Pride Cometh (After the Fall)
Estoncurt Palace, North Eastern Idris, late February 1540
Only the click of the door sliding shut behind her offset the loud, rapid sound of Isabelle's breathing. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she ought to hurry back and lock that door after her.
But to what end? In the first instance, she did not have a key to do so. In the second, a locked door would not keep out what she feared.
She crossed the dining parlour, moving backwards and forwards in an agitated line. Then she glanced to the windows, another useless compulsion. Though the hour was still quite early, it was deathly dark outside. The glass may as well have been smeared in tar.
No matter. Nothing would erase from Isabelle's mind what she had just seen.
Andrew Blackthorn, a once great man, splayed out on the ground and his head at the wrong angle. Like a broken doll.
Her stomach rolled and she was glad she hadn't yet eaten.
Isabelle's hand caught the lip of an empty chair to steady herself. In her daze, she forgot the tender flesh of her damaged palm. Pain lanced up her right arm before she recoiled, lifted her hand and stepped back.
Absurdly, she found herself eye to eye with the glazed pig. Or, where the pig would have had eyes once. Its mouth contorted around the plump apple, stuffed and silenced. It didn't look appetising in the slightest. It looked grotesque.
The sound of feet outside the chamber wrenched Isabelle's eyes away. It was Jonathan, she knew by the rhythm of his steps and the way he scuffed his heels- Christ, when had she come to recognise his footfalls?
Isabelle whirled, determined to face him head on, even if she knew not what she was facing. She would look her fate in the eye, spit pig or not.
She watched him hover with his hand on the doorknob. Jonathan assessed her, then that she was alone. He stepped in and closed the door tight shut again. Isabelle's knees quaked but she wouldn't baulk. Never from him.
What now? Did he mean to pitch her out the casement and tell the world she jumped, overcome with despair at their loveless union and the bad weather? Or would he simply wring her neck and put her at the bottom of another staircase for the servants to find next, perhaps suggesting she and Andrew tripped over one another?
Jonathan was always pale, especially locked up indoors all day due to the inclement weather and his recent ill health. It was impossible to tell if he was blanched or not. "What did you see?"
Isabelle's fingers curled back around the arch of the chair behind her. This time, being better prepared, she didn't mind the sting so much. "I saw him. Lyn." She swallowed into her rising stomach, "Dead."
Jonathan nodded, his eyes on the middle distance, "Yes. It's unfortunate."
"Unfortunate?" Isabelle demanded, her voice pitched to the rafters. "He's the Duke of Lyn."
"He was the Duke of Lyn," Jonathan corrected, his tone wavering into neither panic nor remorse, "Now he's a sack of cooling bones." She gasped and his eyes lifted to hers at last. Jonathan opted to philosophise the disaster, "As we shall all be in the end. You know, eventually."
"Jonathan. This is no time for a general meditation on human morality. The Duke of Lyn is dead, almost literally on our doorstep."
Jonathan's eyes lost their daze, "Our doorstep?"
She ignored him, "There will be repercussions to this. Consequences. This will require an answer." Isabelle lifted her chin, her pulse quickening, "I require an answer."
Jonathan went very still once again. When he did unfreeze it was just to rub his forefinger and thumb together, his fingers an inch from the hilt of the dagger he always carried. Isabelle's eyes darted to it. She supposed a stabbing might be preferable to being launched off a sill or smothered in her bed. It would be gorier, certainly. But that would make it harder for him to hide. If he was going to bloody his hands with her, Isabelle wanted people to know.
There was a flash of that old petulant defiance, "Then I, Isabelle, shall require a question."
They faced one another in the laden silence, her chest rising and falling too fast, Jonathan's barely moving at all. He did not look like someone who'd just exacted a grim murder. He didn't look like a man who'd just thrown somebody down the stairs, nor did he look like a man about to kill his wife. But then, what did Isabelle know? Did she really fancy that after five or so short weeks in iced off castle she'd come to know Jonathan Morgenstern? Just because she'd found cause to pity him, just because he'd challenged several of her preconceptions of late- it did not absolve all he'd done before. He'd tried to kill his sister, or at least abandoned her to die- or worse- with that mob in Oldcastle. He'd left Clary to fend for herself when Tiller invaded too. He could well have had a hand in the Dauphin's demise. And still, even as she thought it, the thing which seemed most obvious to Isabelle was that Prince Jonathan never got his hands dirty. Shoving a man down the stairs, off the back of one argument over a betrothal, even under cover of darkness… that seemed so… sloppy.
A dead Duke under his own roof was difficult to deny. It was difficult to disguise. Jonathan had a temper. Yes. He had his rages, possibly even blind rages, but he wasn't stupid. Killing the Duke of Lyn here and now, after the whole household heard them argue would be stupid. Too stupid.
Isabelle wasn't stupid either, she reminded herself sternly. She'd learned to read the intentions of powerful men in their faces and the stance of their bodies from a young age. She'd also learned young that trust was for the stupid. Stupidity made you easy pickings, made you weak.
True enough, Jonathan hadn't been as vile as he might have been the past month. He hadn't locked her up, hadn't had her starved, hadn't forced his way into her bed. Though he hardly had to lock the doors; where could Isabelle go on roads she didn't know in the rain and the storms? Feeding her and letting her sleep alone wasn't done out of deference to her either, she was under no illusions there. It offered Jonathan more freedom too and it fed into his hope that this marriage might one day be painlessly undone.
He wasn't stupid, but he was selfish.
"What did you do?"
His mouth twitched, not upwards into a smile but downwards, toward a scowl. "What do you think I've done?"
"Blackthorn," Her pulse thundered at her throat, strong enough that it seemed as though the trusty ruby hung there beat with a second, secret heart. "Did you have him harmed? Or did you give the order to have him harmed?"
Jonathan's eyes flashed, dark indignance, "Jesus, what do you think I am?" He shook his head, "To what end, Isabelle? Why would I do such a thing? How would it possibly serve me?"
"You quarrelled. Mere hours ago."
"You think I would kill the Duke of Lyn over a betrothal? You think I would kill him in my own house? That I'd snap his neck and leave his body for the servants to find in order to get Sebastian Verlac, Sebastian the gutless and the stupid, Chene?" He spat every sibilant sound out through his teeth. "Good god, Isabelle, if I wanted to stop someone scuppering my friend's betrothal do you really think I would go to such lengths? I'm a Prince of Idris, not a cut throat."
Despite the virulence behind Jonathan's scorn, Isabelle felt her heart slow. She unclenched from the chair and tilted forward, speaking softly, "When a man arrives at your house in good health and good spirts and winds up dead before the night is out, yes, I imagine that would raise the suspicions of most. I will not be the only one to think it."
"Yet not many would speak it so plainly, Isabelle. Be mindful now, of what you would accuse a Prince."
"I accuse no one of anything," Isabelle said softly and firmly. "I asked you a question, then I stated some facts."
Their eyes locked. Jonathan took a step forward, into the candlelight still flickering on the forgotten table. Isabelle's right hand crept around her waist, pressed tight to the firmness of her bodice.
"It was an accident."
Jonathan came straight here. The house was likely in uproar, nobody knew what to do and yet Jonathan came after her. It mattered to him, in some way, what she thought. He'd made a point of finding her and looking her in the eye to tell her this.
Her skinned palm gave a residual twinge. The edges of the bandage looped around it were tinged with blood; in her panic she must have reopened some wounds.
Isabelle wanted to believe him. She wanted this to all be a bad dream from which she could easily wake. One of those desires was impossible and as for the other…
Jonathan looked to her injury. Vindication, or inspiration for his plea?
"Should I take greater caution going up and down the stairs, hereafter?"
"If I wanted to do you harm, Isabelle, I would have done so by now."
She made no further contest. That much, she supposed, was certifiably true.
"This was a mistake." Jonathan reasserted, without real passion but with a discernible urgency.
Intentions and efforts would only go so far. In the end, what you meant mattered not at all. Not in the face of what you did, or what was done to you.
Whether Jonathan was innocent of the act or not, the Duke of Lyn was still dead on their doorstep.
