A Taste for Bloodsport
Gretern Lodge, Southern Alicante, March 1539
Jace woke slowly, perplexed at first by the quiet.
Then he remembered that they'd left the city. Here at Gretern there was only the clop of iron clad hooves on the cobbles beneath their window and the distant croak of a rooster to rouse them.
The King declared last week that he wanted out of Alicante. He was increasingly irritable with his advisors and councillors. Valentine lost his patience with the infighting and bickering, he was weary of fretting over events outside his borders about which he could do little. Thus, Luke contrived a hunting expedition for him.
The prey would be scarce in the woods after a long, harsh winter, but Gretern had been selected so Valentine would never be more than a day's ride from the capital were he sent for, which allayed the concerns of even his most fretful ministers. The world could hardly go to hell in a few days while the King of Idris chased some deer.
Luke felt they could all use a lungful of country air and Jace was inclined to agree. He loved it too- the thrill of the chase, the feverish excitement of the hunters. Any excuse for a good gallop to get his heart racing in a good way, born of excitement rather than peril.
He felt Clary stretch out her limbs beside him and heard her yawn softly. Her fingers settled on his chest, shifting absentmindedly toward his heartbeat. They slid over the raised skin of his scar without hastening their pace. She never shirked from it when she touched him and Jace might have loved her for that alone. Clary's chin nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder.
This morning, however, she did not settle there. Her hand continued its languid exploration downward, following the trail of hair below his stomach and further still, under the blankets. Jace cracked his eyes open at last, exhaling a quiet laugh.
Apparently he was not the only one who had woken with anticipation.
He turned his head toward her, to find Clary staring reliably up at him, the unspoken question in her eyes. As though he would ever deny her. Jace chased her lips, laughing again against them, pulling their bodies flush as their touches wandered. He returned her kiss with enthusiasm, moaning as her hand began its practiced movements. He reached for her in turn, only for Clary to twist away from him. She caught at his left hand with her own, pinning it decidedly back to the mattress. Jace's blood heated tenfold.
Clary had hooked a leg over his hip while they kissed, now she pushed herself upright so that she straddled him properly. Jace's breath hitched in his throat at the sight of her, hovering over him. The first time he had pulled her on top she'd been all blushes and self-consciousness; hesitant and uncertain, needing his hands on her hips to guide and urge her movements. Clary had still looked to him to set their pace, needed frequent reassurance that she was doing more than alright, and yes, that felt good.
That was no longer the case. This morning she looked as though she belonged there, smiling down at Jace as though she owned it, indeed, owned him. They'd made love like this dozens of times but he'd never tire of seeing her up there, never stop wanting and needing it.
Outside of this bed Jace needed to feel in control. He hated needing to trust anyone else to do something for him. Here, with Clary, it was not the case. He wanted her to hold him down and take what she wanted, to do as she pleased with him. She could do anything to him at all and he would thank her.
She was beautiful and Jace knew other men knew it. He saw how other court nobles watched her. It did not bother him as such, he knew Clary would always be true and he felt she deserved to be admired. For the quiet self-assurance she'd built for herself these past few years. The quick wit and swift smile besides. But Jace loved that only he got to see her like this. Regal, a goddess carved from flesh instead of stone. The sight of her breathless and eager, hair molten copper over her back even in the low, early sun. The covers had tumbled down past her waist and her skin was raised in gooseflesh, her breasts peaked in the cold, but he knew it was from more than that she trembled as she surveyed him. One hand steadying her on his chest, the other cradling his face. Clary's fingertips danced over his jawline, swiping along his lower lip.
His own hands twitched, longing to feel her, to return the pleasure. Jace resisted. He would not spoil it, not yet.
It was breath taking every time she lowered herself onto him with that wicked smile. They groaned together.
Clary's eyes fluttered shut and her chin tilted back, lips parting as she started to move, laughing softly as she took her pleasure. This was the best part; watching his wife come alive. Explore her pleasure, feel free to laugh and gasp while they moved as one, though Jace bade his hips stay mostly still for the moment. Awaiting her command.
His name was on her lips but this was all about Clary.
