Doubt
Princewater Palace, April 1539
For weeks now it had been raining relentlessly. In the palace gardens the pathways turned to mud and the flowers drowned in their beds.
Clary had many preoccupations which kept her indoors. Her daughter thrived at Havenfold, mercifully, which freed the Duchess of Broceland to attend to a myriad of other important matters.
For one, the dissolution of the English religious houses continued to send shockwaves across the continent. And as the pace of that dissolution accelerated, Clary started drowning in letters seeking reassurance (usually in the form of some financial endowment) from an array of such houses in Idris. From the parish priests right up to the bishops themselves.
Dutifully, she strove to allay the worst of their fears. The desecration of convents and monasteries appalled Valentine, Clary reminded their fretful subjects. No matter how far other monarchs may stray from the established Catholic church, her father would not follow suit. On sheet after sheet of paper she printed her promises. She, Clarissa, Duchess of Broceland, daughter of the King, was a firm friend to these holy orders. No harm would come to Idris's monasteries from either King Valentine or his Council, although regretfully there was little she could do to bolster their coffers at present.
With a tremoring hand, she also signed Jace's name at the bottom of them all.
Clary was sincere in her promises. She was frightened by the ease with which institutions revered for centuries were being torn apart. She lamented the stripping away of ornate altar cloths. She winced to think of crude hands plundering the saints' idols once wrought by reverent hands. Whether you reached for God's glory as a goldsmith, stonemason or painter, even if you just sought to make something greater than yourself- the product was not hollow idolatry. It was proof that humanity could create beauty. Beauty to last long after your body perished.
Some of Europe's greatest artistic accomplishments since the Fall of Rome were now being smelted down and pried apart to clad kings and fund wars. Human greed had been given free reign.
Moreover, convents like the one which had sheltered Clary and her mother were the only places of refuge that a well-born woman could find in this world if she wished to escape overbearing patriarchs and marriage to men not of her choosing. These houses were also centres of great learning, not just worship. If they were all lost, what would become of the world?
Though her promises were thin, Clary's feelings on the matter were strong. She'd use whatever shred of influence she had at this court to stop a wave of such destruction sweeping Idris.
Clary frowned down at another missive to that effect. She ought to feel privileged that her now widely renowned piety drove so many supplicants to appeal for her to speak in their defence. But the barely concealed panic in these exchanges just proved the vulnerability of all that had once stood to her as inviolable.
At first, Clary had relished that old authorities and assumptions were being questioned. That asking questions was now the way of things. However, she could not condone thinking that God himself, and all that had represented him for so long, should be questioned. You could not consider lightly ripping apart the fabric that had held civilised society together for so long. What was the alternative? Anarchy?
Inevitably, Clary was acutely aware of the stinging hypocrisy which followed every sweep of her nib. What right had she to say all this in her husband's stead, knowing that for Jace they were all empty words? Or at least, she assumed they would be. She dared not ask him what he thought of England melting the wealth its oldest monasteries down in the royal mint. It was much too dangerous to, and she was not sure she would like his answer.
Clary sighed to herself and kept writing. Because neither her husband's heart nor conscience were likely to concur with her replies was exactly why she needed to make them. Jace could not be seen to stay silent on these issues. He needed, for all their sakes, to be counted on the right side of this. On the King's side of this.
Jace strode into the room as though her fretting had summoned him; red-cheeked and dripping onto her carpets.
He pulled off his sodden cap and shook out the locks of his damp hair like a dog. Clary bit her tongue on the reprimand that sprang up. Men, she appreciated, were incorrigible. She could snipe at him all she wanted for his muddy boots and wet clothes making a mess of the apartments she had so carefully decorated for them both; it would not cure him from his habits. It was a pity, she lamented privately, even the best-bred husbands were never fully housetrained.
"Wayfarer is lame." Jace proclaimed morosely.
Clary titled back in her chair to face him. "I am sure that can be remedied. The grooms will prepare a soothing poultice. Let him rest for a while."
Jace peeled off his gloves and lobbed his crimson coat toward the nearest chair. It sank over the wood with a wet smack. "I knew I should not have let him be shod by that lump of a new smith."
His wife watched him pace over toward the fire. He was soaked through to his breeches. Jace stretched out his long legs toward the flames eagerly, clapping his hands together to try and warm himself back up. His annoyance remained.
Clary rose and made her way over to join him. Jace was in ill spirits, she could see that plainly, because she knew he was very fond of the horse. She guessed something deeper still troubled him. Clary wished she could kiss it all away and offer immediate comfort. Peel the rest of his wet garments off, take him into their bedchamber and warm him up properly. Then she thought back to the table crammed full of letters she had spent the afternoon writing. To the stiffness in her back and pinching numbness of her right index finger and thumb. She dared not.
