, Isabelle's hands scrabbled for safety. She was barely conscious of the stinging as her palms were grazed and her fingers scraped open by the ancient stone. At the last moment she caught hold and was able to right her balance, her heart thundering. Gripping tight and breathing hard, Isabelle held still for a while. Her harsh breaths billowed before her face as curls of white smoke.
Isabelle gradually steadied her mind alongside her body.
It had been naught but a brief slip, one she'd easily corrected. She could see from returned stillness and security that the stone passage underfoot was wider than she gave it credit for. The peril to her person was minimal at best. There was no need for such panic.
Mournfully, Isabelle studied her skinned palms and swore. This was her own stupid fault for getting so easily distracted. She should have been more careful, but she was still learning her way around the keep and she'd slept badly.
In the cold light of day Estoncurt wasn't so bad.
Although there was an absence of city noise up here, the winds still bellowed and whined about the towers, causing Isabelle's shutters to thump in the gales for hours. It ensured only a fitful slumber. Although she continued to sleep alone, she was never truly alone for long. Since the wedding she had a new legion of maids and ladies, all of them strangers to her but handpicked by the King.
No guard had been placed over her as it had in Alicante, where Valentine commissioned a stout man to keep watch at the door to her chambers. The King assured her it was for her own safety but Isabelle knew it was to keep an eye on her.
Isabelle's husband apparently had no such concerns, Or, as she was beginning to suspect was more likely, he simply did not care. Everything Jonathan had done since grinding out his vows through gritted teeth had been calculated to demonstrate to his spouse just how little he cared. He would surely be relieved if she gave up, if she fled. But where could Isabelle go? Alicante? Adamant? In either case her husband's father or her own mother would assuredly just send her back. Anyway, it hardly mattered that she had no destination. Judging by how treacherous their journey had been the roads were sure to be nigh on impassable by now. Even if Isabelle could bribe a guide- and with what money?- to take her south, flight would be futile. This was her lot now, for better or worse.
In light of Jonathan's indifference, Isabelle decided to spend her days getting to know Estoncurt better. This morning, still a little shaken from her near spill, Isabelle descended to the hall. It was quiet; there was no cause for Jonathan to host grand feasts. He and Isabelle tended to keep their meals to their quarters. There was a great fireplace in the south wall however, and it was lit during daylight hours. Isabelle approached, eager to have its heat after her outdoor adventures. She could also avail of its light for inspecting her wounds.
Upon doing so she discovered they weren't too bad. Isabelle flexed her stinging fingers over the glowering yellow flames. She'd live.
It was by this grand, gaping grate that she'd found her trunks on her first morning here, precisely as Jonathan promised, leaking on the hearth. Years of living frugally meant that she still hated to think of how many of the pretty, expensive gowns Valentine had showered upon her being destroyed. She despaired to think of the heaps of ruined silk and sodden velvet that she hadn't been able to rescue. Then again, there was no need to mourn, not really.
She was a Princess of Idris by name if not by blood, and thus no longer short on coin. Jonathan and his father would be eager to ensure Isabelle dressed to her station. It was not sheer superficiality; it was also necessary to thwart the whispers that Isabelle did not deserve her apparent good fortune. Before she'd left Alicante there had been whispers among the court that Isabelle beguiled or bewitched the King into making the match and there would be dire consequences for her devilment. Little did those gossips know that this marriage was the dire consequences, as far as Isabelle was concerned.
At least there would be some recompense for her. Isabelle would have a new wardrobe, likely twice a year from now on, in the same way Clary did.
Retracting her hand and resolving to clean out the scrapes later, Isabelle crossed to the nearest window and peered out. The rims on the glass were frosted and a trimming of snow edged the sill outside. Her view was of a small walled garden blanketed completely in snow. The hedges and trees were also dusted shimmering white, their bare branches skeletal. Winter was no time to judge the beauty of a garden. The snow drifts made it impossible to take walks in them anyway, hence Isabelle's taking to the parapets.
She'd been seeking better vantage points all month. Yet so far what she saw of the province of Edom, it indeed had little to recommend it. Isabelle supposed Idris's most North-Easterly county was rather beautiful in the way anywhere was in the snowfall; glittering and bright. But the rocky plains that stretched as far as the eye could see remained barren and bleak, only dotted by the occasional straggling tree. It seemed unlikely there would be much greenery or flowers in the spring. There was a reason that this was the least visited of the royal residences.
Though the castle itself had an old, ancient esteem. Estoncurt was regal in its scale if nothing else, though little of it smacked off hospitable. Furniture itself was sparse and dated where it could be found. There were more faded tapestries than paintings, usually filled with fantastical creatures; more unicorns and dragons, angels and demons broken only by the occasional battle scene.
Strategically, its lofty mountain position made Estoncurt well placed to warn of an incoming attack. The high stone walls of previous centuries seemed impregnable. Alternatively, the unmarked defences whispered that in truth no one had ever wanted to take this castle. In his quarter century of ruling King Valentine had never set foot here. Isabelle could hardly blame him. She'd grown accustomed to the tasteful finery of two of Europe's most fashionable courts, to the degree that she'd deplored the stoic simplicity of Idris against Paris at first. Over time she grew to love the subtlety and charm of Alicante and the quiet beauty of its riverside palaces. She doubted Estoncurt would grow on her in such a way.
Not for the first time, Isabelle pondered that it truly had been a slap in the face for Valentine to banish his son here for months at a time over the years.
Though Jonathan had done little to make his exile homely in the interim.
There was seldom ever sign of him on her explorations and this morning was no different.
It would seem the Prince truly meant to scorn her. That may be for the best. If their marriage remained unconsummated then Isabelle was safe. Safe from having to lie with Jonathan Morgenstern in the first instance and safe from the perils of childbed in the longer term. However it also left her vulnerable. An empty marriage could easily be annulled. Isabelle could easily be put aside, or shut up in a nunnery. Or worse still, thrown out and relegated to penury.
Such were her troubled musings pacing an upper gallery that it took Isabelle some time to realise she was being followed. There was a man behind her, dressed well but not finely. He was ruddy cheeked and freckled with kindly hazel eyes. He flushed at her attention and hastily doffed his cap.
"What are you doing?"
He cleared his throat, "Forgive me, Your Highness, I did not mean to bother you. I was merely sketching."
"Sketching?" Isabelle had not been expecting that.
"The stonework." Under her pressing, perplexed silence, he elaborated. "There is an old coat of arms in the archway above you, Madam. I was marking down its outline so that I might look up to whom it belonged later."
"I see." Isabelle was not sure she did. She turned away awkwardly, intending to hasten onward and forget the entire exchange, but she still possessed that damned fondness for the strange and amusing outcast. And for making friends she should not. There was something so shockingly honest and open about the man's face. There was something pleasing in that good natured smile he had given her. He smiled as though there were would ever be a reason not to smile on a stranger, an assumption there was only the best in people. He rather reminded her of Simon.
"What is your name, sir?" Isabelle asked, before she could align him with another's any further. "You evidently know who I am, which hardly seems fair."
He glanced upward. He'd replaced his hat, just rather askew. "Sir George Lovelace, Highness. I saw you before, many months ago, at court."
"You were at court?" Isabelle could not remember him.
"Briefly. I came into a modest fortune about a year ago and was urged to see if I could increase those fortunes in the King's service. Alas, I do not seem to be made of the mettle for such a life. I decided to pursue other interests in my new life of increased comfort."