Not Jonathan's. Theirs. She and he were an entity now, in the eyes of the law and the kingdom. Isabelle had come here to soothe tensions, to chart a smoother sailing forward into Idris's next chapter. Now she was in the eye of a great storm. Mishap or malice, she couldn't be sure either way. She had to live with this man either way. Isabelle straightened up, bringing their faces almost level, "A very grave one, if so."
-0000000000000000-
Princewater Palace, Alicante, early March 1540
"Mama, look."
Isabella waddled over to Clary's knee, waving the wooden toy she held tight in her fist. It was tiny carved bird, a heron most likely, its feathers painted grey blue; one Alec would have made for her. For such a seemingly stern man he contained a depth of tenderness Clary was growing to appreciate. Alec had made her daughter whole flocks and herds of animals, in fact. Isabella now possessed a veritable Noah's Ark of wildlife to play with courtesy of her uncle, and there were frequent, ongoing instalments. Alec wasn't Isabella's godfather; the King had insisted Jonathan stand beside Isabella at the font for the sake of appearances. It had been intended to demonstrate to the people harmony amongst the ruling family. When Jeanne came along, there was little requirement for such pretence. Alec stood happily for her, alongside the Lady Emma Carstairs as godmother.
Isabella brought forth the toy heron for Clary's admiration.
"I see, darling. It's very pretty." Clary had learned the hard way it would be necessary to conduct a proper inspection of a small toy she'd seen a dozen times before. If she refused to 'look' Isabella would just grow more persistent in her cause. Satisfied for now, Isabella wandered off to find another item for her mother to inspect.
This was her latest thing. Not quite a game, but more a statement. A ploy even, to keep her mother's eyes on her. Proof that she was not only still here, but a bid to show Isabella was decidedly more interesting than the baby in Clary's arms. Now she was no longer the sole occupant of her parents' attentions, Isabella sought to bring just about anything over for her mother to look at.
Clary did try her best to divide her attentions amongst her daughters as equally as possible, but it was difficult.
Jeanne was so small, too small to play games with her sister as of yet. She had to be held and cuddled close, nursed and rocked. It left no room in Clary's arms or on her lap for her eldest. Sure enough, no sooner would Clary take the baby in her arms than Isabella would hurry to find things for inspection.
Jeanne gurgled in Clary's lap as her sibling returned, this time with Dog in tow. "Mama, look."
"Yes, sweetheart. I remember Dog very well. Why don't you build a house for him?" She gestured with her elbow towards the pile of blocks on the carpet. Isabella didn't appear too enamoured by the prospect.
"No." Isabella declared, with all the imperiousness inherent in being two years old and heir to two great bloodlines.
Clary caught herself before she could start squabbling with an infant in earnest. Apart from anything else, she was not sure she was like to win the battle. Already her firstborn was as headstrong as her mother and every bit as stubborn as her father.
Isabella toddled off to fetch something else she deemed worthy of inspection while Jeanne started to wriggle in her mother's arms, beginning to fuss. Clary bobbed up to her feet and began to rock the baby on her hip, cooing softly. Jeanne was not so easily relaxed. Being born second had instilled in Jeanne a great impatience with the world. She seemed to be aware that she already had an elder sister to catch up to. She thrashed and squirmed until Clary surrendered and laid her down on the mat nearest her sister. Jeanne was too small to start crawling yet either, but Clary suspected it wouldn't be long before she did so. For now she was perfectly happy to roll about, kicking her feet and waving her arms, giggling delightedly at her new freedom. Every moment spent out of her tight swaddling bands was a blessed one. Clary knew the bands had to be as tight as possible to ensure the child's limbs developed properly, but it was still extremely difficult to watch her baby in discomfort, however mild and intended for her own good.
As Clary tickled the baby's belly Isabella approached again, this time with her wheeled horse in tow. Isabella only scrutinised Jeanne for a spare second. The novelty of having a sister quickly wore off for Clary's firstborn once it became apparent Jeanne was too little to play with. In Isabella's view this rather negated the point of having a sibling.
Clary obediently praised Isabella for her horse and continued to tickle at Jeanne's stomach, eagerly giggling along with her. The baby's laughter was infectious. Besides, these moments of peace to play with her children were rare and hard won. Clary hoped that having already surrendered Isabella to her own household at a few months old she'd be better prepared to send Jeanne to join her at Havenfoile but he opposite proved true. Having her baby away from her was like losing a limb. Every moment she had to enjoy them here at Princewater was selfish in some respects, but it wasn't without strategy. Clary hoped that having the two girls here for a visit, each bright and innocent, might soften Valentine and help bring Clary and Jace back into the fold.
Isabella and Jeanne could melt any heart, Clary was sure of it. And yet, they couldn't melt Valentine if he wasn't here. Her grand plan had been thoroughly scuppered by Valentine's absence.
"Has the King returned yet?" She enquired of the nursemaid just entering with some fresh blankets.
"No, Your Grace." She informed Clary with a quick curtsey, "But it is almost time for the Lady Jeanne's afternoon nap."
Clary exhaled, "Of course." It was always best to yield. Small children proved grumpy and unsettled if their routines were disturbed. And getting Jeanne to settle and sleep was still quite a feat, even now she'd been weaned. Clary did not envy the nurses and cradle rockers deployed to wait on her child during the small hours of the night. Not in the slightest.
Clary rocked back to allow the attendant to scoop up the baby, accepting their parting with a soft kiss to Jeanne's brow. "Sleep well, my little love."
As soon as the babe was gone, Isabella shuffled closer, eager to make the most of momentarily being an only child again. She too would be due a nap shortly, but not yet. "Up, Mama!" She wheedled, lifting her arms.
To this too, Clary happily surrendered. She was doing her best to instil the idea that now there was a new baby sharing her nursery it was time for Isabella to be a "big girl." Yet it was impossible to resist the moments she did want cuddles and fuss.
"Come along," She blew an equalising kiss into the light auburn strands of Isabella's hair as she scooped her up. "Shall we go see what Papa is up to?"
At times Clary did feel miffed by how plainly Jace was Isabella's favourite parent, especially when she'd done all the hard work bringing her into the world. Yet Jace earned favouritism by simply propping Isabella up against his chest on a horse and agreeing to delay her bedtimes.
Reliably, Isabella clapped enthusiastically and began to chat, "Papa, Papa! Want Papa!"
"Let's go find him," Clary ceded.
Outside, she followed the sound of ringing metal down the steps to where her husband was sparring. This frenetic training regime was also a recent development. Jace rued that he'd grown "soft" and "fat" of late- neither were true, but it was obvious there was little Clary could say to persuade him of that. Hence, his sudden new vigour for swordplay. Except, the term 'swordplay' would suggest it was a game or a diversion. No one who witnessed Jace in action could possibly mistake this for either of those things. He told his wife and anyone else who asked of his new habits that this was merely a means of staying fit and increasing his stamina but Clary wasn't fooled in the slightest. This new daily rigour was coupled with his shoring up defences at Durre Castle, his ancestors' old fortress. And his being on the out with the King. Jace could see storm clouds on the horizon and he was not the only one. Clary could also scent the metallic tang of a brewing storm on the air of late. She prayed it never came to it, that Jace's sword never crossed anyone's for real. She would do more than pray for it; while Jace made his preparations in the practice yard Clary made some of her own. She'd do everything she could to keep their roof dry and Jace's sword hanging on the rack.
Although if he did take sword in hand she feared for the other man. Jace was simply lethal. Or at least he would be, if this was a real duel. It was easy to forget sometimes that her jester, laid back and soppy poet of a husband had tasted real combat. He had the scars and the skill to show for it.
He was supposed to be a diplomat and a courtier; a gentleman thinker and a planner whose weapon of choice was the pen. Jace was one of a new generation of philosopher princes, whose tastes were for rhetorical debate rather than brute bashing with a blade. Evidently, Jace was also a boy who'd been raised by a knight in a frontier province, a young man who'd seen both siege and battle. He knew how to use a sword as well as he did a pen.