Kisses would not keep their name clean. It would not keep their little family safe. Quelling murmurs of Broceland unorthodoxy was not something she could do entirely on her own.
"I have had more word from the Convent of the Holy Cross." Clary trod her way in carefully, "They are urging us to declare which candidate we would back."
The Mother Superior who had been such a large part of Clary's childhood had recently succumbed to a long bout of poor health. Now that a sufficient period of mourning had been observed, her sisters were thick in the debate over whom should replace her.
Jace barely glanced her way, "You choose. It was your convent, after all. Surely you know most of the nominees personally. You are the best judge."
Clary touched the armrest of his chair. Jace's hand was propping up his chin thoughtfully, his expression preoccupied.
"Yes," Clary conceded, "I do. But it should come from both of us. That convent is on your land. You are their lord."
Jace shrugged her off, "It is an internal matter for the nuns in the end, Clary. You can choose whom you think would make the best leader for them and throw your weight behind her, but in truth it will not matter much."
He threw her a wry, sideways look. "If it needs to look as though the recommendation came from the both of us then put my name on it, by all means."
Clary flushed but refused to retract. It was no surprise Jace knew she was speaking for him, that it was his authority she claimed when she engaged with these religious troubles. She had not been covert when doing so. Her husband was not blind. He knew she had taken his seal from his writing table and made free use of it.
She sighed impatiently, "Of course it needs to look as though it comes from both of us! And you know very well why." She wrung her hands, then closed them in on her arms, bracketing her own body in.
They could only dance around variations of this same argument so many times. It was exhausting, it was dangerous, and neither of them ever made any headway.
"I do not presume to make some grand statement of influence here, but I do not want anyone casting an eye over the proceedings and looking askance at us." Clary laid emphasis on her closing inclusion.
There was no such thing as an 'I' or 'you' anymore. Marriage had bound them and their fortunes. Nothing Clary said or did would stand on its own anymore, nor did Jace's. She knew, in the corners of her heart, he had slipped back to his preferred printshops this past year. The Cardinal's purges had driven Alicante's reformists underground but had not razed them as hoped. Jace's curiosity, his need to see and read the new arguments for reform and fresh philosophies for himself, would always prove insatiable.
Clary wished Jace would stray in the way other royal husbands tended to once their wives became preoccupied with childbearing. Into the bed of another woman. At least in those terms, however her heart might break, at least Clary would not have to fear for his soul. Or his head.
Clary moved to stand behind him, crouching down to lay her hands over the back of Jace's shoulder, feeling the tension radiate through his. She slipped her hand under his collar and touched the cold skin at the nape of his neck. The strands of his damp hair tickled at her fingertips. She leaned in toward him, stroking at the soft, vulnerable spot. Reliably, she felt him shudder. Usually Jace hated being touched there, did not even like anyone too close behind the back of his head. He would shirk from any such touch. He let Clary, and always had, leaning into her affectionate, soothing strokes against these most vulnerable spots; the back of his neck, the pulse under his throat and at his temple.
"They will not, Clary." His eyes were half closed, but his shoulders still tautly braced for trouble. Jace leaned backward, catching Clary's hand between his neck and the chair. He tilted his chin back toward her as he promised, "I have been very good."
She wished she could be satisfied as to what was 'good' in his terms, these days. Whenever it came to questions of faith. Clary pressed a light kiss to his brow, defying her own doubts. "You have to be better than good." She reminded him lowly, "You need to be unquestionable."
He reached around for her hand, tugging her closer, "I am," he murmured. "Sweetheart, come here." He was trying to turn her own methods against her. Clary stepped deftly out of his range.
"There is another reason you may have a care for who the next Mother Superior of the Holy Cross is. One of the leading candidates at present is a newcomer from the Convent of Mercy at Dielnet. Sister Agnes." Clary snatched in a quick breath before imparting, "Who, in her life before her vows, was Amatis Herondale."
Jace's eyes shot wide open at the mention of his father's first Duchess. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He blinked hastily, then asked in a low, astonished voice, "And you want me to back her?"
"No." Clary amended, "Not necessarily. I felt you should know. This is not an issue as far removed as the Duchy of Broceland as you presumed." She wound her fingers back into his hair, hoping it would settle him as she confessed all. "Amatis- Agnes, now- has written to me, all cordiality, on behalf of the convent generally. She heard about your scheme to assist farmers in the procurement of certain seeds and- well in sum, she is responsible for the Convent garden now. She wanted me to offer some advice on plants. Not that I had much advice to offer."