"Which include sketching down forgotten coats of arms?"
He smiled again, flashing a dimple in one cheek. They were likely of an age, but there was an air of such boyishness to Sir George Isabelle found herself starting to smile back. "Yes. I have an interest in the royal palaces." He folded his arms over his papers, "Estoncurt is the second oldest in Idris after the Gard. This palace is also the one closest to the condition it would have been in its heyday."
"I find it difficult to believe Estoncurt had a heyday."
George Lovelace laughed, "It certainly did, some two and half centuries ago. Under the rule of King Ithuriel, who was a most pious man. Soon to be ratified as a saint, I believe. He first came here in search of a retreat, somewhere to pursue the hermitical life he so wanted. Though he found solace in these mountain passes. The duties of kingship cannot be fled it would seem. His court and petitioners followed Ithuriel here. The palace is said to have sprung up around him as he prayed."
He drew level with Isabelle and paced a respectful half step behind him as he rattled out the story, "They say Ithuriel longed to live a quiet life of religious devotion. He wished to take holy orders and renounce the world of men, but when both his elder brothers were killed on crusade the crown of Idris fell into his unwilling lap. He married at the behest of the lords of the realm, but never produced any direct heirs. It seems likely he took a private vow of chastity." They paused before a great stained glass window. It depicted four figures, the first a bearded, robed man with a crown: Ithuriel. Kneeling before him were three women, one dark, two fair. George cleared his throat, "So the continuation of his line was dependent on the marriage of his sisters." George gestured to the figure in the middle, golden haired in blue robes, "Alienor" then to the other fair girl in black, "Marie" and lastly to the slightest girl with the brown curls, wreathed in a green gown. "And the youngest, Lucia."
An odd thought. Before Isabelle were depictions of three young women, each of them precious vessels of the blood of Jonathan I, first King of Idris. Subsequently the foremothers of each of Idris's three great royal houses; The Herondales, the Morgensterns and the Blackthorns.
George continued, "Upon Ithuriel's death the throne fell to his eldest nephew, who retained his father's name."
"Herondale." Isabelle supplied for him. George started at her interruption, ears flooding red, "Forgive me, Princess. Had I known you were familiar with the story I would not have prattled on so."
Isabelle laughed drily, "Fear not. The details were lost on me before. But as you spoke it stirred something in my memory." She tugged at her sleeves, glancing sideways at her companion, "The Duchess of Broceland is fond of the histories."
"Her Grace's studiousness is much renowned." George agreed sunnily.
"King Ithuriel," Isabelle began again, "The present King's lineage can also be traced back to him, yes?"
"Of course!" George shuffled his forgotten sketches, "Although, perhaps more precisely to the dearth of an immediately apparent heir upon Ithuriel's death." He sniffed and hastened on, "For Ithuriel had another younger sister who married into the Duchy of Etoile- the Morgensterns. The story goes that the first Herondale King Jonathan VI loved his cousin the Duke of Etoile as a brother. Upon his ascension Jonathan VI is said to have greeted Etoile here in the throne room at Estoncurt. King Jonathan unsheathed his sword and laid it in his cousin's hands, bidding him to guard his king and the realm. He exhorted him to be moved always by the great love he held for both."
A half-smile twitched on Isabelle's lips. All Valentine's fuss about uniting Herondale and Morgenstern blood again with a grandson was a touch ironic when both lines owed their claims to the throne to women in the first place.
"Did he do as instructed, this Duke of Etoile?"
George nodded, though the look they shared indicated he understood what she was really asking in her question. How did Valentine, son of a younger son descended from an offshoot branch of the royal family, come to occupy the throne of Idris?
"He did, yes, for the reign of Jonathan VI. He even offered guidance to Jonathan's heir, in time." George swallowed, visibly selected his next words carefully. "Etoile's own heirs proved to be more devoted to the realm than their Herondale cousins. Their family was less smiled upon by the Crown, in the centuries which followed. Plague, misfortune, penury… they retained their duchy, by virtue of their bloodline, but the Morgensterns no longer commanded the wealth and prestige they once had. Until, that is, the country was failed by a King who proved to be weak, indecisive, and complacent. Valentine Morgenstern, the man who would become Valentine I, our King's grandfather, rallied the lords as they moved to free the King from corrupt advisors, vipers who ruled unjustly through him. Of course, in the fighting that followed the last of the Herondale kings, Tobias II, was taken into custody in the Gard for his own safety while the weeds on his council were rooted out. Valentine Morgenstern took the reins of government in the meantime. The men sent to watch over King Tobias however proved-and this is where the accounts differ- either lax in their duties in allowing harm to visit the King on their watch, or actively treacherous, deciding to murder Tobias themselves. Either way, the first Valentine was reportedly distraught when he heard of the deposed King's death. Tobias and his young wife had no issue, so the only possible Herondale heir was Tobias's nephew, who was only six years old at the time of the King's death. The lords of Idris convened in Alicante and the verdict was unanimous. After such upheaval in the Kingdom a child ruler, a puppet king who could easily be manipulated, was in nobody's best interest. As one voice, for the sake of Idris and for the sake of peace, the lords implored Valentine, Duke of Etoile to take the throne. The boy, Edmund Herondale, was invested with the duchy of Broceland."
Isabelle swallowed, still fidgeting with the trimming on her gown, "But-" she glanced about to ensure they were alone before murmuring, "Wouldn't that first Duke of Broceland have a stronger claim once he reached manhood?"
"Mayhap," George smiled sadly, "However, he had little sway in the matter. Valentine I was the rightful King because he had the swords to back him. He had military prowess, proven on the field of several European wars in his youth. It was to him the lords of the realm were loyal. Thus it was to him they looked as leader. Indeed, so promising was that Valentine's rule that it seemed fitting his son would succeed him in due course."
Isabelle sighed, agreeing wryly, "Indeed, 'right' in these matters is always destined to be somewhat subjective."
History lessons tended to bore Isabelle, for who cared whose grandfather had fought in what battle, or what title he had been granted from which king? That was before the characters in the tales had belonged to her own family. Or rather, the family she married into, however reluctantly. It was enthralling now in ways it would not have been before. There was something in the old dynastic struggles George Lovelace had so matter-of-factly imparted that stirred her. Isabelle was captivated by the idea of mere mortals reluctant in the face of their grand destinies; a family like any other, filled with loves and petty jealousies which so easily spilled out into unsheathed swords. It was no longer a distant concept. Isabelle was in the middle of it all now. In a position with little agency, it was true, but what she did choose to do would have repercussions. Real consequences. Not just for her or her brothers, but for all the people of Idris. It was humbling, to be sure, but the weight of that responsibility was also exhilarating. Isabelle Lightwood, the girl no-one had ever taken real account of, suddenly mattered.
"Have I bored you, my lady?"
"Not at all, Sir George."
They doubled back toward the main hall as they spoke. It was now much livelier than it had been earlier, alive with servants and the smell of baked bread. Isabelle stepped further aside from George, sensing that her presence and opinions were soon to be demanded. "Call upon me again, when you have learned to whom the coat of arms belongs."
Lovelace hesitantly but earnestly split into another of his winning smiles. "I would be honoured."
"Good," Isabelle tucked her cold fingers back inside her sleeves, "I should also like to hear your thoughts on a badge of my own." She needed one, if she was to play the part. As Princess of Idris, Isabelle would have all the trimmings. It was her right.