The closest Clary had ever seen to war was a joust. That was a different kind of mock combat. Yet novice though she was, Clary could tell there was a certain technique and craft to swordsmanship. She didn't imagine herself biased when she thought Jace good at it. Even if she did know how to wield a sword, she would not have wished to meet Jace in a fight.
Although there was a savage, breath-taking beauty to watching Jace in action. She'd heard it likened to a kind of dance before and she could see the similarities. Jace was certainly quick and light on his feet. Equally, he was audacious with each duck and dive, with every tactical swoop of his sword. He and Alec were friends and this a mock fight for practice, but Clay still found herself flinching at the ferocity with which their steel clashed.
It was a game, in a way. It depended as much on reading your opponent and using your wits as it did brawn. Much like chess or one of the other games of strategy Clary enjoyed, duelling appeared to be a case of trying to read your opponent, guess their next move and then counter it.
Despite the chill and fog of the day, Jace and Alec stripped to their undershirts under their breastplates, sweat gleamed on both their skin as assuredly as daylight did the blades. Real blades, sharpened ones.
"Rusty," Alec taunted, diving in to land a slap with the flat of his sword against Jace's shoulder blade.
So he clearly wasn't going easy on his oldest brother in arms, then. Clary suspected Jace wouldn't allow him to.
Jace simply growled and swung around, lightning fast, before either Clary or Alec could see the blow coming. In a series of manoeuvres too fast for Clary's untrained eye to follow, Jace redoubled the strike and knocked Alec's sword clean from his hand. Before it even landed on the ground, the point of Jace's blade was pointed right at the vein pulsing at Alec's throat.
Alec glanced down and grinned. "That's more like it."
Jace lowered his sword with a scoff and jerked his chin toward Alec's sword in the dust. "Let's go again."
Clary huffed nervously as she halted a safe distance away, reflexively tightening her grip on Isabella and turning the child's head toward her chest and safety.
"Jace!" She called over.
He immediately sheathed his sword and hastened over, all intensity gone from his face. He lightened at the sight of Isabella waving eagerly in his direction.
"Someone wants to say hello before her nap," Clary explained, "She's going down very soon. You've already missed Jeanne."
He removed his gloves from fingers that were bright red and blistering. He used them to wipe the perspiration at his temples, "God, is it that time already? I could have sworn we've only been at this a moment."
"It's been hours," Clary told him, her voice light for the sake of their daughter, but crinkling with gentle chiding. The whole point of having brought the children to Princewater was to see more of them.
Jace chucked Isabella under the cheek and ruffled her hair. "Give me a moment to wash up and I'll come up to you. This isn't a place for a child."
Clary frowned, "It isn't much a place for any of us, Jace. You have other obligations." He was the Duke of Broceland now, not a young boy who'd read too much Homer and had dreams of making a name for himself through military glory. Just because he cut the figure of a warrior prince didn't mean he had to be one. And just because the sight of him as such was extremely attractive didn't mean Clary had to approve.
Jace lifted the corner of his mouth, "Has the King sent for me? Has he sent for either of us?"
"No" Clary admitted, shifting Isabella's weight, "But that's not-"
"Papa!" Isabella was impatient for her father's attention. "Come play!" He smiled down at her warmly, "In a moment, my darling. Mama is going to take you back inside and I'll be along in just a moment. I promise."
Isabella acceded to this more quickly than she ever would for Clary. Even at two she'd come to appreciate her father was a man of his word.
"Five minutes," Clary granted Jace with a pointed look, then accepted her dismissal and brought Isabella back indoors. He was right on one count; the sword yard was no place for a child.
She didn't really begrudge him his training. Jace needed something to do. He was slowly going mad sitting around their chambers all day, waiting on a word from Valentine which never came. The King hadn't called his Council for weeks, so Jace still had to recoup the distance Valentine had put between himself and he Brocelands since the disappointment of Jeanne's birth.
And that had been before that distance was physical. Valentine removed himself to the Gard three days ago without explanation, bringing only the most intimate of his household staff. If anyone else found it as odd and concerning as Clary and Jace did, nobody else left behind at Princewater seemed ready to show it.
Even without Valentine, there was another gaping absence in the Broceland apartments that Jace couldn't bear to be reminded of. Isabelle was only a few days ride away, but it felt she may as well be in the New World. They had little from her that was tangible, not beyond the letters she sent assuring them of her safe arrival and mocking Jonathan's sour moods in comments about married life that only one who knew her as well as Clary and Jace did would scent the sarcasm behind.
But Jace did not know of the pact she and Isabelle had made, and that made this harder. Clary longed to tell him, there had been dozens of moments when it almost wobbled out of her. Every time, she halted herself. Izzy was right. Jace did not have the tact or patience for what they sought to do. He was a man and thus unused to accepting a certain powerlessness. He'd only gallop up to Estoncurt and say or do something rash that would scupper them all. Worse, he'd draw a sword and blood would spill. Clary and Isabelle were striving to keep this bloodless, if not necessarily painless.
If having a blade in Jace's hand helped him feel less helpless for a moment then so be it. Clary supposed she'd rather tolerate his sparring than his trips to the printshops. This new pastime was much less dangerous.
Jace was a complex man, Clary reflected when he arrived promptly as promised to play 'horsey' with their daughter. The same man who contained such ferocity with a blade showed such tenderness when he touched their child. Those were the same calloused hands that had gripped the hilt gently putting Isabella up on his shoulders. The same zeal with which he'd battled his brother became silliness as he pretended to canter around the room and whinny as her steed.
Clary sipped a cup of wine as she watched their caper, joining in the laughter from her seat. She happily agreed to feed Isabella's 'pony' some grapes, impishly patting Jace's head. "Good horsey."
Jace wasn't some seedy heretic lurking in the shadows, trying to pilfer souls off the path of righteousness and into hell. When he'd seen he wasn't going to sway her into reading any of his prohibited pamphlets and his debates weren't going to change Clary's mind, he didn't press her. Jace was still her brave, honourable husband. He was still the protective, devoted father to her children. He was also a man who didn't see the world exactly as she did, who didn't pray or think in the same way she did. Did that negate all the other things he was? She thought not. He was still good, and kind, and true. The world was full of bad, power-hungry men who thought first of themselves and the rest of the world second. Jace wasn't one of them.
Jace was a father, a husband, and a brother as well as a thinker, a dreamer, a warrior. He was all these things and many others besides. All of them coexisting, all of them bearing weight. Even the contradictory ones. Truthfully, Clary was not a simple woman herself. She was full of contradictions too.
Although the room was filled with japes and lightness, darker thoughts chased their way through Clary's mind.
She too had things she believed in of which Jace may not approve. She too was fighting for him and for their family. She always would. It was just that Clary's battles could never be fought with blades. That didn't mean she wouldn't fight them. It didn't mean that she wouldn't do everything she could to keep her children safe and to keep Jace's sword in the practice yard. For them, she wasn't beyond sullying her soul or getting her hands dirty. Not in the slightest.
Their brief moment of domestic solace was abruptly interrupted by Alec, white-faced on the threshold, a crumple of paper in his hand.
"There's news," he panted out, struggling to catch his breath, "There's bad news from Estoncurt."
-000000000000000-
Estoncurt Palace, early March 1540
Isabelle let herself into Jonathan's chambers at first light.
The passage between their bedchambers was well trodden this week. Not in the conventional sense through which a recently married couple might use a linking gallery. It was more of a necessary bridge between two co-conspirators, for fate and circumstance had made them such.
Jonathan barely spared her a glance on arrival.
Jon Cartwright, in the process of helping Jonathan into a fur trimmed overcoat, stepped back.
Isabelle gave Jonathan a pointed look.
"Leave us," Jonathan commanded breezily. Jon wasted no time in making himself scare. Isabelle waited until the noise of his departure had thoroughly receded before she spoke.
"What are we going to do about Mark Blackthorn?"
"We?" Jonathan looped a gold chain over his head and started pulling on his rings, "What 'we' do you speak of?"
She followed him to the looking glass. "You and I."
"There is no you and I."