"She wrote to you?" Jace was wide-eyed. "Why have you said nothing?"
"I am telling you now," Clary pointed out.
Jace shook his head, "The woman must hate me. How could she not? You should not entertain her Clary, she can bear you no good will, nor our child."
"Jace, how could she hate you?" Clary attempted to placate, "She does not know you."
"She will hate me because I am Stephen's son by another woman, the one he supplanted her with. You need not make out she is content in her life at the nunnery Clary. Do not forget she was dragged kicking and screaming to it when Valentine and Stephen forced her to agree to the annulment. If Amatis had her way, she would have stayed Duchess of Broceland and I would never have been born."
"Mayhap she is content in her life now" Clary posited, determinedly the voice of reason, "Agnes has had almost thirty years to grow accustomed, after all. She sounds content in her letters. Why should she hate either of us? She was a dear friend of my mother's. She is Luke's sister, and he has always been a dear friend to us."
It had been a while since she had seen Jace so spooked. It was not like him, to startle at mere suggestions, to imagine some kind of evil eye directed toward them so easily.
"I would be bitter," the Duke insisted darkly, "If I were her. If someone prised you away from me and wed you to another. I would certainly hate him. I almost did have to watch you wed someone else, Clary, not so long ago. I know exactly how it feels." He bounced up to his feet with new panicked energy, "No. My feeling remains." He was running away again, Clary reflected with irritation, as he made for the door without further explanation.
Marriage was nothing but a series of long, difficult conversations, she was discovering. Of late it seemed as though Jace fled from every one of them. Try as she might, Clary could not seem to make him listen to her, truly listen. It made her want to scream.
"Have as little to do with Amatis as you can Clary, I implore you." Jace shrugged, primed to bolt down to his own chambers. "If she is to become the next Mother of the Holy Cross, so be it. It will not be with our help."
He left her then, hands empty, frustrations aplenty. To solve problems facing them from all corners, all on her own.
It was only after Jace's departure that Clary remembered, once again, the other thing she had been meaning to tell him.
-00000000000000-
Alec had taken to wandering the long, winding palace galleries as a means of clearing his head. Having something of a maze to tread underfoot made the rivulets of his mind run smoother.
It was enough of a habit, of an afternoon, that it was not difficult for Aline Penhallow to find him. He was lost enough in his own mind that he did not notice her until she brushed against his shoulder and drew his eyes onto hers. Alec was rather abashed by the evenness of her gaze and the tentative friendliness of her smile.
"Lady Aline, you must forgive me," he muttered, stepping back off the train of her gown, though it was plain to them both it was for more than the clumsiness he offered the apology.
"There is no need, my lord."
She was rather pretty, even Alec could admit. Dressed humbly despite her parents' wealth, in a grey-blue satin which drew out the warmth of her skin and the gloss of her hair, peeking out from under her curving French hood. She clasped a small prayer book between her hands, as many of the Duchess's ladies had taken to doing, or wearing them from their girdle, to compliment the Princess's now renowned learning and piety. It was now wise to pin the Cardinal's approved prayer books to one's sleeve. A talisman to ward off suspicions of heresy.
The heiress of Edgehunt was one of the elder of the court's maidens, something Alec knew was sure to draw unfavourable comment. Aline was two years or so the Duchess's senior. Her father was partial to her wishes, too partial some of the other lords mocked, and ought to have her wedded and bedded years ago.
Alec winced as she continued beside him. He clasped his hands behind his back and fought back the urge to stride away. There was no cause for discourtesy. He may have declined her hand, but their betrothal had only been a suggestion, murmured about in private quarters. There was no public rejection, no broken word. No reason for the two of them to not be amiable, or to exchange light pleasantries on the occasion of their paths crossing.
They were also at enough of a distance from eavesdroppers that Alec's gnawing guilt won out, "You must not think it a personal slight."
Aline gave him a wry smile, "I can assure you that I do not. I am very aware it is no fault of either yours or mine. A mere matter of… incompatible personal preferences."
"Quite." Alec was certain his ears were burning.
"I understand entirely."
He almost wished Aline would berate him. Her refusal of any ill will was not helping Alec feel better about the situation. Jace, true to his word, had not pressed when Alec voiced his refusal. Clary was sure to be disgruntled but she said nothing more on the issue either. No one else knew. Alec had refrained from speaking to Isabelle, for he knew she would call him a fool for standing on his pride and not swallowing the remedy, however bitter. He refused on principle to bring it up with Magnus again. It lay between them, on the edges of their conversations, slumbering in the shadows of their rooms.