Besides, Clary had taken her own personal badge. She'd chosen a crest of angel wings- a homage to the arms of her maternal line's butterfly wings with the Angelic resonance of the Morgenstern name. Isabelle could lay claim to her family arms and had done thus far- the banner of dancing red flames ringing a sword. But she was also a lady of Idris's royal family now, a personage in her own right. Someone worth taking account of after all. Or at least someone determined to be.
She'd learned this morning that wives and mothers had made kings in this family before.
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For weeks it seemed it would never thaw. Isabelle began to imagine she might dwell up here forever, cut off in a world apart. Trapped in ice while the rest of the world went on without her.
Her husband continued to keep to his own quarters, drinking the cellars dry. The days drifted by in a haze of boredom. When she'd taken this upon herself, Isabelle imagined herself lingering in doorways to hear snatches of conversation and straining to hear loaded passing comments at the dinner table. As it transpired, all that was unnecessary. The Prince had no visitors. She was not sure it was because of the poor travelling conditions.
Isabelle passed the time as best she could. She tried to continue her explorations of the fortress, but the cold almost smothered her and after a few short excursions she surrendered to the fireside. She stitched an altar cloth and then she darned her own stockings, much to her ladies' astonishment. God knew when they might get new clothes delivered from Alicante, she reasoned with them. Beth assured her it would not be too long, that the thaw would come before long. Isabelle shrugged and kept sewing. The piety imbued into the walls of the palace did not affect her, she was not prepared to while her days away in prayer. Isabelle instead tried to improve her German, in fitful conversations with Katharina, one of her new maids. Her will to pass the time productively quickly dwindled.
Eventually Isabelle slept her days away. There were days she did not get out from under the covers until well after noon. Huddled under the coverlet and curled up was the warmest she could get. No one sent for her or urged her to rise. Her household chaplain inquired once or twice in his quavering little voice if she was unwell. A physician materialised in her doorway later offering to bleed her. Isabelle chased him away. It was the closest she had to a disturbance for days.
Until, late one afternoon, she woke in the fading light to shouting and the sound of rapid, running feet.
Isabelle flew upright in the bed. At first she thought it was a dream, though she pinched at her forearm hard to disprove it. Everything at Estoncurt was usually a long, lulled, stifling silence. There could be no mistaking the continued raised voices, the stamping feet.
Such an unprecedented disturbance did not bode well.
Isabelle twisted about but could find none of her attendants nearby. They'd all abandoned her, or fled. She waited, heart racing, but still the distant uproar continued. Finally, she flapped into action, pulling on her robe and shoving her toes into slippers. Nobody was likely to come tell her anything waiting here. Her feet moved on their own toward the source of the commotion.
It was coming from Jonathan's rooms. A narrow, scarcely lit inner gallery connected his rooms to hers. She had never traversed across the walled bridge into his territory. On the brief journey it occurred to Isabelle that she'd never entered Jonathan's rooms before.
She hastened, breathless with trepidation, across the threshold to his bedchamber.
The room was full of movement. She espied several gentlemen of the Prince's household in action. They were rummaging around and fumbling with tapers to cast light on the scene. There were voices in the background, a constant brisk murmur. The same physician who'd offered to bleed her fatigue out appeared to be taking point.
Because there was a body, Isabelle realised with a dull clang of horror, laying on the carpet before the fire, thrashing helplessly in unfettered, painful looking movements. Isabelle couldn't see his face in the gloom that seemed to hang over everything at Estoncurt, and one of the grooms was stuffing a cushion underneath his lolling head.
Isabelle's hollow chest clenched with steely dread. It was Jonathan at the epicentre of all this commotion, his limbs all shuddering violently. In the throes of a fit.
Isabelle stared, dumbstruck, her mouth open to say nothing, until one of the men in attendance finally noticed her. Or rather, until someone finally decided to do something about Isabelle standing in the way. He clapped a hand on her arm.
Jon Cartwright, she recalled his name distantly. "Princess, you had best return to your chambers."
Isabelle shook her head, gripping at Jon's wrist instead harshly, "What is happening to him?"
"It will pass." The young knight failed to much allay her concern, "It always does."
Indeed, horror and fear seemed Isabelle's alone. The rest of the household had thrown itself into action with practiced familiarity. Plainly, this was not the first time such an incident had occurred.
"We should send for a doctor! Doctor Fell is the King's physician in Alicante. He could assist."
"The physician here is better suited," Jon had the advantage of size and strength and was beginning to successfully steer her out the door, as though she weighed nothing. He moved her as if Isabelle was of no consequence at all, "He has attended His Highness before. Please, Madam, you should return to your quarters."
Isabelle did long to flee back to her chambers and bolt the door, but it warred with the instinct to do something helpful.
"Is he pain?" She asked in a whisper.
"No," Jon reassured her softly, "The Prince will be himself again very shortly, I suspect, and with little recollection of the whole thing." He squeezed her arms, "Come, allow me to escort you."
Not knowing what she could say or do to be of assistance and being at the mercy of Jon's greater bulk, Isabelle permitted Cartwright to bustle her back to her own chambers and install her by the fire there. He sent for a cup of warmed ale and pressed it personally into her hand. Isabelle caught Jon's wrist, "I have never seen such an affliction before." She confessed, desperate to make him tarry, desperate not to be on her own with her thoughts.
Jon was sympathetic, "The first one is always unsettling to see, I know."
"This has happened before?" Her voice sounded dreadfully thin.
"Only once in my time here, and I have been dressing His Highness for almost three years now. I reacted much the same as you the first time." He studied his feet, shuffling them and adding in a smaller voice, "I am not surprised they did not tell you. Very few people know."
It frightened her, there was no point in pretending otherwise. Perhaps it was the late hour, perhaps it was the shock, but Isabelle did not conceal her disturbance as she looked up at Jon. "When did these fits start?"
"When he was a child, I believe. The King scoured the country for a cure covertly, but none could be found. For a while it seemed they lessened as he grew. There have been increasingly long stretches where the Prince has been utterly unaffected. Entirely healthy." Jon fidgeted on the spot, "He will be sorry for you to have seen it, I have no doubt."
"Who else knows?"
"Very few. Only those who serve at his chamber and table. That is much the reason the Prince has lived here and only here for so long."
"Beyond Estoncurt?"
"The King is aware, of course. The Queen also, I would expect. Now yourself, Princess." Jon swallowed visibly, his eyes drifting back upward, "I am sorry you had to learn of it this way. They should have warned you. Mayhap they worried that if you knew you would not want to marry him."
The whole thing had shaken her so thoroughly that Isabelle could not hold back the sharp, disturbed laugh that chirped out of her at the comment.
Valentine knew. Of course he did. Yet he'd given no warning to Isabelle. He hadn't seen fit to prepare her at all.
She'd come to Estoncurt in search of some purpose, seeking something to do. A task in which she might be certain. With every passing day she spent here on the edges of life at Estoncurt when she should be at its centre, the less sure Isabelle felt of anything. She felt increasingly less certain of everyone.
Not just their attendants. Not just Jonathan. She no longer trusted anything she saw or heard. She wasn't sure she trusted herself.
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Come morning Isabelle could hardly distance herself from Jonathan's convalescence. She hated sickrooms because she never knew what to say or do in them. She'd been fortunate in life that she had seldom any cause to enter one. Comforting and caretaking did not come naturally to her. She despised her own awkward helplessness in such scenarios.