They'd all kinds of sex so far in their married life. There'd been hesitant but sincere moments as they had come to know one another, they'd also had passionate, with much laughter and teasing besides. Even the occasional mishap- falling out of beds and breaking furniture. People scoffed and said they would grow out of it, that newlywed longing to be close to one another, to do this every night and all the time. So far, not so. They still had their flashpoints of lust, but Jace and Clary had other intimacies now too. They shared more of one another's confidences; they shared the same hopes. And of course, parenthood was a bond they'd eternally share.
He supposed it was true in some ways; Jace did not love Clary the way he first had. That had been different, unknowing, uncertain and hopeful for the dream of her. The way he loved Clary now was different, the way you loved someone you truly knew. Mind, body, and soul. A stronger and safer kind of love. The kind that did not need to be at her side every waking hour. That was content to just sleep beside her after scarce a word exchanged all day without it being uncomfortable. He still burned for her just as brightly.
Clary's hands moved to his wrists, lifting them, laying them on her. She was begging for him, panting that she needed him, and Jace obeyed with pleasure.
He met her thrusts with his own, surged upward to hold and kiss her, sliding his hand down to touch her where she needed him most.
He waited for her there too. When Clary came apart, he followed.
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Jonathan knew that his father had noticed him, noticing her.
There was precious little that occurred at this court Valentine did not know about, even less that he failed to take an active interest in. And of late wherever the King went, Lady Isabelle Lightwood was seldom far behind.
Today the picture was somewhat inverted; it was Valentine loitering over Isabelle's shoulder. She tilted her head back, listening avidly to whatever the King murmured in her ear, her face giving no indication as to what manner of discussion they might be having.
For the third time in ten minutes, Jonathan forced himself to look away. Soon his attention slipped back.
When he had been a boy, he'd never been able to stop picking at scabs or prodding at loose teeth. Once he had wrenched a wobbling milk tooth out before it had quite been ready, he now thought distantly, and it sprayed blood everywhere. He could not recall ever feeling pain, only bewilderment. And the metallic tang of blood swamping his mouth as he regarded the jagged slice of bone pinched between his forefinger and thumb.
Though Jonathan's stomach lurched every time he caught sight of his father and Isabelle sharing confidences, Jonathan was not convinced what he felt was pain either. Isabelle scorned his every attention. There was no cause for him to feel wounded, or betrayed. Jonathan did not understand Isabelle's sudden closeness with his father, was unsure he wanted to, and yet his mind could not leave the matter alone. It fascinated and confused him. Much as Isabelle herself did.
As the rest of the hunting party pretended they were not also watching the King and his new young favourite closely, Isabelle regarded His Majesty's prize falcon, unsmiling. Her eyes glittered keenly as the bird's when the King delicately peeled back the hood. The bird hopped onto Isabelle's gloved wrist, shifting wings that shone like sprayed ink.
Isabelle's hunting habit, a loosened robe for ease of movement, did not cling to her curves the way her other gowns did but Jonathan knew they were there. How badly the Prince had once wished to touch her; to prove to Isabelle and himself that she was a woman like any other.
Isabelle would not be easily conquered. In fact, should Jonathan tangle with her, he wasn't certain he'd be the one doing the conquering.
Jonathan was no stranger to beautiful women. He had tried wooing her, she had spurned every ridiculous gift he had tried to give her. He did not want to shove Isabelle against a wall and have his way with her. This was not a passing lust anymore. It was a matter of pride. He wanted her to want him.
Everyone else at this court, mayhap in this kingdom, avoided the Prince's gaze, or watched him with trepidation. Others remained fearful of arousing one of his notorious rages with the wrong gesture or a misplaced word. Yet Isabelle Lightwood had, from their first encounter, levelled Jonathan Morgenstern with a gaze filled with contempt, wrinkled her nose and drifted past him.
He'd misunderstood her, Jonathan saw that now. She was not lovely in the way that other girls were lovely; in a simpering way which made them comparable to flowers which bloomed with a smile. Possessing a beauty that was unthreatening, common. Isabelle Lightwood was beautiful in the way the bird of prey she trailed a finger down the spine of was beautiful. Never quite tamed, with a quiet cleverness. A creature that knew she had claws.
Other girls did not possess her resilience, did not have to. Valentine had told his son that Robert Lightwood was a soak and a gambler, that their family, for all their razored pride, were all but paupers. One would think that her circumstances ought to have conspired to make her either desperate or disparate. Isabelle remained neither of those things.