"I still hope we might be friends, you and I, at least. Or allies, mayhap to begin with. It is just that I do not know anyone else of our inclinations." She gave a small, nervous titter, "Well apart from, you know."
Alec nodded his understanding. Magnus and Helen. It still felt best, safest, most respectful to leave their names unspoken.
"Allies," he agreed, loosening the tight grip in which he had been holding his own hands, allowing his shoulders to slouch a tad.
It felt strange, the new accord they were sliding uncertainty, but hopefully into. Not in a bad way. He was still uneasy, but only because he had never had a friend made on his own and of his own accord before. Until now there had only ever been Isabelle and Jace to share in his confidences, to jest with. Beyond that he had only ever allowed Magnus to get close to him and that was decidedly different.
"I am sorry, too."
Alec blinked. "Why should you be sorry?"
"I fear I pressed the matter upon the Duchess of Broceland a little too strongly after she first suggested it. It seemed too smart a solution. I did not take your feelings into account as well as I should have. I hope their Graces did not pester you too greatly, for my sake."
"No" Alec reassured, "Well, not as such."
She nodded sedately, a colour staining the top of her cheeks.
"You have no reason to be sorry. We have no reason to be sorry."
Aline bit her lip, an endearingly vulnerable tic Alec had never seen before. Usually she was always crisp, polite composure. Like himself.
Aline sighed, "I perfectly understand your position perfectly, as I say. I only wish I might share in it."
Alec's thumb slid along the black fur edging his coat sleeve, "How so?"
"You can refuse marriage. You are a man. I will still have to marry, someday. Likely soon, for I am now more than twenty. If something is not arranged quickly people will say there is something wrong with me. That I am defected, or to blame. I am my father's only heir, so will not allow me to be sent to nunnery. Not that I particularly wish to go. Unfortunately, the husband my father chooses is not like to accept the position in name alone." She looked at him sideways, with sudden sadness, "I may share your inclinations, Lord Alec, but not your freedoms."
"Aline-" Alec trailed off, unsure of what to say, of how to soothe her. They were too new on their footing as friends for him to know how best to reassure her. Even if he did, he was unsure he could. Aline was correct in her assessment.
He and Magnus indulged sometimes, in the late hours, lying in one another's arms in the dark, of the faraway lands they might sail to together. Of some yet untrod and unnamed Utopia where they could be free to live and love as they pleased. They knew these whispers to be fantasies but sometimes they slid into Alec's dreams.
If such a place did exist, it was indeed undiscovered. They were not free to go, anyway. His duties and his family remained here. The world around him was changing rapidly, but not fast enough on that score.
Alec reached out and took her hand in his own. It would have appeared improper to the foreign eye, but for once Alec did not care. Her fingers were light, slim, and the tips of them were cool. They had reached the length of the gallery, "I do not blame you" Aline reassured again, with heart-breaking sincerity, "Only envy you."
"I do not believe my lot is one anyone has ever envied."
Their eyes met briefly, then she snorted, "I sound dreadfully begrudging." Aline lifted her hand free of his grip again.
"Friends should be honest with one another." Alec insisted by way of reassurance.
The rumble of approaching voices warned them of an impending end to their brief privacy. Aline dipped a small curtsey in farewell. "We can be that for one another, in the very least" she agreed.
-000000000000000-
At least once or twice each week, Valentine sent for Isabelle of an evening.
She never declined an invitation and she never permitted herself to arrive late. Nor did she allow herself to suffer the indignity of loitering on Valentine's threshold too early, awaiting admittance. Isabelle arrived each night precisely on the stroke of the eighth hour.
What was the alternative? Flee back to Castle Adamant and rot, forever a burden to her brothers? Refusing to play because she didn't like the rules of this game was not an option. Isabelle had seen and done enough in her nineteen years to understand that. All she could do was flutter her lashes and do as best she could what few cards these powerful men let her hold.
Although she discovered it was no toil to spend an hour or two with Valentine.
She would have expected her comings and goings to raise comment, she had anticipated that sooner or later either Clary or Jocelyn would come out and question her. They must all wonder what it was the King of Idris and Isabelle did on these evenings. Except, like all else Isabelle did of late, it went completely unnoticed.
Valentine seemed to be the only one to remember she existed. So whenever he requested her company, she granted it. Valentine would pour her a glass of the cellar's finest wine and then the two of them would discuss, with startlingly comfortable lulls and starts, anything they wished.
They talked of their favourite horses in the stables and the Spanish Emperor. They discussed the renovations of the King's palace upriver and the promotion of a new bishop. On all these matters great and small Valentine listened to her.