Even had she known Jonathan better, Isabelle doubted the compulsion to hold his hand and mop his brow would be there. Anyway, Jonathan still seemed inclined to bite her hand off should she try either of those things.
Upon admittance to his bedchamber- no one bat an eyelid at her entrance since she was, after all, his wife- Isabelle found him sitting bolt upright, sifting through what was sure to be papers of import which were scattered across his bedspread. He glared at her as she entered.
He seemed unchanged, completely back to his old self. Perhaps only a little paler than usual. It made his dark eyes all the more staunch.
"What is it they imagine you will be able to do?"
Isabelle dipped a perfunctory curtsey at the foot of his bed, marvelling at the strangeness that after two months of married life this was the closest she had come to her husband's bed. "Distract you?" She suggested.
He snorted. The sharpness was not surprising. Jonathan snatched up another sheet and looked at it rather than Isabelle, all prickled pride. She thought back to Jon's comment that the Prince would not be pleased she had witnessed his ailment.
She did judge his weaknesses, but not on the scores that could not be helped. Isabelle judged his character. His vindictive cowardice, his callous selfishness. For an illness even Jonathan Morgenstern could not be blamed.
"What is that you have?"
Isabelle glanced down. "A book. I was going to offer to read to you." She maintained the carefully mocking distance, the ploy that this was something she felt was expected of her rather than anything she wanted to do.
"What is the book?"
"Alas, the only kind I could find in my possession that was not prayerful is an old conduct manual. 'The Knight's Goodwife.'" Isabelle pointedly settled herself on a chair at the foot of the bed. There was no need to get closer. "I can turn to the section of managing servants and budgeting if you like. Mayhap we will both learn something."
"Unnecessary." Jonathan stated with the blunt decisiveness of a man who expected deference and always had. "There is no need to keep me cooped up here. I feel perfectly fine. But they"- he gestured to where the physician had drifted out- "Will not have it. I am to stay here until tomorrow at the earliest, lest another strike. Not for fear anything will befall me, but for fear someone should see."
She had heard him voice resentment before, but this complaint fell upon her ears differently. It landed with a chime upon a space in her chest Isabelle often wished was hollow.
"Good." Isabelle tossed the dusty old manual aside. "I did not want to read about household governance."
But she did not excuse herself, nor did Jonathan order her away. They remained in the uncertain silence for a long moment, while Jonathan failed to pretend convincing interest in the documents to hand. Isabelle stared straight ahead, the fingers of her right hand bouncing nervously along the knuckles of her left.
"How do you usually manage the fits?"
It was obvious he had some system. They were a very well-kept secret, even at court. Clary and Jace certainly had no inkling.
Though she'd asked the question directly, Isabelle had not anticipated a direct answer.
"I spend most of my time locked away here at Estoncurt." Jonathan reminded her matter-of-factly. The household is small and contained and they are well versed in what to do should a fit come." Isabelle nodded her understanding, yesterday had proven as much to her. "Besides," Jonathan added slowly, almost reluctantly, "I have grown to sense them coming on. The pit of my stomach surges up and I get a strange taste in my mouth, most often. I can usually forewarn a servant or get myself behind a closed door in time. They always pass. Eventually." It sounded eerily similar to the assurance Cartwright had given her, it echoed as something Jonathan often told himself.
A potent dread settled over her. Was this the real reason why Valentine had banished his son here at so young an age? The shame of the affliction had certainly caught. It was there in the reluctance with which Jonathan spoke and in the way he bristled in anticipation of what she may say next. Anticipating denouncement, expecting disgust.
"Do you believe me cursed now, Isabelle?"
Isabelle swallowed slowly, "I am not a superstitious person." She wasn't, not by any means. She'd never been one to start at black cats or cracked mirrors. Yet the seizure she'd witnessed in these chambers before had perturbed her. She'd expected his enmity, she'd prepared herself for that much. Never had she imagined that Prince Jonathan could seem fragile to her.
"One need not be," Jonathan insisted gruffly, looking to his paperwork again, "It is what people would think. The common people especially. They still see signs of misfortune in ill winds blowing and dark nights, they see bad auguries in any shadow over the moon. It would seem apparent God has cursed me. My father is not an especially superstitious person either, yet even he sees it an omen. Did you know that start of the first King Valentine's reign was marked by a comet in the sky? That is why the lords called him the Morning Star when they bade him take the throne. Divine approval matters to us. It is all that marks Kings apart from other men, in the end."
Jonathan was not the King yet, but Isabelle held her tongue. That was not what troubled her as she stared at the wan and bitter man heaped under weighty brocade covers. That was not sent what a prickling, churning unease into the pit of her stomach. She concurred that Jonathan was unfit to rule but had assumed that was because Valentine saw his son as she did; that he ought to be barred from power because he was senseless to the needs of anyone but himself. Not because of some mysterious, incurable bodily affliction.
Clary saw her brother as her enemy because of the things he had done to her. Isabelle saw him as dangerous too, because of the things Jonathan had almost done to her. The Queen's lamented that her son was not innately bad, but had been corrupted by his father. Isabelle accepted forces beyond his control had partially crafted Jonathan Morgenstern into the man he'd become. She had not ever thought to find herself sympathetic to him. Suddenly she couldn't stop thinking about the frightened little boy he must once have been, banished to this icy, barren mountain fortress and told that he carried a cursed sickness no one could cure. He'd been isolated and shamed since he was a child. Small wonder he thrashed and fought when his inheritance was threatened, or when it seemed that all his years of suffering might have been for naught. No wonder he couldn't bear the threat that no grand destiny awaited him after all. Small wonder indeed that Jonathan held tight to the promise that one day he'd be King, that one day he'd finally get to give the orders and control his own fate. That he wouldn't always be so easily be locked away and deprived of a key.
Isabelle could understand the appeal.
"Do not dare to pity me Isabelle Lightwood," Jonathan smouldered.
"I do not," She insisted drily. None of it excused the awful things Jonathan had done, nor the pain he had caused. None of it made it forgivable.
Have you not caused pain yourself? A seedy little voice in the back of her head wormed in.
"Good." Jonathan grinned emptily at her, "Now we dispense of all pretence and you can hate me in earnest."
"I do not hate you," Isabelle insisted, thrumming anger and frustrations finally breaking to the surface, her hands fisting into the black velvet of her skirts, "Because you fall to fits. I hate you because of how you behave, Jonathan. I hate the scorn with which you treat the whole world. I hate your cruelty and your entitlement. I hate how you diminish others and strike out against people with such single-minded hatred. Even your own sister. You cannot hate seemingly everyone in the world, Jonathan, and expect them not to hate you back."
Jonathan uttered a harsh, rattling laugh. It echoed against the high stone ceilings.
"My father has told me demons run in my veins since I was a child. That my blood, blood that should be the unassailable blood of kings, is rotten through with a curse. Corrupted. What does Valentine expect?" He stiffened up further, folding his arms across his chest, "Would you really expect any better?"
In that tilt of his chin and in his flash of flaring defiance Jonathan seemed very like his younger sister. Isabelle shot to her feet, "Do you think yourself the only person in this world whose parents have ever despaired of them? The only one who has ever disappointed grand expectations? That does not excuse it! The worst of ourselves need not always be surrendered to!"