Women threw themselves at Valentine over the years. Jonathan had watched them, before he had been old enough to have women throw themselves at him too. Valentine did not live like a monk during Jocelyn's long absence, but he neither had he formed any meaningful connections. He had never given any woman that was not Jocelyn Fairchild attention long enough for her to gain an influence at this court that would matter. Valentine got what he wanted from his brief affairs with unremarkable mistresses and they had got what they wanted from him, usually some lands or monies.
But Isabelle Lightwood, despite the many insidious rumours that had bred themselves around her over these past weeks, did not seem to have thrown herself at the King. This was something else. She orbited Valentine mayhap a little closer than the rest of the courtiers, was summoned often enough by His Majesty with a flick of the wrist or a jerked chin to raise comment. And yet, despite her proximity to the King Isabelle looked as she always did. She was still wearing the riding habit she had arrived at this court in and the only jewel she wore was the ruby flickering in the spring sunshine at her throat.
Countless times, Jonathan had imagined her spread across his bed wearing only that ruby.
Valentine was looking down on her neither fondly nor hungrily, his sharp features betraying nothing as his falcon snapped up the chunk of meat he proffered it. His Majesty smirked, a glint of lazy satisfaction. He knew he had many more powerful beings than his pet eating out of his hand.
The King had been hungering for a good chase for weeks but the flush of spring remained reluctant. The ground was still hardened by frost, the trees bony, the winds bitter. The scouts had promised a glimpse of a stag nearby in the King's vast parkland, but as the hours ticked by it beggared belief. Hence the King had sent for his birds.
Above the babble of listless conversation from the small group of loitering lords, Isabelle gave a sudden burst of laughter. Jonathan's head snapped to the side at the sound. He watched the bird flap its wings, taking flight with a caw of its own. Isabelle watched the predator on the wing with palpable delight. She was even grinning as she wrenched off the thick mitt. The bird's talons had pierced her through them, twin points of blood pebbled on her snowy wrist. Isabelle shook her hand out impatiently and her blood splattered on the damp grass.
Jonathan's feet carried him to her. He was close, too close, his toes brushing the stains upon the soil. Close enough to see that there were spots of colour on her cheeks and her teeth were very white. Her hair shuddered down her back. Some of the other girls at court had taken to curling theirs, with hot irons or rags. Isabelle's hung straight, a curtain of black silk to her waist.
She looked up at Jonathan's approach. Jonathan dared not acknowledge that anyone was watching them.
Isabelle looked over at him, residual joy still lingering on her face. They did not interact, on principle. Before, she had just been his sister's pet. Now she might well be Valentine's.
Except, as their eyes did meet, some unidentifiable thought bounced across her face. Isabelle lifted her wounded hand to her mouth, sucking the pain out. As she dropped it, she granted Jonathan an unmistakable smile. Savage, taunting, conspiratorial. It felt as though his ribcage was contracting, as though the air was sucked free of his lungs. He felt hot and cold, despairing and elated.
Jonathan's chest caved in with some frightening, foreign feeling.
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Clary had yet to develop a taste for blood sport. She followed the select few of the court to the royal hunting lodge, loath to be left behind, but refrained from getting in the saddle.
Although 'lodge' to her mind conjured something of a mountainside cabin, the King's preferred one was in fact a modest mansion house to the south of the capital, nestled within sweeping acres of parkland in which the royals of Idris had hunted since the days of Jonathan I.
Jace had arranged for her to have an intensive course of riding lessons last spring at Chatton, before Isabella. Clary now grasped the basics and could master most steeds. Though she would never be confident in the saddle, at least she was now capable. Still, Clary did not feel like pushing her luck. Attempting to keep up with the hunt would only result in Clary embarrassing herself. Anyway, there were other, better uses for her talents. For the next few days smiling at the King's dinner table and sampling the results of the chase would suffice.
To Clary's surprise, on the second day of the hunt the King himself declined to ride out. He seemed weary, even preoccupied. When the horses and hounds had gone, Jace and Jonathan jostling out the gates neck in neck in pursuit of the season's first stag, Valentine sent for her.
In the King's parlour, they diverted themselves playing at cards. Clary had been atrociously bad at it, which Jace had no qualms in telling her, when she had first come to court. Games and wager, or indeed any pastimes which encouraged idleness, had been strictly forbidden at the convent. Now she'd had more cause to practice and perfect her skills at the card table, Clary could flatter herself she was getting rather good. She no longer lost every bout.