Not once did Isabelle feel stupid, or insignificant. Usually when Jace and Alec, or even Jace and Clary got into heated conversation or debate, Isabelle kept her head down and her mouth shut. Fearful that she did not know enough of anything and would expose a laughable ignorance if she did venture an opinion. Her mother had taught her to dance while Jocelyn taught Clary five languages. Her lessons had been in needlework and housekeeping when Jace and Alec learned philosophy and theology.
What Isabelle had learned was how to charm important men. How to sing, and smile, and simper. Although the last had never come easily to her.
Not, Isabelle realised, that she felt she needed to with Valentine. He did not laugh at her but he did not flatter her either. She was hardly one of the age's great thinkers and the King had a palace full of better-informed minds if he seriously wished to debate policy. If they did drift into some topic which was foreign territory to her, Valentine would pause to explain it succinctly.
Never did he tell her that she was beautiful, or desirable, or anything else a man might presume a young woman should wish to hear. In fact, Isabelle did not think he had breathed a compliment to her at all. Not since the first of their meetings.
They were forthright; he wanted something of her, something Isabelle was not inclined to do. There was no wrangling, no argument. Isabelle had thought Valentine would be unrelenting, that he might lock her up and beat her into agreement. He never even threatened to.
Jonathan had scuttled back to Estoncurt at the end of that odd hunt (the events of which often played on Isabelle's mind in moments of solitude). In his absence the urgency of Valentine' scheme appeared to have cooled. They never spoke of the Crown Prince. They did not talk about the Brocelands either.
Sometime, as the weeks went by and their appointments never lessened nor ceased, Isabelle began to flatter herself. That Valentine's interest was her. She began to flatter herself that perhaps Valentine just felt glad to have someone to talk to too. For Isabelle, though she was neither stupid nor completely innocent, during those long, otherwise lonely spring weeks, it was delightful to feel valued for something.
Realising that she should- and could- wait no longer, Clary contrived a supper alone with her husband.
It was odd that she now needed to go out of her way to arrange a meal together. Valentine kept Jace busier than ever. His duties lay in a different world to hers, and the King seemed to relish being able to summon his servants with a snap of his fingers: hawking them out of beds, away from plates, likely even from the privy if he wished it. Whenever that call came, they must come serve at once.
Her father had always been demanding but of late Valentine had become erratic with his councillors. He was paranoid, sensing discord and dissent in every corner. Imagining heretics and traitors everywhere he looked; both outside and within his borders. Jace saw more of this side of court than she did. Clary could plot and dwell as much as she would, yet there was very little she could really do from day to day.
She was tasked with the running of the faraway Chatton estate; with making sure the servants were paid, of hatching betrothals among her women, patronising the arts and overseeing the household of her infant daughter downriver. Of course her most crucial duty of all remained the producing of more heirs.
Though it struck Clary as folly that her daughter need have her own household at Havenfoile while she was less than a year old, she could begrudgingly accept this was the way of things. There was a point to ensuring Isabella's upbringing was befitting of a Princess in every way- for all their futures and indeed their lives may one day depend on it. If Clary and Jace's daughter was raised every inch a royal heir then their son could be too. Then there would be fewer complaints their boy was unfit to rule when he followed.
Clary drew a long sip of claret before she returned her glass to the table heavily. She resumed her half-hearted nudging at the beef cutlets before her. Even without strained thoughts of how she missed her daughter and feared the future, she found herself with little appetite for the here and now.
Nor did Jace it would seem. He had barely touched his plate either.
He muttered to himself under his breath as he flipped over the letter in his hand, pushing his hand absently through his hair, combing it back from a forehead slipping to a frown.
Clary plopped some of the meat into her mouth and chewed woodenly. It was of the finest cut and perfectly cooked, as always. His Majesty insisted that the Brocelands share his personal kitchen. It was no empty gesture, for naught with her father ever was, but it meant that every morsel that passed Clary's mouth had undergone the same rigorous examinations and tests for poison as Valentine's. There could be no risk of such harm befalling Clary or her husband. Not while they still had a vital service to render to the Crown.
Impatient with being ignored, Clary cleared her throat. "However pressing the matter, you are of no use to anyone if you waste away."
Jace glanced over to her, struggling to detach his mind from his task quick enough to grasp her meaning. Clary gestured with her fork to his cooling supper, "The world will not end if you stop a little while to eat."
Jace chortled but agreed to let down his papers, though he still did not reach for the cutlery. "Forgive me. I mean not to neglect you. The King has me heading a new water commission which is long overdue. I've been charged with investigating a means of revitalising old Roman plumbing methods for cleaner water in Alicante." He tapped the small pile of paper beneath his left hand, "I was the one who pressed for it, yet I fear there are not enough hours in the day for me to add it to my already somewhat overextended list of jobs."