"Oh no?" Her outburst seemed only to amuse him. "How much better are you than me, Isabelle, truly? How much stronger is your self-control?" His taunting echoed her own spiteful internal question from before and she tensed up, her shoulders growing sterner. She ground her teeth and Jonathan leaned forward, "For all your loyalty and good intentions you have wound up here, alone, just as I have."
He expected her to surrender, to storm out, possibly in tears. Isabelle would never grant him such satisfaction. She clamped down on the anger and fear he had riled in her and laughed instead, as though the whole conversation had been a great jest, a ruse. She returned to her seat as though it were on a dais.
"You see? I have distracted you."
He seemed, for a heartbeat, astounded. Then his smile winked back again, no softer, but several degrees more placid. Jonathan laughed with her.
This could all be a game between the two of them; a racquet sport, a parry in the sword arena. They might while away the days bouncing off and swiping at one another. Privately keeping score. Imagining it thus may just keep her sane.
"Add it to the things you scribble to my father."
Isabelle had written to the King since their arrival, and she was not surprised Jonathan had noticed. She made no secret of it. It would do well to remind him who had sent her here. Whose ear she had.
"He does not scribble back," She pointed out.
"No. But my sister does. You surely delighted in rushing to tell her of my illness. You revelled in relaying I am indeed every inch the accursed monster she thinks."
The chair creaked softly under Isabelle as she readjusted her weight. "I have not told her." Something stopped her. She did not think she could find the words at any rate. And despite it all, spilling this carefully guarded secret of Jonathan's felt a violation. If Valentine wanted Clary to know, he would have told her.
"It certainly serves their ends," Jonathan continued, "It would disappoint the Brocelands greatly, I think, to learn that I am a man who bleeds and suffers like anyone else. I must be a monster for them to sleep soundly at night. To justify their ends. Their schemes. As though I cannot guess what they are."
His eyes met Isabelle's again. They were even darker than her own, the eyes she hated because everyone complimented her mother and Alec's blue and because all the maids in the stories had light eyes. She'd stared into her own reflection for so long, wishing to find a glimmer of blue in their depths. Isabelle had never gotten close enough to Jonathan to look for a chip of his mother's green in his eyes.
Even if he suspected what was planned for the Brocelands' heir, Jonathan could not know anything for sure. Isabelle's tongue would not move to tell him. Nor would it move to reassure. She doubted even she would be convincing enough for him to believe her.
Jonathan sighed dramatically after another settled silence. "You are abysmal bedside company."
She shrugged, dropping her eyes to study her fingernails, "I never was any good." For some reason, since she was now privy to one of his deepest secrets, Isabelle felt compelled to give him a small shred of herself. "My little brother was prone to childhood fevers, though he was a wretched patient whenever Mother confined him to bed. The whole family had to contrive excuses to keep him there. Jace would tell Max stories while Alec gifted him wooden toys he carved himself. I was useless at making toys, games or stories- I never had the imagination." She heard herself add in a soft admission, "There was a song, though. A song our mother used to sing to us when we were small and unwell or sleepless in storms." Mayrse never sang it to Max, the child she had hoped would make her husband love her again. "I had nothing else for Max. So, I gave him that."
Another terse pause, before Jonathan piped up from the bed, "Well, go on then! Let's hear it."
Scoffing her incredulity, Isabelle looked up at last. That hadn't exactly been an offer. Yet she had mentioned it, hadn't she?
Jonathan still waited, impatiently. He remained imperious, but it was easier to see through. She could see the cause of the cracks that had wrought Jonathan's sharp, shattered edges.
Isabelle wondered if Jocelyn had ever sung lullabies to him. She suspected not. Or if she ever had, she doubted the Prince would remember it. A sentimental woman might have held onto her song, denied him it. She might have said it belonged only to those she loved. Isabelle was not a sentimental woman. She knew better than that.
So she drew in a breath and began to sing, weaving the words and the tune out of her memory and into the still, dusty air of the lonely bedchamber.
-000000000000000-
The following week the worst of the chill did lift. The snow storms ceased, though the existing drifts remained unwilling to melt much. Consequently, the first visitor to perturb the isolation of Estoncurt was Hodge Starkweather. He plodded his way in dripping, red faced and wheezing, late one January afternoon.
Isabelle was accordingly summoned to Jonathan's chambers. He'd left his bed as soon as the physician permitted it. They'd resumed their old rhythm of distance and disinterest, except it was less strictly enforced. Isabelle continued to keep his secret. Jonathan started to pass her in corridors. On one of these occasions, he'd also told her without ceremony the roads were improving. She could place an order with a tailor of her choice in Alicante to replenish the clothes which hadn't survived their journey. Isabelle supposed that was what constituted Jonathan's permission. The budget he'd allotted for her to spend on those gowns was also startlingly generous. Or perhaps it was just that Isabelle wasn't use to having access to any funds. She was sure it was that. Although she'd gained greater insight into her spouse of late, generosity remained a trait she couldn't quite associate with Jonathan.
More than a little curious, she paced her way in with her hands crossed over the black velvet of her tightly laced stomacher. To her surprise, Jonathan had forewarned Isabelle that Starkweather was due. "It is unlike him to have left us here unattended so long. I'd wager it has nothing to do with wishing us newlyweds a blissful privacy and more to do with the fact he is endlessly troubled by gout. The mountain passes are a plague to him now. And yet, such is his love for his King." The Prince shot her a knowing look with his barbed comment. Isabelle had offered no reply. She hadn't felt one was expected.
When she reached the Prince's solar Jonathan was seated, legs planted up on a footstool. Hodge too was seated, looking far less settled. He was stooped awkwardly and appeared unable to arrange his own feet in a way that eased his discomfort. Isabelle loitered between the two men. Their conversation had broken off at her arrival.
"Good," Jonathan said, eyes flickering up and down her. Isabelle felt the weight of Hodge's avid study too, though she made a point of looking toward her husband, not him. "Now you can see for yourself; two arms, two legs, ten fingers and toes-I ask you trust me on the latter- two eyes, two ears a nose. And, Isabelle, please greet Lord Starkweather-"
The command might have rankled at another time but Jonathan's tone remained more bitingly teasing than commanding. Isabelle deigned to play along, dipping a small curtsey to the wincing Councillor. "Good day, my lord."
"There you have it: a tongue!" Jonathan declared with false joviality.
Isabelle straightened, feeling the intensity of Hodge's eyes refusing to wane. She was not stupid, she knew why he had been sent. To be the King's eyes.
So Starkweather would be the one to assess her wellbeing, monitor her life here and report back. A custodian, of sorts. It might have been comforting, had Starkweather not been the one they sent. She knew the man was a great mind; a renowned historian and philosopher. A genius, they said, on a level with Thomas More. Just with none of the principle. Hodge was far from the martyring kind. Yet, Isabelle wondered if that was worth admiring in its terms. Starkweather, unlike More, was still kicking.
In Alicante Isabelle often found herself feeling sorry for Starkweather, who was so brilliant and yet so spineless. She even, on occasion, felt flashes of real sympathy for the man who always seemed a fish out of water in Alicante. He plainly only wished to be left alone with his books. Now, Hodge was the best defender she had in her corner. It was just as well Isabelle seemed to be making headway with Jonathan on her own. She did not wish to rely on Hodge Starkweather to defend her, nor did Isabelle ever intend to.