Usually they played a French game, Triomphe. Valentine even started allowing Clary to partner him when they did so. It seemed she had inherited her competitive spirit from her father, for neither of them liked to lose. It was a mark of confidence, for the King to team with her. The first of its kind, from her father. Valentine was also surprisingly indulgent with her today. They were alone together, no other players at the table. They turned to an old Idrisian two player game: The Queen's Indiscretion. Usually it was a quick moving, lively game, but today a lull remained between them. Evidence both their minds were elsewhere.
It was not the first occasion Valentine had asked specifically for Clary's company of late. They had become invitations instead of summons, over the past few months. Clary dared to imagine she had won some slight but crucial part of her father over in the past year. Perhaps it had been the willingness with which she had gone along with his grand scheme. Her willingness to surrender her heirs to his cause, to believe in Valentine's vision. Perhaps it was just that she and her husband had both been so diligent in the King's service. Since the fright of the heresy hunt the previous summer, already dubbed among the people of Alicante "The King's Purges," Jace had been on his best behaviour. The Duke had thrown himself into proving his capabilities on the Council, while Clary had garnered the King's approval by matchmaking effectively amongst the noble families and by extending charity in the King's name. Above all, the King had taken Clary's decision not to flock back to Jocelyn at the drop of a hat as some display of loyalty to him. Though she and her mother had reconciled from their initial frostiness, Clary no longer leaned on her mother in the helpless way she had before. She no longer spilled every secret, nor instinctively rushed to Jocelyn expecting all injury to be remedied. Clary was learning to attempt remedies for herself.
Clary had also learned, slowly, that the way to gain headway at this court was not by swimming against the current. There would be no more stamping of feet and obvious defiance from her. It was never effective. Not when it would forever be written off as a woman's hysterics, not while her anger would only ever be trivialised, laughed at and dismissed by the great men of the world.
There could be no doubt that the King's daughter had usurped his wife's place at the head of the court and in the King's confidences. Jocelyn still held the queen's quarters, was still attended by several matrons of the court, but no one presumed she possessed even a fraction of the influence she once had.
"You have been busy, of late." Valentine commented softly, speaking his daughter's thoughts.
Clary did not look up from the fan of cards in her hand. "In what regard, Majesty?"
"In several," the King murmured in response, eyes on his own cards. "You have settled into marriage well, I think. It has grounded you."
"Quite." Clary smiled. She laid the cards face down on the table and levelled a look at her father. "I have learned much at court. In marriage, too."
Clary's father's dark gaze met hers. "Broceland is one of the few on my Council with wits worth having. He has a true drive. He wants to be useful, rather than whittling on about things he could do, or that which might happen like some of the others. Jace has thrown himself into life with us, in Alicante. It is commendable."
Clary exhaled softly before she replied with feeling, "All Jace has ever sought, my lord, is your approval. Given half a chance to prove his worth to you I knew he would flourish. I am heartened to hear Your Majesty thinks so too."
Her father sighed, "I worried at first. He was always overly sensitive as a child, as you yourself were fanciful. I did not know if permitting a love match between the two of you, despite its other advantages, would be wise. If you would not bring out the worst in each other."
Valentine was ever prone to hinting that it was his hand behind their union at every turn he could. To remind the Brocelands whose hand fed them. Clary drew a steadying gulp of wine. Clary knew from her father's expression and from the criticism in his words he was thinking of another occasion, not so long ago, when they had been alone together and she had asked to choose her own husband. She flushed at the memory. Not at the request, but at the baldness with which she had ever thought to ask it. The utter lack of tact and the unforgivable folly of ever thinking her father could be swayed by her feelings.
"I hope you can appreciate, now you know more of the work we do, how loath I'd be to stake anything of such import on a childhood infatuation. To allow your destiny to be marred by the pursuit of something as fleeting as personal happiness."
It was not an apology, or even aught close to one. The King of Idris was not the sort of man that made apologies anyway, and on this matter, he would hardly see one as necessary. Clary placed her hands on the table, over the forgotten cards. In the encroaching gloom her fingers seemed very white. Once the game to choose her husband had seemed the greatest of all, now she appreciated it had merely been the opening movement in a far grander strategy. One bigger than herself.