Clary reached over to pour him some more wine. She had dismissed the servants long ago so that she might have this conversation. If Jace were too busy contemplating the flow of the Princewater river, she would have to strive more than she had anticipated to redirect the flow of their discussion.
"You work too hard, as always. You give too much."
"Not nearly enough," Jace countered with a sigh, twisting a ring on his finger. Finding a smile for her, he accepted the drink and leaning back in his seat. He rubbed at his eyes, a gesture Clary had noticed Isabella mirroring on her latest visit to Havenfoile a week ago. Her little hands began to stray to her eyes and face when she was tired too.
Clary twiddled with the fringing of her sleeves under the table. She had imagined and reimagined how this moment might come for weeks now and had been so determined to be bright and brave. Now they were here, alone at last, she found the enthusiasm she had been aiming for remained just beyond her reach.
Jace meanwhile, was doing his best to make up for his prior detachment, "How are matters in your world?" He enquired, tucking into his food at last. By now it was sure to be stone cold. In true male fashion, her husband wolfed it down anyway. The amusement of the observation banished her unease briefly, enough that Clary could muster a tiny smile before Jace hared on, "Are your ladies still prevailing on you for a masque?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you should relent. Pursue the easy life. Not that I myself have ever practised my preaching on that count. What of your mother? How does she fare these days?" He asked of the Queen with delicate politeness, which Clary appreciated. Although she and Jocelyn had reconciled, Jace and her mother continued to dance around one another. Civil in conversation, but no serious warmth had bloomed in their relationship.
Jace did not want to discuss her mother, not truly, and neither did Clary.
"It feels as though we have not spoken properly in weeks. I do not want to talk about any of that."
Having made short work of his meal, Jace dabbed at his mouth and lifted an eyebrow. He returned his cloth to his lap with a rustle, "What do you wish to talk of then?" Detecting Clary's distracted tension at last, he spoke tentatively, in fear of stoking up a fight. She had been snappish with him of late.
Clary sighed, letting her eyes dart down to the table momentarily, then she braced herself and lifted her head, making sure to look him in the eye with the pronouncement this time.
"I am with child," She paused, "Again."
Surprise flickered across Jace's face. Just as quickly, a heartbeat later his eyes lit up and he began to beam. Then, he read the tightness of her face and his shining smile faltered. "Clary- this a good thing, surely?"
She felt her face begin to crack. Of course, he was thrilled, why should he not be? Clary dropped her head and bade herself draw deep breaths. The knot in her chest refused to loosen.
"Yes. It is. Of course it is."
She heard the creak of his seat as Jace rose and skirted the small, round table in their parlour until he reached her. His fingers were warm as, gently, he lifted her chin. His face was just as warm, though the concern in it caused something else to crack inside her.
"It is so soon," Clary said helplessly, "It feels like scarce a moment since Isabella was born! I have yet to catch my breath. I am barely growing used to being her mother and now I learn there is to be another. That it must all be done again! Already!" Her words tumbled out, each tripping over the other in her desperate, frantic haste.
Jace fell to a crouch before her, sliding his hands down to cover hers, where they lay clenched tight. "This child, any child is a gift. One we are fortunate to have, no?"
"I know that!" Clary struggled to fight her simmering frustration. He did not understand her. How could he? He was not sitting where she was; facing down the prospect of perhaps another twenty-five childbearing years. Wondering if this was what the rest of her married life was like to be. Another baby every other year? Endless pregnancies and discomfort? More of her life spent in the confinement chamber than out of it? The prospect was crushing.
"I am grateful. I am also afraid. Afraid that this is to be my life now. It is not that I do not want to carry your children. Isabella is more precious to me than anything. I'm just worried that all I shall ever do hereafter is produce babies. Fearing this could be the time when aught goes amiss that cannot be mended and I end my days in childbed. That it shall be all I ever amount to." A body. Only of worth as a womb.
As she tore on through her speech, the first tears began to leak out. Clary's whole body started to shake.
Jace brushed her tears off gently, astonished. "Darling! You must know that is not the case. You are of inestimable value to me." He gave her the darting ghost of a kiss, then drew back, swiping his thumbs over her dampened cheeks. "Nor can we waste away our lives forever fearing the worst. You told me over and over yourself when you were last with child; you are young and healthy. Above all, now you have the benefit of having come through it all before. You must know that the King will see to it personally that you have the best care money and princes can buy."