"How are you, Princess? I trust I find you in good health and fine spirits?" Hodge asked in his whispery voice. He tilted forward, as though she might send some secret signal betwixt them right under Jonathan's nose. It was typical, Isabelle thought to herself, this was the closest to a life raft Starkweather would extend. By asking here and now Hodge assured that her answer would be one that saved him having to make any interventions at all. It was not as though she could complain of any mistreatment while Jonathan watched and listened.
The Prince was watching them with lazy confidence, his chin propped in his hand, a half-smile on his lips. It did not fool her. Jonathan was eager to hear her response, to see what she said. He wanted to see how Isabelle would play it.
Isabelle replied in the only way fitting of this farce. She loosened her fingers and gave them an impish wriggle right under the Chancellor's nose. Showcasing all ten of them. Perfectly attached.
Jonathan snorted, then blew out a quick gale of real laughter. It spurred her on to shoot Starkweather a wink.
"I am adjusting to life at Estoncurt rather well, I think. Growing slowly accustomed to its… quaintness." That was one way to describe the oddity of living in glorified exile, sampling a taste of life as it was lived out not under the King's displeasure, but worse still, his indifference. She was trying to get comfortable on the edges of the board, in reserve, until Valentine had need of them. Getting to know Jonathan, even. His foibles and fears, carefully though he hid them.
Jonathan intrigued her. With each passing day she found herself leaning into the curiosity. After all, he'd been watching her for months, since their paths first crossed in Alicante. Here, with nothing else to do, Isabelle found herself watching back.
If only she could be sure what she saw. Or, more pressingly, what to say or do about any of it.
Jonathan jerked with his chin, "Starkweather has letters for you."
At the Prince's behest, Hodge passed them over. Under Jonathan's watchful eye Isabelle turned each of them over, recognising the handwriting. One from Alec. One from Clary and Jace. A third from the King himself.
She opened that one first. It was brief, barely a half sheet of paper. A quick appraisal confirmed that Valentine had said startlingly close to nothing. He offered only bland well wishes with his hope that she didn't find the weather too harrowing. That was about the height of it.
"Anything interesting?" Jonathan asked, in jesting way that didn't disguise the plain curiosity. The space for suspicion. Isabelle recalled how he'd taunted her back in his chamber, suggesting this exile was as much hers as it was his. That perception could prove useful.
Isabelle crossed over behind the back of Jonathan's chair. "See for yourself," She cast Valentine's missive down into her husband's lap. The sheet, as insubstantial as its material, fluttered downward. Both a white flag and a dropped gauntlet. Whichever Jonathan wished to make of it.
He snatched up and devoured the letter, Hodge's presence forgotten. Then he glanced up at Isabelle and scoffed at precisely how little Valentine had to say to his newest daughter. "What news of my dear sister?"
Isabelle continued circling behind him as her eyes tracked their way through Clary's letter. "She writes of the children. Jeanne is settled at Havenfoile now too. Isabella is starting to speak in full sentences. Oh-" Jonathan perked up, before Isabelle finished, "Jace has acquired a new green doublet which she dislikes and cannot think how to tell him. Shall I continue?"
"No." Jonathan had impatiently returned his attention to the one from Valentine, the only one he considered of any merit. He was scrutinising it again, in search of some code or crucial piece of information he'd missed the first time. Isabelle used his distraction to tuck Clary's up her sleeve.
"You can entrust Hodge with any replies you may have." He passed her the letter back, turning once more to Starkweather, "What news of my father's Council?" Recognising her dismissal for what it was, Isabelle scooped up her paltry correspondence. They did not take up much space in her arms. Nor did the warm words of her family do much to chase away the chill that clung to every room in this fortress, no matter how high she built the fires.
Forgotten and spared to her own apartments again, Isabelle saw the letters for what they were; paltry rafts to a life far away that seemed more distant to her now than the many miles between herself and the capital. A distance that only seemed to grow every day.
She dipped her quill and poised it over the fresh page. It hung there. Isabelle did not press it down, she did not move it. Not a word nor a single letter could Isabelle make take from. The nib hovered and she watched a blob of ink land on the sheaf, one and then the other. Dark teardrops.
Well her pen may weep. Isabelle would never stoop to.
-000000000000000-
"How did my sister manage it?" Jonathan enquired, suddenly, jilting them out of another silent meal. Isabelle lowered the gravy spoon and blinked over, "Manage what?"
"Her… courtship with Herondale," Jonathan struggled to select the word, "Right under the King's nose."
They started dining together, now that Starkweather had taken up a position as a guest of their household. For propriety's sake, Isabelle assumed. Regardless, their guest in question retired early. Once he had succeeded in dragging himself groaning and limping to his upstairs chamber of an evening, Hodge seldom deigned to drag himself back down for a supper at the Prince's table.
For the most part Jonathan and Isabelle ate without much talking. The Prince had the same hatred for wasting breath and energy on idle small talk as Isabelle had. What had they to converse about anyway? They both went nowhere and saw no one. Why try and scramble for some common interest or vague politeness every night?
That wasn't to say she'd made no progress. On the contrary, the empty letter from Valentine and Isabelle's willingness to showcase it had worked wonders. She'd snared his interest. She'd offered him something to puzzle out. Sure enough, suddenly Jonathan wanted to eat with her.
At the sudden, direct question, and his obvious waiting for an answer, Isabelle straightened in her seat. "The intricacies would bore you. Suffice to say she didn't sustain much of a courtship. Your father soon found out. Although the King was remarkably tolerant." She admitted, frowning slightly as she plotted her next words. She suspected it was because the King had secretly wanted Clary and Jace to flirt and fall for one another while they thought he was not looking. Because it fit his plans- and he knew the allure of the forbidden would prove irresistible to young love. There was no need to tell Jonathan of any of that. Some half-truths might suffice.
"Father does go to surprising lengths to indulge her. I can never work out why."
Isabelle shrugged, "The King delights in testing the limits of free will, I think. He wanted to see how far they would go. He would know just how much they would chafe at the restraints of propriety and convention, how far Clary and Jace would dare to disobey the natural order of things. Crucially, how far they would be willing to defy him. It is a special realm of curiosity for His Majesty, I believe. It's like watching insects or flowers in a glass, only with people. He wishes to find out where people chose to bend and under which conditions they break. That way the King can decide how best they might serve."
Jonathan settled his glass back down on the table. Since that first night, he never got drunk in front of her. Absentmindedly, he adjusted the cloth that rested there waiting to mop his mouth so its edges were straight. "It is true, my father is obsessed with one's propensity for disobedience. Especially in his children." He lifted his eyes back to hers. "You have been studying the King closely, I see."
"He has mastered the art of getting people to do as he wishes without straining himself, or even raising his voice. Often, without speaking what it is he wants from them at all. Of course I watch."
"You would learn." It was not posed as a question.
Isabelle traced the contours of her pewter plate with her spoon. "Who would not want to? The King is masterful."
Jonathan smirked, or tried to, but his pondering took its usual edge off. He truly had returned to his usual form within days of the fit. There wasn't any trace of it in his face or physique.
"Nor would you be the only one. It is remarkable, the ease with which my sister seems to navigate all my father's moods. How she seems to emerge from the storm every time with precisely what she wants. Herondale being the prime example." He shrugged, "You are a shrewd woman, Isabelle, you must compare us. My sister and I. You must compare the treatment. For years, I have done everything to try and please my father, or at least placate him. I've done all I can think of to compensate for my affliction. I have done whatever he wants, gone-" Jonathan gestured a little wildly to the walls around them, "wherever he wishes. I have been, if nothing else, obedient." He was starting to sound like a petulant child again, "I never ran away. I have never openly defied him. Even when he came to me with you, though it rankled everything in me, I married you. Because he told me to." He swallowed.