"Father," Clary spoke with quiet, unblinking conviction, "I am not the child I was." She did understand more now. Or at least, she had begun to.
The short afternoon was already lapsing into evening. Clary would not have Valentine to herself for much longer.
"I only wonder…" She trailed off, suddenly hesitant. This accord between herself and her father seemed so fragile. He looked to her and Jace for answers and for solutions, of late. Not questions.
"Speak, Clary."
"I wonder how it is to be brought about, at times." There was no need for elaboration, not with Valentine. He knew what she hinted to, the future to which she dared only insinuate. "I do not doubt Your Majesty's intentions or that you will have as you wish, but I often wonder how." She concluded finally. How could Valentine cast aside one heir for another? If he did name her son his heir, what would he do with Jonathan? They could hardly expect her brother to meekly accept his own disinheritance. Clary surveyed the situation from every possible angle, for two years now, and still, she could not see how it could be done.
Valentine smiled. "I must ask you to have faith, daughter."
Of course. He would not tell her, would say nothing to make his promises seem more concrete. And why should he show his hand, when Clary had yet to deliver on her end of the bargain? Clary might enjoy something more of Valentine's confidence. Never his trust. She did not think anyone possessed that. Not even her mother, not even Luke. Not anymore.
Clary lowered her eyes and raised the again cards, thumb tracing her next possible move as their diversion resumed.
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He was well used to having Isabelle in orbit, Jonathan realised, thrashing another low-lying branch out of his face. It was no great surprise that he should stumble upon her on the second day of their excursion, once the hawking finally turned to a hunt proper.
He found her dismounted and perched on a mossy rock. Her gleaming chestnut mount, a loan from the King's stables, was tethered to a trunk nearby and cropping at the grass. Some manner of shock still spread through his chest at the sight of her, like a splash of cold water. Not quite unwelcome but not entirely pleasurable either.
At the sound of Jonathan's approach, Isabelle pulled her sagging wineskin away from her mouth. Her lips were still damp as they flickered to an unimpressed, faux smile. Jonathan tugged on his reins and brought his horse to a halt.
The esteemed lady did not rise or curtsey, merely greeted his presence with a sharp nod- a salute to an old comrade.
Of late, amidst such clamour and uncertainty at the court, her irreverent daring had only hardened. It no longer flared up in sudden, angry bursts as it had before but had matured to a stern, cynical humour. She seemed more sure of herself and less sure of the world around her.
"Lady Isabelle." Jonathan called over, as he found himself returning the nod.
She screwed the cap back on her skin with deft, droll movements. "Your Highness, what a pleasant surprise," She hailed him, this girl who very little could surprise.
"Are you lost?" Jonathan enquired, having already assessed from her placid demeanour she would answer to the negative.
She rolled her shoulders backwards and threw back her head to look up at him. Against the dark velvet of her clothing, her throat was very white.
"I suspect my course is set, sir." One of the feathers in her cap wobbled as brisk, chilling wind rattled through their little glade. When it relented a little, she raised her voice to ask, "Has the quarry eluded you?"
Jonathan clutched his reins in one hand as he lifted the other to prevent his own cap being tugged off his head, "Not so." He shrugged, somewhat stiffly before admitting, "I have grown tired of the chase."
The deer they had been pursuing was a scrappy, lean thing. Jonathan was surprised it had evaded them this long. The King's heart was not in the hunt either, Valentine had not even ventured from Gretern today.
Isabelle's shoulders barely twitched as she kept staring up at him, eyes dark and deep, pools without so much as a ripple.
She was secure at this court, with a protector none dared threaten. Not that useless slip of man she called a brother and certainly not the insipid fool Jonathan now had for a brother. No, Isabelle had manoeuvred her way under the wing of the real power at court. Valentine.
Detecting his turbulent mood, Isabelle shifted on her rock, but it seemed more an impatient, bracing gesture than one of disquiet. The skirts of her hunting habit were not designed to flare. She'd shed the cloud of petticoats too, to better sit in the saddle. Jonathan had noticed that she did not ride side saddle, nor pillion. She always rode astride, and the very thought brought his mind to places it had no business to be, not now. With her backside pressed against a boulder, the thinner skirts were pressed against her legs and rose above her crossed, booted ankles.
"Hmmm. The quarry has proved disappointing," Isabelle conceded, "But it is only the first outing of this year, my lord. As the weather improves, I am sure more exciting and promising prey will emerge."