Clary swallowed, reassured to some extent that he would so fervently voice the means with which she had sought to comfort herself. On another level, she despaired. Jace was right, but she failed to see her fears as unreasonable. Now it was becoming apparent that he would never see the matter as she did. He did not know how difficult the carrying and birthing of a child really was. That wasn't his fault, he'd been excluded at Isabella's birth. Every worry or embarrassment she'd had last time she'd turned to her waiting women with, sparing Jace her fears and the less charmed aspects of pregnancy.
That didn't do much to change the way Clary felt. When had it started to seem that with every important conversation, she was talking at Jace instead of to him?
She lifted her chin and attempted a smile, "My father will be delighted." Valentine would be thrilled enough to make up for any reservations Clary had. Mayhap less thrilled and more vindicated. Proof that the setback of Isabella's birth and been just that- a momentary setback.
"Almost as much as I am" Jace smiled against her mouth, planting more kisses against her nose and then on the back of their entwined hands.
"Come now," he continued, straightening up and pulling Clary to her feet alongside him, "You and I have both heard enough bad news by now to know that this is not such."
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Broceland Forest, May 1539
The weather finally brightened, the King's daughter's belly began to swell and the world stood still.
At the last moment, Valentine declared there would be no summer progress this year.
He was reluctant to move Clary, who was due to give birth at the start of October. However he was even more reluctant to move without her. Instead ,the King decreed that he would remain with her in the capital. The wider circles of the court were discharged to their country estates in the meantime, saving the Duke of Broceland who remained with the King.
And yet, Princewater, Chapeltoute, even the Gard- they were all too clustered close to the city, where there might be plague, fire, unrest. The King was much vexed, for a while, trying to decide whether the risk of his pregnant daughter staying or going from the city was greater. In the end, the Cardinal had stepped in with a solution. He offered the King his own private residence, Banc Palace, just to the west of the city. Large enough and removed enough that it seemed a safe retreat.
It was presumed by the court and kingdom that the Duchess was suffering a difficult pregnancy. In fact, Clary was doing well, though oft swinging between irritation and melancholy. Even prior to her official confinement she was pressed upon to remain in her rooms. Her every waking moment was tailed and she was no longer permitted to descend the stairs without someone's arm to lean on. As far as her father was concerned, she was now made of the finest, fraughtest glass. Small wonder she grew irksome.
Jace, who was allowed a little more freedom, made the most of it. He rode out to his estates more frequently, where the spring's rainstorms still tarried. Not just to Chatton but also to Durre Castle, where much progress had been made. It now seemed not only hospitable but a potentially formidable keep.
Valentine's unease of late was catching, and Jace was beginning to see the virtue of building strong walls. Especially now he had much worth protecting. An ever-expanding family.
Clary was doing well, all the midwives and physicians concurred. Once again, every astrologer dragged before Valentine promised a grandson; a continuation of His Majesty's great line. Though, Clary, who always seemed distracted and reticent, did not seem to hear all these favourable auguries. Neither did Valentine.
If his expectation had been taut before, this time it was at a fever-pitch. He would not be soothed, he would not be consoled. Not until he had a grandson healthy in his arms.
Though Clary and Jace were both still young and healthy, and Jace could not understand the urgency.
It almost made him think… but no. They had time, plenty of it.
He was blessed. Jace counted his blessings with each rolling stride of his horse through Broceland forest.
He had his beloved Clary and their precious Isabella, rosy cheeked and giggling in her nursery. On his last visit to Havenfoile, Isabella had been most animated, running around at his heels. Reaching up for him and calling out "Papa" in that determined little voice and with expectant, waving arms. He'd marvelled in the firmness of her grip on his hand as she guided him, tottering up and down the length of her playroom and regaling him with a babble of nonsense stories. Though she was still too young to understand it, she'd soon have a sibling to play with.
Isabella was the picture of health and happy childhood. Nothing would befall her, for Jace would not allow it.
It was for Isabella, Clary, and his unborn baby as much as his own piece of mind that Jace had contrived this expedition into Broceland forest in the first instance. He'd tackle the devil with his bare hands to keep them safe.
There was little use in pretending this was a friendly visit as he slowed to a trot under the convent gates. He'd had some notion as he had scrambled this plan together on the short ride over, of presenting himself as a lord merely curious about the fortunes of the convent. A penitent sinner who wanted to see the good deeds down in his duchy. It was a screen unlikely to hold up for very long. In the few years he had been Duke, Jace had not looked at the convent once. Any dealings to be had with it and the Broceland name had been diligently and fondly tended to by Clary.