Isabelle did not flinch from the insult, raising a cool eyebrow instead. It was hardly a slight, the admission Jonathan had not wanted to marry her. He had never pretended otherwise. There'd never been any artifice on his end about precisely what he thought of her. And yet, to her shame, so direct a declaration of his resentment still stung. Not just her pride. It undercut the uneasy, tentative solidarity Isabelle thought they might strike up these past few weeks. She thought they'd made a kind of headway. She didn't pity Jonathan or treat him like he might break. She didn't sit on the edge of her seat waiting for another fit to strike. In return she'd offered him a kind of openness. She was here because Valentine had promised to pay for the rebuild of her father's castle, no more. Whatever Valentine hoped or intended for her beyond that was as much a mystery to her as it was to Jonathan, and he'd seen the vacuous letter which evidenced as much. Isabelle wasn't selling his shame, she wasn't tattling to Hodge.
So Isabelle thought he'd appreciate all of that and this truce of sorts they'd reached, since they'd never be allies. She thought they'd reached an accord; neither of them masters of their own fate but trapped together in the same dissatisfactory, doomed boat. That was why they had refrained from leaping at each other's throats, was it not? Why they'd stopped short of the bloodbath expected? Because there was no need to grant anyone the satisfaction, to cater to that expectation. Isabelle and Jonathan could not do as they pleased but they stopped short of actively making one another miserable. Jonathan was her husband, whatever that meant. For better or worse.
Jonathan, oblivious to her thoughts, persisted on his predictable train of complaint. He shook his head in disbelief, "Has my sister even once done as she was told? Clary is wilful and she is outspoken. Why does the King indulge her?" He pushed his plate away impatiently. "I used to think it was because she looked like our mother, the only woman Father ever loved. But it is more than that. It must be."
Isabelle drew a fortifying sip of wine. "I have studied your father's face, his plans, his words. I never have been, nor am I, privy to his heart." She was not sure how much patience or sympathy she had for this whinging which teetered dangerously close to an adult tantrum.
Yet Jonathan was still looking to her for answers and she knew not which ones to give. He persisted, a dog clenching its teeth on a bone. "What is it about her? What is it Clary offers that melts Valentine's heart, that sees the world fall at her feet?"
"I am not sure it does," Isabelle interjected drily, "Are we not done with the self-pity section of the evening? It is tedious and irritating."
Jonathan's eyes flashed. "Come," he pressed on, "You have spent long enough at Clary's side. You are a keen observer, Isabelle. You must have some notes of comparison."
Isabelle shook her head, "I do not compare you to Clary," she insisted sharply. She did not. Whenever she held Jonathan up to consider, it was Jace she espied as the mirror.
Isabelle tried to bite down on the words and the unspoken implication, but it was too late. Jonathan sniffed, then scoffed quietly to himself, reading the direction of her thoughts in her hastily lowered gaze.
They never, ever spoke of Jace under this roof. Even Hodge, when he relayed the workings of the Privy Council, never outright credited the Duke of Broceland for anything.
"He exhausts himself trying to please your father too," Isabelle pointed out in a low voice.
The comparisons could not but be made; two boys, each so lonely in their own way. One had to wonder at their shared boyhood and how differently their subsequent lives turned out. Isabelle still remembered the first day Jace had shuffled off his horse in their stable yard and shirked Mayrse's welcome embrace. He'd been bruised as much on the inside as the exterior, but sharp tongued as a devil. That hurt little boy was the same one she glimpsed now, forever lurking behind Jonathan's feigned confidence and lashing jibes. It was the same pain that quivered under Jonathan's relentless disdain. When she looked at this Jonathan she saw another bewildered little boy who couldn't understand why no one wanted him and why everyone always left.
Somehow it only compounded the tragedy.
Were the circumstances otherwise, those two boys might have come to the realisation they had more in common than what divided them.
Would Jace have turned out the same, had he been left in Idris as the King's ward? Would he have become like Jonathan, seeking to inflict pain on others to divert the anger and pain he carried inside? And if Jace had, would the two men have grown up to be friends? Would Valentine still have insisted on marrying Jace to Clary? Would Clary be sitting precisely as Isabelle was now, bound to a man she had not chosen and neither loved nor respected?
If Isabelle dwelled on these thoughts too long, her head hurt.
"I suppose you were once in love with Jace, like all the rest."
Whatever Isabelle anticipated this conversation would turn to next, it had not been there. She could only stare back at Jonathan, open mouthed.
Jonathan glared in return, the root of all his resentment suddenly writ plain. Why does everyone love him and not me?
"No!" Isabelle started to laugh, shock splintering out into astonished, gasping mirth. "Good God. Never. Jace and I have never looked at one another in such a way. It is ridiculous to even think- God it never would have even occurred to us. It never has."
Jonathan seemed surprised, hesitant. As if it were not the answer he had expected. Well, it was hardly the question Isabelle had expected. Of all the lines along which she thought Jonathan might voice jealousy of Jace, that had never been one of them.
She sighed, laying down her cutlery decisively. "Truly, I weary of this." She declared. Some blunt truths deserved another. Was this the plan for their foreseeable life together, however agreeable or disagreeable it was destined to be? To sit at Estoncurt stewing and feel sorry for themselves until they were summoned back to court again? "Let's have done with the 'poor me.' Oh woe! Father never loved me, my brother never shared his toys, I have to live where I'm told to and do as I'm bid. Alack, no one understands my pain and my sorrow. I've been sorely misjudged and mistreated for twenty years and I shall complain about it for twenty more. Will that suffice as a summary? Do you think that's covered enough of both our complaints?" Isabelle threw down her carving knife abruptly and it clattered on the edge of her plate.
Her comment brought the Prince back to himself. He swept a hand across his mouth. "Careful, Princess." His eyes glinted with the same sharp edge as the knife, "I enjoy your tongue, but do be careful not to have to cost you more than it gains." He got suddenly to his feet, pushing his chair back with a loud, honking scrape. "However on that note, you can say whatever you wish to Starkweather." Jonathan declared with an almost convincing carelessness, a razored indifference, " You can tell him I beat you, or neglect you. Whatever you wish. You can tell him you have had enough and wish to return to Alicante, or scurry off to be with my sister at Chatton and offer yourself as her nursemaid. I will not stop you. God, get on a ship and steal your way to New Spain if you want an adventure or a taste of conquest for all I care." Then he felt compelled to reiterate needlessly, "I do not care." With that Jonathan strode out in another of the flourishing, overdramatic storming exits Isabelle found herself growing accustomed to.
Once again, Jonathan failed to counter Isabelle's suspicion that despite his heated assertions he was, deep down, someone who cared very much. That was another uneasy mark to add to her comparison.
With it settled the realisation that whatever Jonathan's assertions of her freedom, by now Isabelle was not going anywhere. He was not a monster. He was a man. A weak-minded, jealous and sometimes cruel one, but a man nonetheless. He needed to be handled with care, but he was not to be shirked from. Everyone else had despaired of him, or abandoned him. They'd run away. But Isabelle was not someone who ran away from anything. Jonathan Morgenstern would not be the first.
-000000000000000-
The second man to brave the most treacherous road in the kingdom came unexpectedly and utterly without forewarning.
"What's going on?"