"I should hope so."
There was no reason for her to get under his skin, to haunt corners of his head. His thoughts must have been apparent in the curl to his lip he could not stop, for Isabelle's face grew colder.
She whisked herself upright, boots thudding quietly onto the moss and grassy carpet. She stepped out of the leafy shade. "You should be on your way before you are missed, Highness."
Jonathan resented being given orders from any woman but her affected unaffectedness made him want to strive for an equal imperviousness, at least on the surface. He swung his heels into his hunter's sides, driving the horse closer. "Need you not some assistance mounting again?"
"No," She snapped abruptly, recoiling from the thought of his help, of his touch, on instinct. Jonathan watched as the uncertainty set in- the realisation that she may well have some difficulty keeping her horse steady and using a jagged cut of rock as a mounting block. None of which was his concern. Truthfully Jonathan had startled himself with the offer. What cared he if Isabelle was stranded in the woods, if she had to go back to the palace on foot? She could do with the humbling.
"Why did you take yourself off here alone anyway?" He asked, allowing his annoyance to surface.
Another rolling shrug, "I find the road less travelled to be irresistible."
"Dismounting was idiocy," Jonathan declared, jerking on his reins to circle his horse around, facing back toward the main trail from which he had come.
He had not expected any reply, but one struck his turned back, "I was waiting for you."
Her tone was not mocking. Jonathan twisted gracelessly over his shoulder to look at her.
"What?"
Isabelle had moved over to her horse and was toying with the stirrup leathers, "The King would give me a commission."
His mount whickered her frustration as she was wheeled about again, bit clattering. Jonathan was weary of being left in the dark, ignored, dismissed and then blamed regardless. He tried to goad whatever secrets Isabelle had from her.
"Have you not enough tasks at night?"
Her head whipped up with a ferocity of her own, "I am no one's whore. That is not all I am good for" Isabelle's vehemence was as startling as her previous admission; it sounded like a mantra she had often told herself. Her eyes flashed as she shoved a loose ebony lock back under her cap again with a gloved hand.
"What manner of task has my father set you, then?"
Her jaw set, her expression mutinous, the meaning of her silence clear.
"Why the devil bring it up at all? Why sit in the middle of nowhere waiting for me?"
"Because we are both watched."
In the corridors of Princewater, of Chapeltoute, even in the narrower halls of Gretern Place- yes, they were. Whereas out here, among the chirping of the birds and scratching of little animals among the bushes, between teeth rattling gales, it was only the two of them.
"Forewarned is forearmed, they say," she continued.
"My father has deployed you in some scheme," Jonathan attempted to piece together slowly, "Not as his mistress but in another, mysterious capacity. To enact a scheme." He swallowed, and rubbed at his chilled cheek, insides heating, "Has it to do with the Brocelands?"
The unamused, weary smile told him all he needed to know. "And you and I."
He shook his head, frustrated anew, "Do you want me to stop it?" Another offer he found himself making her.
Her turn to shake her head, "I doubt that you could."
Had anyone else been this evasive with him, Jonathan would have lost his patience. But if Isabelle wanted to toy with him, he wanted to let her. Anything to keep that curious, assessing gaze on him. Jonathan had been judged many times before, and rarely favourably. Yet something told him whatever this odd test of Isabelle's was, so far he was passing it.
"Do let me know whenever it is you make up your mind?" He turned his horse's nose back down the track.
"You would leave me here, Highness?"
"You have made it clear you do not want my assistance."
"Yet here I am, alone in the middle of the forest, out of sight and earshot of all but yourself."
Jonathan frowned over at her, "I cannot rescue you from peril if you refuse to allow me. And you are still in the King's forest. Little harm could come to you, Lady Isabelle."
"You do not want to ravish me?"
At the blunt question, Jonathan spluttered out a laugh. Isabelle raised an eyebrow, her mouth unsmiling. She did not jest, "How so? You wanted to once, and I have not grown ugly since. Are you afraid of the King?" he noted the inflection at the final question. That was the one she truly wanted to ask.
Jonathan shook his head. "You have such a wicked mouth." He did not add that it heated his blood. "I have never seen the like on a woman." He nipped his spurs. With a huffed neigh his horse lurched further away from her, "Well you can scurry back to my father, or my sister, or whoever it is you answer to these days and tell them that I left you, not so much with your virtue intact but in the same state I found you."