He reached over for a brooch, shouldering Isabelle out of the way. She whipped her hem back before he could tread on it, or worse- trip and lay his head open upon the corner of his dressing table. Such unhappy clumsiness appeared to rife of late.
They were alone, so she decided to be blunt, "Jonathan you may go through the motions of normality all you wish, it will not undo the Duke of Lyn's death."
The Prince smacked his hand off the surface of the table. The old, speckled looking glass shuddered from the reverberations. "How many times need I say it? It was an accident, Isabelle."
She continued to haunt him, "And wars have been started over less. The Lyns are the most powerful family in the south of this kingdom. Yes, they are your kin and your family's sworn subjects, but their bloodline hails back to the ancient nobility who ruled the Lakelands while Jonathan I was still a petty warlord's son suckling at his nursemaid's teat."
"When did you become a historian?"
"When my marriage made history." She clenched her fists in skirts of dark red damask, "My point, Jonathan, is that Andrew Blackthorn leaves behind a very unhappy family. And they are not the only enemies you have in this realm. Andrew's death could be cause and it could prove catalyst for those enemies to move against you. But yes, by all means, take your time deciding which gemstones to pair with your doublet."
He whirled around and for a second Isabelle thought he might strike her. She rocked back on her heels in anticipation of a blow that never came. The Prince settled for a scathing look, then Jonathan made a point of unpinning the gold and pearl piece he'd selected and returning it to the jewel chest. He hovered his fingers over the other candidates with theatrical indecision. It was to the accessories he addressed his speech, "I thought you'd be delighted to see my enemies move against me. Count yourself among them, even."
Isabelle inhaled through her nose and leaned in, speaking evenly and as plainly as she knew how, "If you are fucked, then I am fucked."
His shoulders jerked up in a sweep of shocked laughter. "Jesus, such a mouth on a Princess of Idris."
"This isn't a jest. If an army marches up that mountain road from Lake Lyn, I do not fancy our chances. Men who fall under a rampaging army are simply killed, but what rabid soldiers on the march do to women is much, much worse. I don't expect those troops to care how much you and I detest one another if they take this keep. I think no man of Lyn will fear the wrath of my father or the troops of Adamant, do you?"
Jonathan abandoned the jewel case. There was no laughter left on his face or in his eyes as he turned to face her.
"So I'll ask you again. What are we going to do about Mark Blackthorn? You can't keep him under lock and key here indefinitely." She swallowed, "If what happened was an accident, why can't you offer your condolences and let him go? Show a gesture of good faith."
A vein pulsed in Jonathan's temple. "Because there is no good faith." He sighed and crossed his arms, "I know what people will think of this. What will be thought of me and said of me in Alicante and at Bellgate. God, you yourself voiced it. If my own wife could think me culpable, who knows what reprisal or revenge Lyn may seek? With Andrew dead a new Duke sits in Bellgate. I will not trust a grieving, angry boy to keep faith."
"The new Duke is precisely that. A boy." A boy little older than Max, "Julian Blackthorn is a boy who will want for his brother. You do not need to fear a boy, Jonathan."
"Boys grow up," Jonathan insisted darkly.
"This is madness. Even if Lyn's death can be forgiven at Bellgate, holding his son prisoner cannot. You will surely foster resentment and hatred with this course. You will confirm an enemy."
"I will confirm our safety." Jonathan corrected, reaching out to brush the tip of Isabelle's earring, "Mine and yours." He taunted her, stroking a knuckle over the curve of her cheek, "For as long as his brother is at Estoncurt and in my keeping, then the boy duke will hesitate. No one will march up that pass to defile you, my dearest."
She slapped his hand away, "If an army marches on Estoncurt, how will my new dresses get delivered? If you think me difficult to live with now, imagine how insufferable I would be then."
He clicked his tongue and turned away from her, shucking his overcoat primly. There was a faint clink of his chain from the movement, "Then it is just as well I had the foresight to secure our surety against such an army."
From Lyn perhaps. The rest of the kingdom, Isabelle could not be so sure of. It had been almost a week since Andrew's fall and the silence from Alicante- from the King- was becoming eerie. Jonathan offered her no further assurance on the subject, flashing his teeth over his shoulder at her, "And you are a delight to live with, darling."
She gave him time to get in some distance between the room before Isabelle emerged into the corridor. Jon Cartwright was slouched against the wall and appeared to be cleaning his nails. He jumped upright at the sight of her, "Forgive me, Your Highness, I was-"
"You're still here," Isabelle cut him off, impatiently, "Good. You can accompany me."
"Accompany you, Madam?"
"I wish to speak with our-" she cleared her throat, tipping the word that had almost tripped off her tongue aside, "-guest."
The turret in which they'd secured Mark Blackthorn was the same one they'd assigned to him as a guest chamber. It had been a deliberate choice of Jonathan's, partly to maintain the fiction Mark was tarrying here of his own volition. It was also chilling to learn how easily the door on a bedchamber could be sealed at Estoncurt with someone still inside. Isabelle would do well to remember her room also had a lock.
After a little persuasion and posturing on Isabelle's part, the door to Mark's quarters opened for her. There were worse rooms to be held prisoner in, she supposed. This one had a big bed, soft blankets, a writing table and a window. There were no bars upon the glass, for there need not be. No one could crawl to escape out it from this height and survive. At her entry, Mark startled to his feet. He was in a state of undress, his undershirt hanging untucked over his breeches, his hair a mess, his eyes rimmed red.
"I- Oh. It's you."
He had the most curious eyes, one gold, one turquoise. Standing before her on the balls of his feet, he rather reminded Isabelle of a cat with a curved spine. Under lock and key at the Prince's pleasure and with Jon Cartwright positioned protectively just over Isabelle's shoulder, Mark could do little more than hiss and spit indeed.
He blinked, his hands twisting together. His eyes grew beseeching, the plea of a man who'd laughed and dined and danced with her countless times at court. Who thought her decent, who thought her good. "Let me go, Isabelle."
"Be careful how you speak to the Princess!" Cartwright snapped. Isabelle was surprised at the heat of his defence. She hadn't been aware she commanded such loyalty. Or mayhap Cartwright was simply one of those honourable sorts. Either way, she filed the observation away for use later.
For now, she interceded, "It's alright, Sir Jonathan. Mark means no offence."
The offence here would be his unlawful imprisonment. Isabelle's heart twisted. The right thing to do would be to let him go, she knew that. Isabelle also knew she possessed no such power. Jonathan was master here; he was lord not just of this castle but of her. She could not gainsay him, she could not defy him. Even if she could- Jonathan had a point. Unscrupulous and hateful as it may be, having Mark as a hostage might just be all that kept the lid on this. Kept this contained. Valentine wasn't summoning his son to the capital to answer for his crimes, no complaint nor accusation came from Bellgate. This standoff, this stillness, was all keeping swords in sheaths. Keeping civil war bridled.
Having surety was prudent. However reprehensible. Isabelle rubbed her hands together. She was well enough acquainted with the reprehensible. Honour and chivalry were male inventions. A privilege which only men-and few enough of them at that- could ever enjoy. To show mercy, to do only the right and the just, you must first have power. Perhaps were the scales closer to even Isabelle could allow herself to play fair. But that was a luxury that penniless girls with sullied names certainly did not have.
She didn't trust in Jonathan. She trusted in herself. "I am sorry, Mark. Sorry it has come to this."
"I can do little with your sorry. Izzy, please. Tell him to let me go."
"Would that I could." She pulled out a stool near to hand and sat on it. Mark remained standing, quivering on the spot. He stepped away, his fingers curling the bed post.
"My family needs me." The raw pleading in his voice caught her breath, "Julian's little more than a boy, he cannot rule Lyn on his own. My other brothers and my sisters need me too. They've lost their mother already, now we've lost our father and I'm all they have left. They barely know Diana, she barely knows the estate. The duchy could go to ruin. Let me go back to Bellgate." Mark's breathing stuttered. Isabelle did not think she'd ever seen a grown man so close to tears before. "I don't care for anything other than getting home. I care only for my siblings, that they are well and looked after. I'll never ask for more than that. I'll never trouble the King, I'll never seek any recompense, nor will Jules when he comes of age. I've told the Prince all this, I've sworn it. I swear it to you, too. On the love and friendship between us and our families, Isabelle. The Prince swears my father's death was a mishap and I take him at his word, if he'll take me at mine. Let there be no anger or feud between our houses- let me go home."