Katharina continued twisting and tucking Isabelle's hair until it was safe to install her coif. She'd been roused from her afternoon doze and instructed she must dress for company. The best of Isabelle's surviving gowns was an old trusty red one, once the hue of a deep claret. The soaking it got on the road and the damp of the wardrobe chamber Isabelle possessed at present had discoloured the fabric slightly. Tonight it seemed a rustier, bloodier shade.
"The Duke of Lyn is here with his son, Your Highness. He craves an audience with the Prince."
Isabelle aligned the ruby at her throat. It must be a grave matter indeed for Andrew Blackthorn to come all the way from Lake Lyn in the dead of winter.
"Was the Prince expecting him?" Jonathan told her of Starkweather's coming, she imagined he'd surely have given her similar indication if he'd known this was imminent.
Katharina, with hairpins protruding from her mouth, simply shook her head.
"There's been no news from Alicante?" Letters were slow on the icy roads, Isabelle had come to recognise. Surely if it was urgent some message would still have sped up the slopes ahead of the Duke? The first weeks of a new year tended to be slow, offering an unofficial recess for the Privy Council. Besides, Blackthorn had asked to be excused from the court for a time during the autumn. He'd taken a new wife and gone south to be with his family, all with the King's permission. If there had been some development at Valentine's court it was unlikely Andrew would be the mouthpiece to bring it to Jonathan.
After traversing all this way, what was certain was that the Blackthorns would be spending the night. They were miles from the nearest inn and even further from any other neighbouring noble houses.
These men would need wined and dined. Scarce consideration was given for the lady of the household who would have to conjure this feast from empty air on next to no notice. Isabelle had two hours at most to contrive a lordly supper. Though it was scarce the fourth hour after noon the sky was already darkening and the shadows of dusk creeping in.
"Have we stocked anything for a feast?" She'd been lax in her investigation of the pantry. If Jonathan wasn't going to care what he ate, Isabelle wasn't either.
What did they even feast on in Edom? Mountain goat, for all she knew. There weren't any fields of large livestock for miles. So far Isabelle subsisted mostly on an array of thin poultry and stews she thought might be of rabbit.
"I'll arrange for a pig," Katharina volunteered softly.
"Pork it is." Isabelle agreed as she descended to greet her visitors.
Or rather, visitor.
The only one awaiting her was Mark Blackthorn, his teeth chattering at the hall's great fire.
She found a smile for him. Mark was a staple at Valentine's court, so they had often talked and danced before. He also looked uncannily like his sister, who was one of Isabelle's closest friends in Clary's household.
"You picked a fine evening to call, sir."
"Your Highness," As he rose from his bow, he acknowledged greater familiarity. Mark chapped his hands together, shuddering like a leaf. "How do devil do you bear this cold?"
Isabelle shrugged, "It numbs." If only that were true. She flagged down a passing steward, "Fetch my lord a warmed ale and please take his wet outer garments. Just because we seldom entertain is little excuse for poor hospitality. Contrary to rumour, we are not utter savages in these mountains."
Once her commands were obeyed the worst of Mark's shivering subsided. He clung to the warm cup as if his life depended on it.
"To what do we owe the pleasure?" She asked him, "It must be urgent for you to come all this way."
"Please forgive the intrusion." Mark blew and sipped on the hot ale, handling it as liquid gold, "My father was eager to try and get the matter settled. He's in there now with the Prince." He gestured with a nod to the closed door.
"Dare I ask the matter?"
Mark wasn't the sort to tell her not to meddle. She was also a Princess of Idris now. Even if Isabelle hadn't said it as an order, Mark readily yielded.
"He hopes the Prince may be dissuaded from the betrothal he pursues. Prince Jonathan means to match Sebastian Verlac with Emma Carstairs."
That was news to Isabelle. To her mind Emma was still a child, the slip of a girl she'd been when last Isabelle had seen her. Though that had been quite some time ago. And young women grew so quickly at that age. Isabelle could remember too well what it felt like to be fifteen and fervently believe she knew it all. Emma was still perhaps a little young to wed as yet, but certainly not to betroth.
"Father aims to remind the Prince that Emma was formerly contracted to my brother. There was a pre-existing understanding he hopes the Prince will accept."
That didn't seem likely. "It sounds as if it's going well," Isabelle commented aloud, as the rumble of fractious rising voices behind the door persisted. They did not seem to betoken listening or agreement. Jonathan would not appreciate being dropped in on unannounced. Although if Blackthorn had written and requested an audience, Jonathan was like to decline on principle. He'd only have said in writing what he was probably saying now in that spiked voice; Blackthorn had no right to weigh in on the matter at all. Although he'd assumed responsibility for the rest of her upbringing, he was not the girl's legal guardian- Valentine was. Andrew therefore had no right to speak on the matter at all. These matters of prior engagements and betrothal promises were a legal grey area. They'd been known to wreck marriage plans before. However, unless it was in writing, they hung on a word and a gentleman's agreement. Some men did honour them. They did so for various reasons, ranging from respect for the man asking to a dislike for marrying a girl who was associated, however thinly, with another man. Ultimately it would be utterly at Verlac's discretion whether or not to honour it. Or, as Andrew Blackthorn rightly assumed, with Jonathan. He was plainly the brains of Verlac's operations.
"Perhaps if you'd given me a little warning, I could have done something." Although what exactly, Isabelle was unsure. She feared she was overestimating her influence there. Nevertheless, she might have been able to soothe the affront to Jonathan's sensibilities or distract him. She might have made some inroads Blackthorn plainly wasn't making on his own. Even from out here she could hear Jonathan shouting.
Mark lowered his cup, "I appreciate that, Madam. Yet I fear the moment has passed."
Isabelle took the empty cup and tried to be a winning hostess. She'd been shut out from enough conversations before to be content sitting around moping behind closed doors. "Let's get you another of those, then. From experience it takes at least three to chase the frost off your bones. Come through," She took Mark pointedly by the arm, "I hear we are to have pork this evening."
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There was indeed a spitted and roasted pig awaiting the Crown Prince's table that evening. To little avail. When the moment came it sat a proud, glistening centrepiece at an empty table.
Supper never occurred. A half hour before the Prince and his guests were due to dine a maid outside started screaming bloody murder.
She'd found the Duke of Lyn lying at the foot of the staircase leading down from the gatehouse, where his rooms for the night were.
His neck was broken.
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Yikes. Thankfully that suspicious death isn't likely to have any major plot repercussions going forward...
Is Jonathan misunderstood? Idk, you tell me. He certainly has been set up to be the villain of this piece, but is that entirely his fault?
Historical note: Sadly, throughout history people have been quick to judge and denounce that which they don't understand. Neurological disorders like epilepsy and other seizure inducing ailments fell within this category for a long time. From the classical world into the Early Modern era, fitting was thought to be the result of demonic possessions. Nobody understood what caused them, so people who suffered with them were often ostracised and there was a profound stigma attached. That stigma remained until later times, when more medical progress was made. In the 16th century, having his heir suffer from unexplained seizures would unfortunately be deeply frightening and shameful to a father like Valentine, who'd see it as a curse on his bloodline. And of course that's going to be psychologically scarring to the child himself.
Yet as I hope I've outlined here, Jonathan hasn't been damned in this narrative because he suffers seizures. We can sympathise (hopefully, if I've done my job) and denounce the things that were done to him because of it, while equally denouncing the things Jonathan himself has done to others over the course of this story.