Jonathan drew his horse to another halt, a short distance away and kept his eyes on Isabelle. She stared back.
"Why do you tarry?" She demanded at last.
"Why do you?" He smirked, "Get back on your horse."
He watched Isabelle ponder her dilemma with a kind of delight. Isabelle sized up the rock against the distance from her stirrup and the height of her horse. Jonathan tracked the firm set of her mouth, the silent furrow of her brow. Isabelle truly was prepared to attempt to scramble back to the saddle unaided, he realised. Even if she risked falling on her arse in front of the Crown Prince.
Chuffing out a short laugh, Jonathan transferred his reins to his right hand and dismounted.
Still, Isabelle held him off, "I do not need your help."
Jonathan extended an arm, from which she retreated with comical obstinacy.
"Isabelle."
"I told you no."
He stopped, brows lifting.
Bristling, Jonathan wordlessly guided his mount to one side, and began tethering her to a fallen log. "I did not move to aid you, Madam. I heard your insistence, though it is obvious you cannot get back on your horse. That is your problem, not mine. I have merely had enough of the rest of the hunting party, gibbering like fools and stomping through the bracken. Making enough noise to frighten animals as far away as Alicante." Once he was satisfied with the strength of his knot Jonathan straightened, moving to free his crossbow from where it was strapped behind his saddle. "That is no way to fell a deer. Since I was promised a deer, I will be damned if I do not have venison for supper."
Only then did he look over to where Isabelle still loitered. Stranded and unrepentant, arms folded across her chest as she watched him. "You do not like to lose" she observed.
He grinned at her, "I never do."
He strode off into the forest pointedly, his cape swishing against the shrubbery. "Nor do I imagine myself alone in that." He had seen Isabelle's eyes alight when the hounds caught the scent, he'd seen her poised like a true huntress in the saddle.
He'd passed her little test this afternoon. Now Jonathan threw down a gambit of one of his own.
Sure enough, the crunch of twigs underfoot told him that she followed.
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She was alone in a forest with Jonathan Morgenstern, yet Isabelle did not feel unease.
Somehow, she could not resist. She had always been drawn to things she should not and the thrill it gave her. The fastest horses the grooms all agreed she would not be able to handle. The steps her dance tutors felt were too advanced, intricate, or even immodest for an unmarried girl. And, of course, the wrong kind of boys.
They all appealed to her, irrespective of the repercussions. Often, Isabelle had revelled in the fallout too. The promise of it even added to the appeal.
If he wanted to do her harm, Jonathan had already squandered his chance. There was no need to lure her even further off the beaten track. And, true to his word, they sought the deer's trail.
He was right; the size of the King's hunting party and the noise of the horses and dogs had done them no favours in their pursuit. Alone together, a hushed and stealthy twosome, the Prince and his companion soon tasted greater success. They hunkered together over squashed plants; she dipped her fingers into the groove of prints hoof beats had left in the earth. Jonathan pointed out a pile of droppings.
The day wore on, the sun slid sluggishly across the sky, virtually unseen behind a screen of cloud.
Isabelle and Jonathan did not speak, lest they scare off the animal they pursued. There was also the not insignificant matter of having nothing to say to one another.
It was such a relief, to give herself over to the familiar rhythm of the sport.
The trail grew warmer. Eventually, they cornered their prey in another small glade. Jonathan swore in a breath when they caught sight of it.
A stag.
It was still winter lean, and young, but the silhouette of its antlers, stark in the shadows of the tree canopy was unmistakable.
Jonathan slid to his hunkers and steadied his bow. Isabelle watched him inhale as he loaded the bolt, exhaling only when he took his shot.
He botched the killing blow. The Prince swore colourfully again as the animal took its flight.
Isabelle was already in pursuit, sprinting over the churned earth.
The last leg of their chase was brief.
They cornered the wounded animal again in a shallow ravine. Jonathan, rattled by his earlier miss and now with heedless complacence, hastened to end the thing.
The stag had collapsed with a laboured panting, but its dark eyes were still wild with primal fear. Jonathan, scrabbling down toward it in a shower of falling pebbles, did not see the peril in its swinging antlers. He darted backward- but not quick enough. As Jonathan leapt away from the stag to save himself, his knife from his hand clattered away.