Isabelle toyed with the trimmed edge of a fresh bandage. Her hands hadn't bled since she'd applied it. Perhaps her veins were closing up and turning to stone as her heart did. "There is no anger and there is no feud." She explained levelly. "But I have no power here, Mark."
"You're his wife." Mark's fingers bleached with the intensity of the hold on the post. The whole bedframe trembled with him, "You must have some influence over him."
"Precious little." Isabelle got to her feet and gestured to Jon. Mark tensed up again, looking like he might bolt away from her. To run where, she knew not. For a moment she had visions of herself chasing Mark Blackthorn round and round the bed. He relaxed, ever so slightly, when he saw Cartwright passing her an inkpot rather than a dagger.
"I have some writing instruments and paper here for you. Write to your family, and I'll see to it your words reach Bellgate." Isabelle paused there, letting the inference settle: so long as you behave, and write the right words. "Assure your brother of your health and of your safety. Tell him you are well, tell him you have comfort."
"Izzy," Mark sounded appalled. She dared not turn it. Nor could she let the name of the girl she'd once been soften her. There was no more Izzy Lightwood, not at Estoncurt. Here there was only Isabelle, consort of the Crown Prince of Idris. Like her or loathe her, Princess Isabelle was all there could be.
"For as long as you comply and continue to make no trouble, all of those things will remain true."
She offered him the pages. Mark didn't move. He just kept staring at her, mouth pressed firmly shut, the corners tremoring. Isabelle held the package in mid air as long as she dared, then she sighed and set them over on the writing table. She turned back to Mark, her hands folded over her stomacher.
"You cannot do this! The King will never permit it!"
"No one's heard from the King in weeks." Isabelle insisted bluntly. "Come Mark, be reasonable. Even Valentine would be loath to move against his own son."
"So you would keep me prisoner here?"
"No. You are our guest, Mark. You can have a place in the Prince's household. Much as you did at court, except here, at Estoncurt."
"Why are you doing this to me?" Mark had the audacity to look betrayed.
She dipped into impatience, "Believe it or no, I am trying to help you here. I am trying to prevent the worst." Trying to temper the worst of Jonathan's orders, trying to keep things quiet in the Lakelands, trying to prevent the onslaught of war- that was what she and Clary agreed to.
The precise details may be questionable, though the ends ought to justify her. It was all in pursuit of the right thing. Was it not?
Mark kicked at the foot of the bed, a sudden petulant move of discomposure that sent Jon Cartwright into high alert among the chatter of moving metal. Isabelle halted any escalation with a raised hand. Jon retreated a half-step but remained tense. Mark clutched fistfuls of hair in his hands, breathing hard.
After a short while, Mark was able to calm himself. His mismatched eyes gleamed, the misery they contained identical. "The worst has already happened."
"That's not true" Isabelle finally got to her feet. There was only so long she could grant this conversation before Jonathan got word she was here and dragged her out. Or strode in himself and undermined her. "This isn't even close to the worst, and you know it." She nodded to Jon, indicating he should make ready for their departure.
Toward Mark, she directed, "Write to Bellgate. Your brother will need to hear from you. As will the rest of your family."
One family's pain was better than a whole kingdom's suffering. Besides, Isabelle had her own family to think of and defend, back in Alicante. If war broke out in Idris tomorrow, Jace and Jonathan were not like to be on the same side.
"What has he done to you?" Mark demanded.
Isabelle made no reply as the latch scraped back and the door cracked open for her. She owed nobody any excuses. But she did pity Mark, and she did regret this.
"You are not the only one here who isn't exactly in a position to get on a horse and ride away."
-000000000000000-
Banc Palace, Alicante, mid March 1540
The Cardinal's stately home was decided to be the safest site for these discussions to take place. Another sign of how dire times had become. Not only could these questions not be raised in the Council chamber, the lords no longer felt that they could be raised under the King's roof at all.
Enoch was far from a neutral party, but his house would suffice as a kind of neutral territory. By implicating the Cardinal in this unofficial political conclave, the others hoped to keep him from telling the King they'd ever convened.
In fact, Luke would wager the Cardinal would quietly be thrilled at the prospect of superseding the monarch entirely. His ego would certainly be buffeted by the idea that it was his hall the great men of the Idris ran to whenever the seas got rough.
There was a table laden with wine and sweetmeats for the occasion, but Luke didn't touch them. He didn't sit either. He felt more comfortable on his feet, at the back. Closest to the door. The others felt likewise, for the sugared plums and candied apples lay glistening on their platters untouched.
Luke prayed the refreshments were the only thing wasted here today. He feared time was not a commodity they had.
"So," Blackwell clapped his hands together, easily the most impatient of them. The half-hearted small talk all whittered away. "What's to be done?"
Pangborn sneezed. By the time he recollected himself, Starkweather jumped into a seat; either eager to get this started so it could be over sooner, or trying to lower himself out of eyeline and thus draw less attention to himself. If that was the goal, he succeeded in doing precisely the opposite.
The Cardinal just rubbed his thumbs together. He alone helped himself to a singular grape.
Thus commenced one of the oddest gatherings of Luke's political career- and that was saying something.
The ranks of these old stalwarts had been much depleted, Luke meditated privately. Of all the men collected, it was he who had most practice weathering the storms of Valentine's ever changeable court and his even more fickle moods. Even Luke was off balance and feeling sea-sick of late. Of all those he'd started with at King Valentine's table, none at all remained. Most of those he'd served alongside longest were also now absent. Stephen, John, Andrew. Not just Luke's allies, he'd also lost his friends.
These absences translated into real, conspicuous gaps among the numbers of the King's Council. The newest of their number, young Verlac, was discounted from this discussion. As were the Prince and the Duke of Broceland. To voice their concerns and a potential remedy needed to be done with the utmost discretion. The King could not get wind of this; heads had ended up on a block for less. Stephen Herondale, for instance, had lost everything for little more than a few drunken rants, writing unhappy letters, and voicing old grudges he'd nursed to the wrong people.
Luke brought his hand to rest at his waist and wet his lips. He would not be the one to say it. His job today was to listen, to scent the air and assess the lay of the land. He was not here to navigate, nor to steer. Not too openly, not too dramatically. Today he aspired to watch and listen and report back. Just not to Valentine. To Jocelyn and to Clary, whose sex barred them from these meetings.
It was the Cardinal who began. In his scarlet robes, with the subsequent might of the Church behind him, he was as close to immune as any of them could get. Enoch served a higher cause than Valentine or any earthly price, supposedly. That was the excuse he used while he grew rich persecuting heretics, the fruits of which lay around them in every corner of this grand house. The house itself was now a far cry from the small riverside manor the Cardinal first purchased. Today it was palace fit for a Prince- a prince of the church.
There were musicians playing in the gallery. An effective muffler to whomever might be straining to listen beyond the door.
"The King has grown most perplexing of late." The Cardinal folded his hands over his stomach, a stance of relaxation that was far from convincing. "First the Prince's hasty wedding, which flew in the face of the advice offered by every single man here present. Now this sudden refusal to leave the Gard. It is concerning, gentlemen. In His Majesty's seclusion, things grow dark in the capital and further afield. Crime goes unpunished."
Crime like murder. Murder of one of their own, though no one's lips moved with the charge and no fingers pointed. And, although none of them said it, the fact that one of the realm's greatest peers was dead remained. A most suspicious death that had gone without scrutiny and without challenge.
In his indecision, in his paralysis, Valentine looked weak. In all the years he'd ruled, Valentine had never looked so blatantly weak before.
Indeed, while the cat was away here played the mice.
"The King is unwell," Pangborn offered in a thready voice.
"We all pray for a swift recovery," the Cardinal added smoothly, "But should the recovery not be swift…"
"Then that is an eventuality we must prepare for." Penhallow spoke for the first time, his face ashy. He'd returned to the city for Christmas, insisting he'd recovered, but he remained a shell of the man he had been. Another absence Luke would likely have to confront soon.
"Prepare for how?"
Blackwell cleared his throat in the silence that followed Starkweather's query. All heads turned to the lord, who shrugged. "The realm has long been governed by two pillars; King and Council."
You could argue for a third; the Clave downriver was supposed to be a representative of the counties throughout Idris. Yet neither Luke nor any of the others did so. The Clave consisted mostly of lowlier knights and minor nobility, who spent their days arguing over taxation. Once or twice a century they considered flexing their might against their King, or over the levies he imposed, before they were ultimately cowed by the monarch. In this instance, Blackwell was right to isolate two real vessels of power.
Thus, should the King prove incapable, there was but one means of government remaining.
"Such a Council," Pangborn's eyes flittered around the chamber across each of the men loosely assembled and so careful not to appear as such, like a restless bird seeking somewhere to rest, "Would still require leadership."
Idris hadn't seen a regency council for over a century. Occasionally unfavourable circumstances called for one; namely either because the King was away at war or because the King was still a child and thus incapable of ruling independently.
Regency councils were never anything less than a strenuously last-ditch, temporary measure. And in all of these cases yes, there was a Regent at the head of these councils. A de-facto King. These emergency measures could bring an individual a great deal of power.
Luke was alarmed at how quickly everyone around him appeared to accept a regency would be necessary, how quickly even the most reticent among them- Starkweather- was warming to it. Evidently the real point of contention remained simply that; the question of who among them might sit as the head of such a body.
Luke straightened his spine and moved closer to the rim of the table, recognising there was no benefit to his continued silence now. To keep holding his tongue here may even garner suspicion among the men he'd soon need to make trust him.
It even crossed his mind that twenty years ago, perhaps even ten, Luke himself would have been chomping at the bit to present himself as a strong candidate for the role. Sparing a pang of sorrow for the man he'd once been and for the man he'd never be, Luke was moved to offer, "In times with have demanded such measures before, it has been known for the Queen to assume such responsibilities." To borrow a glimpse of her husband's power, in the way any noble wife would rule her husband's house in his stead.
The response to the suggestion now was less than tepid. Pangborn poorly disguised a scoff as a cough. Enoch looked upon Luke with exasperated pity, frustrated with him for succumbing to Jocelyn's feminine wiles in his youth and never freeing himself.
No, plainly Jocelyn had forfeited any hope of occupying that high position when she'd left. She had been gone almost as long as she'd been at the heart of the court. These men would never take her seriously. They'd certainly never be ruled or guided by her, not even temporarily.
"There is only one obvious choice." Blackwell declared in his customarily boisterous way, "Whom should follow but the heir? A Prince Regent."
Over the edges of the table, Luke's fingers tightened. There were mutters around him. Some of concession, but clearly there was little marked enthusiasm for such an outcome. Jonathan was too tempestuous, too impulsive, too quick to anger. He was difficult to rein in as it was. Some argued letting him have a taste of real power would mellow him, that he'd quickly lose patience with the intricacies of kingship and let his Council rule the day to day for him. Luke was not convinced.
This might be the moment to do some gentle steering, "To let the Prince rule before his time and before he's ready would be unwise."
There was no need to crown a tyrant any sooner than they had to. If things came to pass the way Luke and his friends hoped, they may never have to.
"There is another option." Penhallow limped within the periphery of the grand table. Into the shadow of their paltry, bedraggled Last Supper. The Marquess lifted his hand from the cane he could no longer do without and held it palm up towards his peers. "Shall we say his name? Broceland."
A brush with death had made Penhallow bold. And seemingly less patient or content to circle around things.
There was no great outcry of enthusiasm at that prospect either. Jace was a hardworking and astute asset to the Council, there was no denying that. He'd proven his place among them several times over. And yet, he was not universally loved. There were still those troubled by or resentful of how quickly he'd risen to favour. There were those who mistrusted his allegiance to Rome, like the Cardinal. There were also those who thought him a greedy upstart who was simply making out like a bandit at court, milking dry his good luck in marrying the King's daughter.
"Giving so much to one so untested would also be unwise," Pangborn declared at last.
"Even if we did, what then? What becomes of Broceland when the time for a regency has ended? Dictator Perpetuo?" It was Starkweather, in another hushed tone, who poked toward the unthinkable. If the Duke of Broceland was effectively made King, what would happen when the real King died? It was a rare breed of man that would relinquish such power easily. Many more would find what was a throne by another name to be a comfortable seat.
If they named Caesar Dictator, what was to stop this new Caesar deciding to do as the old- become Dictator Perpetuo? Declaring himself ruler for life. Refusing to step aside.
Luke wanted to have faith in Jace's honour. Yet he was too old to take any man at his word and see only the good in his fellows. Jace Herondale was a young man with hot, royal blood in his veins.
There was no guarantee that this choice wouldn't also create a monster. Power, Luke had learned over the years, had a way of doing that corrupting everyone. Turning even the purest of hearts of black and rusting the best of intentions.
Luke had seen it before, with Valentine. If he was to be honest, he wasn't sure he hadn't had acquired a taste for the poison chalice himself. Even the most virtuous of men had been known to succumb at the first sip. In all honesty, Luke couldn't be sure Jace Herondale would be any different.
-000000000000000-
Princewater Palace, March 1540
It was not unheard of for the Brocelands to host of an evening. However while Luke was a frequent guest, Penhallow was not.
Nevertheless, Jace ensured there was enough wine to go around. Both of his companions accepted his hospitality and although the wine was the finest from the cellars, neither of them really seemed to enjoy it. It grew late, another short day slipping to a close. The servants drifted in to light the wicks while the men talked about nothing of import for a while; about horses, poetry and when the weather might permit them to hunt again.
Until, after about half an hour, Jace changed tact. He didn't have all night for pointless pleasantries, "Really, my lords, to what do I owe the pleasure?" They'd arrived too late for dinner and too early for dice.
Penhallow and Luke exchanged a look. They arrived at an unspoken agreement quickly. "We visited the Cardinal earlier. These are troubling times." Luke fixed Jace a meaningful look and spoke more bluntly, "The King looks weak. He hasn't convened the Council for weeks. Meanwhile, he locks himself up in the Gard and sees nobody. Without Valentine to keep them in check, the lords are quibbling."
Jace sloshed the wine in his glass with a roll of his wrist. "Don't they always?"
"Quibbling is too mild a word," Penhallow suggested with sudden abruptness, cutting Luke a more urgent glance, "Panicking would be more like it."
Jace's legs were stretched out towards the fire. He retracted them and lifted a questioning brow, still peering over at Luke. Luke only nodded his agreement of that assessment of affairs. Oh dear.
Jace poked his tongue into his cheek before he asked, "Panicking over what, precisely?"
"Over what's to come if the King doesn't return soon."
Or, although there was no extension verbalised, if the King didn't return to his old self. It was deeply troubling, to say the least, how Valentine had scuttled into his tallest tower after Christmas and pulled the rope up after himself. Jace didn't know what it all betokened. He wasn't allowed to see the King, though Jace didn't take it personally. From what he could gather the King wasn't seeing anyone.
Jace's eyes flickered between the two grave faces of the older men, fitting the pieces together as quickly as he could. Unbeknownst to Valentine, there had been some manner of meeting to which Jace had also not been invited. Yet here these men were, party to the discussions Jace had not been, to tell him something. Or to ask him something.
"The lords gathered today were surprisingly susceptible to the prospect of regency council."
Jace's curiosity chilled to disbelief. He came abruptly to attention. Christ. The faith of the Council was low indeed, if these were the kinds of discussions taking place behind closed doors. Heads would roll if Valentine learned of this… but how would he? Up in his lonely turret in the Gard Valentine heard nothing except the wind. He certainly refused to hear anything of Jonathan, or Blackthorn, or even of Clary and his granddaughters.
The sound of the door handle turning had Penhallow jumping out of his skin, as though he expected the King to thunder through the door and order him strung up by the entrails here and now.