Though the deer's desperate swing missed his chest, the Prince cried out as the sharp bone grazed him, slicing across the palms he thrust out to shield his body. Jonathan's hands were bare, for he had already taken his gloves off to use his bow. Isabelle could see the bright red trail of his blood blooming from the split skin.
Another girl might have baulked at the bloodshed, would have sickened or swooned. Isabelle had been hunting with her father ever since she was old enough to hold her own on horseback. Though she gasped, she was surefooted as she surged forward.
Jonathan backed up against the rocky side of the ravine. The dying animal continued to lash out blindly, closing the distance every second.
This was the most dangerous part of any hunt; Isabelle could hear her father's voice thrumming a warning in her head. When faced with destruction, even a gravely injured creature would strike back. A stag, even a fallen one, retained an alarming brute strength and its antlers were sharp as knives.
Their stag staggered forward, up off his bleeding haunches for its last-ditch reprisal. Jonathan, caught between the flailing stag before him and the rocks pressed against his back, had no escape. There was no space for him to turn and try to climb up toward safety. Even if he had, the animal should still crush him from behind. The Prince's hunting cape swung loosely from his shoulder, a limp flag flapping over his wounded hand.
All Isabelle needed to do was stay her hand. Do naught, and her dilemma would be solved. In a terrible, gruesome accident. An awful mishap. In a moment, the greatest obstacle to them all would be gone.
Clary and Jace could produce their heir to the throne uncontested. Isabelle would evade a sham marriage. Without its greatest proponent the inquisition which threatened Alec would simply fall away, limply, like a serpent with its head cut off.
All of this only occurred to Isabelle later.
In that crucial moment, doing nothing was not in Isabelle's nature. She swung herself down into the ravine, easily freeing from her belt the hunting knife Jace had gifted her for Christmas many years ago. It was a pretty thing in a costly flame-embellished scabbard. Decorative, designed for a lady. But diligently sharpened by a girl who knew how to use it.
With a calculated, merciful swipe of Isabelle's arm, the stag was out of his misery, and a stunned Jonathan Morgenstern forever in her debt.
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It was late by the time the hunters returned.
Or rather, the bulk of the hunting party returned as darkness started to fall, empty handed but with bellies full of beer and ale, to feast on meat they had already brought to Gretern with them as a well-planned precaution.
Jace, to Clary's unhappiness, was not among them. Apparently, the Prince had gone off by himself, and a search party had been dispatched after him.
Clary kept watch as the rest of the court peeled off after eating for music and laughter. The King did not seem perturbed by Jonathan's waywardness. His rogue expeditions at times such of these were not uncharacteristic. "He will return when his hunger gets the better of him" the King had reassured her with a pat on the shoulder, as if Clary's brother was a troublesome dog, "Fear not."
Clary watched from the windows. The grounds were not so big as to warrant so long a search. Her concern only grew as the time slipped by and still Jace did not return.
The daylight seeped away and more of herself became visible in the glass. Finally, the cascade of hoofbeats alerted her that Jace had returned with his party of searchers. The Duke trotted into sight, straight backed and expression unreadable.
Clary was not close enough to guess at his thoughts though she knew by the set of his shoulders that he was unhappy, even at this distance. Something had raised Jace's hackles.
Then, as the rest of his companions filed into view, Clary could better guess what.
She'd assumed Isabelle lingered with her husband's search party. Truthfully, she had not spared Izzy much a thought at all.
Clary's breath caught in her throat. In the light spilling down from the house's windows and in the glow of the torches the grooms bore as they rushed to their charges, Clary saw that her friend was covered in blood. It splattered her forearms and smeared her neck. Though Isabelle shucked off gloves smeared in dried blood she dismounted with ease. She was too supple in her movements to be hurt.
No, the reason for Isabelle's disarray became apparent as the great carcass of a felled stag came into view. Hauled into the courtyard behind Jonathan. The Prince swung from his horse and bounced on the spot, up on the balls of his feet. Covered in dusty and muddy to the thighs, but not bloodied to the same extent.
Seldom did Clary's brother get his hands dirty.
Had Clary's eyes not flittered back to Jace and her friend-who was impatiently stepping out of the range of the hand the Duke tried to lay over her shoulders- then she might have noticed Jonathan's gaze did not leave Isabelle either.
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