Valentine did not appear on the threshold. His daughter did. Clary froze, noticing the unexpected guests, then closed the door tight shut with a creak behind her.
"Good evening, Your Grace," Penhallow offered stiffly.
"Forgive me," Clary's cheeks were bright red from the breeze, as she stepped closer to Jace to squeeze his shoulder her hands were chilled too. "I've just returned from Havenfoile." Clary had to surrender the girls back to their usual nursery after a few days.
She and her husband shared a look. Then Clary looked back to Luke and the Marquess. "I wasn't aware we had visitors." Jace caught the hand straying over his shoulder in his own, rubbing some warmth back into her fingers.
"You can speak freely in front of the Duchess, gentlemen." Jace would tell Clary anything she did not hear directly from their lips. She and he were one, after all. One heart if not always one mind. Certainly one cause. Moreover, whatever discussions the lords of the realm had pertaining to a regency council were pertinent to her too. The King wasn't getting any younger. One day, in the not very distant future, their son might have need of one.
Luke acquiesced to this more easily than Penhallow, who remained hesitant. Such matters were not ordinarily the trifles of wives. Clary Herondale was no ordinary wife, even on this, a matter on which Penhallow would be reluctant to discuss with several men of the kingdom. But it was Clary's kin and Clary's kingdom they spoke of. Jace would never block her out, or banish her to her sewing.
It was Luke who filled Clary in as concisely as he could. Then, attention flitting back to Jace he admitted gravely, "It was the matter of whom to name Regent that proved the great point of contention."
Clary pursed her lips and said nothing. Her face gave little away, even to Jace who knew how to read it. Her eyes glowered. She did not look at him.
The fingers that were not still holding Clary scratched at his chin. Dreading he already knew the answer, Jace asked the pertinent question for the sake of clarity, "Who put themselves forward as candidate?"
"No one." For the second time tonight, Luke thoroughly surprised him, "Although several names were put forward. Yours was among them, Jace."
The news that the lords wouldn't simply hand the realm over to Jonathan was a shock. Clary was still toying lightly with Jace's hand, but he could feel the tremor of her tension where they touched. Equally, he could feel the eyes of everyone in this room watching him most closely. Jace tried to measure his reaction accordingly. Yes, beneath the surprise there was a kind of pleasure. A kind of humming, slow growing delight that he should be thought of, that someone would seek to entrust him with such responsibility. It offered proof that his hard work to live up to the Broceland name had been recognised. Better still, it might be worthy of reward.
That was all he'd ever wanted; to serve his family, to serve Idris. And yet- this was an honour Jace had not sought. It would be a duty and a job, not just an honour. The title Lord Regent of the Realm would certainly not be an empty one.
"Who named me?"
"I did," Penhallow stated, with another look at Luke, "Though I'm sure several others also thought of you." Well, that was interesting. He'd not thought to find Alec's shallow betrothal to offer dividends so quickly. Even the promise to wed Aline had bought them another ally. Clary was right, it had been a smart move.
Jace cleared his throat, "I'm flattered, gentleman. Truly." That seemed the safest thing to say, neither agreement nor dismissal. It was more to his wife than to the two men Jace asserted, "But I have no illusions of such grandeur. I was not born to rule."
"Neither was my great grandfather," Clary pointed out bluntly, her voice very soft yet deeply serious in the ensuing quiet, "Until calamity brought him a crown."
"This need would arise only in the direst of consequences," Penhallow continued, looking at Jace as if Clary had not spoken. Clearly, he did not know what to say to her or how to respond to her statement, so he simply chose to pretend she hadn't made it.
"Indeed," Noting the slight Clary took pointedly took a seat at the table and emphasised, "Dire consequences indeed."
The men seemed chastened by her presence. Penhallow shot Jace a plaintive look, beseeching him to find some other idle tasks for his Duchess to partake of outside of this room and this conversation. Jace ignored him. It was not the first kind of voiceless plea he'd been sent and it would certainly not be the last of its variety.
Since they did not know how to proceed with her sitting there and were unable to ask Clary to depart from her own apartments, there was naught more said on the subject. When it became obvious Jace wasn't going to chase his wife away so the men could talk, Penhallow finished his wine and excused himself, still limping heavily on his cane. Luke shortly followed, acquiescing the hour had grown late. He parted with a kiss to Clary's cheek and a pat to Jace's shoulder. It would not be the last they spoke of it, Jace read on Lord Aconite's expression as he let himself out.
That left Jace and Clary alone, this new, uncomfortable revelation lying between them. On another uneasy precipice. The kind of which their marriage seemed full of, these days. Ordinarily Jace delighted in the push and pull of them, he even enjoyed arguing with her on their differing theologies- to an extent. She'd always give him as good as she got. On questions of faith and any other topic. While that might be infuriating on occasion, it was also one of the things he loved most about Clary. He didn't want a wife who'd humble herself and yield forever to his whims. He couldn't bear passivity. He wanted someone to challenge and push him, someone to make him think harder and inspire him to act. She was his match, every bit as hot-headed and wilful as he was when she needed to be, when Jace needed her to be. Indeed, Jace needed Clary to match him and he always had need of her sharp wits. Especially now.
"I know you have much to say, Clary. You may as well start."
Clary studied her fingernails, fiddling with her hands on the table. The white of her hands and the cream of her lace sleeves, peeking out from under dark blue damask, were stark against the dark wood, "You wish to hear your wife's counsel? I fear you may mislike it."
Them disagreeing was hardly out of the ordinary either. They'd long butt heads, and they'd grown somewhat accustomed to the inevitable abrasions created by beliefs which were irreconcilable. She didn't seem to understand why the new ways of thinking held such a sway over him. She didn't seem to grasp the way he had that their world was changing, and they had better change with it. He wondered if this would be another case of Clary struggling to see that change could allow things to bend rather than break. Jace rubbed his finger along his lower lip and shrugged, "All the more reason to hear it."
Clary studied him for a strained moment. Then she reached across the table towards him, the patch of red hair visible under her headdress very bright in the gloom. "If those lords return to offer you a regency Jace, I would strongly urge you to refuse it."
Jace twitched, dropping his fingers to drum along the table, not quite touching hers, "What if the alternative is Jonathan?" He demanded simply. That had been the inference in everything they'd both heard tonight.
Clary didn't waver, "Jace, any regency council in Idris is utterly doomed for several reasons. Yes, the largest of which is Jonathan. Although you would be just as implicated in that. It wouldn't matter which of you they named regent, this kingdom would be riven down the middle. Between the two of you. If you were Lord Regent, Jonathan would do all he could to undermine you, and any scores on which you disagreed with him would be perceived by my brother to be you doing the same. Should Jonathan be named regent the same would still be true. There would be no cohesion, there would be no unity. Such a Council would create more problems that it could ever solve. Besides which, being Lord Regent would not be a post to envy. You'd be hated by all and accused of self-interest at every turn, unable to do right in the eyes of one without doing wrong in another's. And if you did honour it as a temporary position then you'd be left vulnerable. It's not a post from which one easily and peacefully retires." She inhaled, her chest jerking inward, "To be frank Jace, I think it would cost you your head." At this point Clary did properly hesitate. She blinked, before leaning back in her chair, "Of course, all of this hinges upon circumstances which have not come to pass. The King is not incapacitated," her eyes dipped down to where Jace's fingers persisted in their agitated rhythm, "Or worse."
Jace inhaled deeply. Even if it weren't treason to think of a world which didn't contain Valentine, his mind would have shirked from doing so. Clary drew closer, "If you were named Lord Regent and then the unthinkable happened, what then?"
He heard the question she didn't outright ask. His gut coiled; his face heated. Jace pinned her unhappy eyes with his, "I'd step aside, Clary. Of course I would. I'd keep to my word. You know I've never hungered for it." Being Duke of Broceland was the pinnacle of his personal ambitions. He aimed for their son to rule, not him. "A regent merely swears to serve the realm during an interim. I don't forget that."
Clary was far from reassured, "What if," She continued, her gaze deathly serious and her voice deathly quiet, "When the moment came, half the lords asked you not to step aside?"
He shook his head, "Clary we are dancing around hypotheticals and drawing steel to fight shadows here. None of this may come to pass. Your father is… troubled, yes. I'm not deluded. He's not an invalid. I'm not convinced the grounds are there to pursue such a radical move as to call a regency. Those men and that Council are all talk, sweetheart. Believe me, I see it every day, on every occasion the Privy Council sits."
His wife didn't thaw, "You haven't answered me." There was as much cold steel in her voice than there was in any sword.
"I told you I'd always be prepared to step aside. Christ, don't you trust me?"
"I trust you, yes. But do I trust you enough to believe that you wouldn't let some notion that Idris needs you get into your head and decide to sacrifice your personal security to serve her? I'm not sure I do, Jace."
There was some smoke to her accusatory fire. If the lords were on their knees begging Jace to stand strong and continue to steer the ship, he didn't know what he'd do or say.
Crucially, they all seemed to have forgotten that they weren't there yet. "None of that has come to pass. It's likely none of it ever will." No one had outright asked anything of him. He hadn't committed to anything. Jace tried to impress that upon Clary now. He wasn't sure he'd convinced her. On the contrary, she was testing him as much now as Graymark and Penhallow just had, and Jace wasn't sure he was satisfying her assessment.
"Haven't we learned to stop counting our chickens yet?" He asked, letting a little of his frustration cut outward. "We need to stop pinning all our hopes and fears on things which haven't happened yet." They were still without a son. And they still had no proof Valentine was in such a state that a regency council could assert itself. Forming such a body during a time when there was an adult monarch already in place was utterly unprecedented. Jace seriously doubted anyone would have the gall. That, more than anything else was what had brought Penhallow here tonight. To see if Jace would attempt their coup for them. That way he and his friends could all fall into file if Jace succeeded, or just as quickly deny any knowledge of his plans if he failed.
Jace wasn't his father. He'd learned from Stephen's mistakes. He wasn't about to be lured into folly by some vague promise of power. He wasn't about to commit himself to murmuring and ghosts.
Clary pulled her hands back and started to tug the pins out of her hair, eager to dispel of her headdress now they were alone together and no further infringements were anticipated. A gesture which conveyed that the time for receiving guests and entertaining nobles was at an end. For tonight anyway.
"We shall see," Clary commented curtly.
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The Gard, Alicante, March 1540
Cold as it was out of doors anywhere at the moment, the temperature always seemed to plummet once you crossed through the imperious gates of the Gard. Clary couldn't help thinking that was because this place had seen death, and so much of it, over the centuries.
There were no scaffolds on the green now and you couldn't glimpse the green from the ground of the palatial sector. Nor from any of the windows of the rooms she'd stayed in before, though Clary certainly hadn't tried.
She shuddered, her teeth chattering as she made her way indoors.
The royal apartments were filled with finery of course, though she suspected it was not comfort Valentine sought in here. He'd come in search of the oldest and most basic thing the ancient keep offered their family: security. It was to here he'd fled when Tiller was on the march. And it was to here he fled now for shelter and refuge from the troubles and enemies within his court.
With some reason, as last night had proven. There was another rabble threatening to rise against her father's house.
It must be hereditary. Isabella had taken to seeking out cubby holes when she was afraid. She too hid under beds and behind curtains during storms. If motherhood had taught Clary nothing else so far, it taught her persistence. She refused to be turned away, even after the King's guards and stewards impressed upon her that the King was not receiving visitors nor petitions.
"I am neither of those things," Clary stated simply, "I am his daughter. And I will wait."
Despite her professed confidence, she settled in for a presumably long wait. To her astonishment, less than a quarter hour later, the King admitted her.
Valentine was sequestered in his inner private chambers, the heart of hearts of the keep. The sight of him brought Clary up short. The King of Idris did not look well. His hair was untidy, his beard the most unkempt she had ever seen him. He was wearing a loose undershirt and had pulled a robe on over it, tied loosely at the waist and sagging open. His eyes, fixed on her, were hollow.
Clary approached on tentative steps, as she might a fretful wild animal, carefully peeling off the gloves he'd gifted her at Christmas. They were delightfully soft on the inside.
She stopped several paces away to curtsey, "Good morrow, Your Majesty."
Valentine fixed her an odd look, "Is your mother with you?" His voice sounded roughly hopeful.
"No," Clary answered, rising unbidden, "Nor is my husband." Jocelyn remained at Princewater, with the rest of the uncertain court. No one knew Clary was here. She'd left Jace snoring and told the servants simply she was making for the city tailors as she made for the barge. "There's only me, Father."
Valentine appeared crestfallen. He sniffed and turned his eyes away from Clary, fixating on the wall behind her.
Clary didn't know what to say or do. She hadn't known what to expect, but it hadn't been this. Valentine looked…old. He couldn't be further today than the man who'd greeted her to this court, a man she'd quietly lived in fear of for most of her life. There was something fundamentally humbling watching a King so evidently become a man. A man that withered and aged like any other, a man with weaknesses and fears like any other. The King of Idris was not a demigod. He was a human being.
She continued to close the distance, waiting for him to snap at her to get back, or even to flinch. Valentine did neither, which was all the encouragement Clary was going to get. She dropped to her knees and took his hand. It felt slightly clammy.
When he pulled back no further, she lifted a palm to brush across his brow, just as she would with either of her youngsters.
There was no sign of sweat or fever, praise God. There was nothing that really bespoke illness on a regular man, nothing that spoke of other than fatigue and fear. Except this was not a regular man. It was King Valentine II of Idris. Seeing him like this was jarring and most perturbing.
Valentine did not recoil from her touch, just watched her with those empty, dark eyes.
Clary inhaled, preparing herself and her plea. The shutters were drawn, the doors and windows firmly shut. Possibly even bolted, though she'd heard no scrape of locks on her entry. Something pungent and herbal was burning in the fireplace. It filled the room with a sharply nasal sweetness, not unlike the incense burnt at Mass. Yet it smelled damper, earthier. Clary had no head for herbs, she'd tried to learn some basic remedies when she'd lived among the nuns but apart from the most distinctive of leaves, she was clueless.
The sage presently smouldering was a recommendation of Valentine's physicians, no doubt, though she'd heard whispers the King's main physician had been unceremoniously dismissed last week.
But Valentine had let her in. That had to count for something.
He was not a child. He would not benefit from being pandered or lied to. "The crows are circling, Father." Clary told him plainly. It was not just at Valentine they pecked. "It's time you came back to Princewater, back to your court. Idris needs her King." Nobody else could keep the wolves at bay. Nobody else would be sufficient to keep Jace, Isabelle, her daughters and all she loved safe.
Valentine shook off her hand. "I am unwell."
Clary bridled her frustration. She lifted her head, refusing to betray anything that made her look desperate. Even sick and tired, Valentine would never respect it. Beyond the room, the wind whined through the slates and mortar. A distant door thumped, rattling against its hinges, trapped in its frame.
Jonathan I built the first of the Gard's towers when he proclaimed himself ruler of all Idris. He'd appreciated that subjugating the tribal leaders and uniting a dozen smaller principalities under his crown had earned him a lot of enemies and he needed a holdfast to keep his family safe, as well as a hall to entertain his allies. He'd opted to build it here, not on the foundations of any ancient Roman capital but in a smaller, humbler settlement on the mouth of the Princewater. On what had been little more than a legionary garrison, were the histories to be believed, from which sprang Alicante. Besides the Crown, it was the gift of the Gard which had proved the real jewel King Jonathan I bequeathed his heirs. Each of the rulers to come after fortified and finessed the Gard, until it became was it was today.
For Clary's family the Gard was both their origin and their legacy. It was the daring inception of Idris's great dynasty. Something they'd built to last.
"What ails you, Father, these walls will not keep out." Clary reached for his hand again. She had her lifeblood and her strength from him. With the tight grip of her fingers against Valentine, she tried to will some of it back. They shared the blood of that first warrior king and all of those, the great and the good who followed him. Both she and Valentine knew what it was to fight and hold firm. "So we must shore up other defences."
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