He had little hope of fooling the nuns when he could not fool himself. He needed see for himself this bitter widow who might wish his children harm. Today he needed to see that Amatis was just a woman and a holy one, who did not issue Amatis had opened some channel of communication with Clary and thought to befriend her did not sit well with Jace. He could not sit on his backside worrying about this anymore.
It was odd, to see first-hand the place where Clary had grown up. To think, she had been hidden away on his family's ancestral land for all those years. It would seem the strings of fate had never let them stray too far from one another.
The convent itself was an unremarkable collection of squat stone buildings, their bricks stained brown from the mud and the rain. It was all sheltered behind a wall; more a means of keeping the minds of the nuns separate rather than a means of keeping intruders out. No one was vile enough to attack a holy house. Its grounds were sacrosanct. The gate was perpetually open to any weary travellers who needed a rest and to any pilgrims who needed to pray. To anyone at all who needed peace and solitude. Or safety.
Jace ducked under the low hanging gateway and then drew his horse, a nameless bay he had taken from the King's stable to let Wayfarer recover, to an uncertain halt. He dismounted, and despite the steady shower, felt the need to take off his hat. It seemed courteous, somehow. Jace was hardly the most pious and even were this convent not home to his father's first, cruelly wronged wife, he was not sure he would have known how to behave. The Lightwoods, though they made all the necessary religious observances, were not an overly observant household. Jace had never had cause to personally set foot in a monastic house before. He had not expected it to seem so open, so ordinary.
There were hooded nuns carrying baskets of bread and vegetables across the yard, jogging to avoid the rain, who paid him no mind. There was a tired looking mule tethered not far away, ears twitching forlornly. Several chickens pecked and clucked their way about the yard.
Jace knotted his hands in the reins he tugged over his horse's head. The bay chewed on his bit thoughtfully while Jace waited for someone to notice him and approach. Jace scratched his head a little nervously, feeling the raindrops trickle down into the corners of his eyes. By the time he had blinked them away a round faced, brown eyed nun had appeared before him. "Might I help you, my lord?" She was well spoken, though rather plain faced. Although, Jace reasoned, the huge jutting grey robes and wimple hardly conspired to make a girl seem pretty. Then again, nuns were not exactly women. They existed apart, in another untouchable category, these brides of Christ. He wasn't supposed to find them attractive.
The rabble of his mind betrayed just how ill at ease Jace felt. He unclenched his jaw and tried to focus. "I wondered if I might speak with Ama- Sister Agnes?"
If the request seemed odd, the nun did not show it. She nodded peaceably and beckoned. "Please, Your Grace, come." She knew who he was then. Or had placed a very good guess.
Obediently, with the sense he was about to be ushered unwillingly to bath time by a stern nursemaid, Jace relinquished his horse and followed her.
She led him through a maze of stone hallways, each as bland and nondescript as the last. They were decorated only by the occasional crucifix. It would hardly be worth dissolving, Jace thought treacherously. He tried to think of Clary instead, to imagine the bright, inquisitive little girl she must have been when she'd lived here. She always spoke of the convent with such fondness, telling him how she'd relished the sisterhood and the routine. Yet try as he might, Jace couldn't picture her happy here. It just seemed so grey, so grim, so stifling. It seemed at odds with the colour Clary brought to everything, with her laughter and her joy.
Jace realised he was being ushered into a small walled garden. With a creak, his guide nudged the gate over behind them. "Sister Agnes!" She called over an alert of their presence.
Jace stood very still, cap clutched between numb fingers, as the woman crouching over the soil beds with her wooden rake straightened slowly and turned around. She was in a habit, just like all the others. Except her garb was offset by a pair of comically oversized gloves and a wide brimmed straw hat. It was quite the combination.
She moved toward them slowly, a little stiffly. Only when she drew close enough to properly see Jace's face did she stop, her face draining of what little colour it had held.
Whatever introductory speech Jace had begun crafting in his mind's eye curled up and dissipated.
Her eyes were the same hue of blue as Luke's. She was only a few years older than her brother, yet her face was heavily lined. Her lower lip trembled.
"My God," She gasped at last, tearfully. "You look just like your father."
-000000000000000-
The worst of the rain passed by as they talked. Agnes had drawn Jace into the shelter of the thickest wall, where there was a low bench which they could sit on. She also offered him some measly looking apples to eat, which Jace politely declined.
"You wrote to my wife," he told her, neither an accusation nor a question. Just the only thing by way of an explanation Jace had as to why he had come here now.
"Yes," Agnes conceded. "I thought about her often when I first arrived. Jocelyn Fairchild's daughter. They still speak of her with such affection, my sisters. They know that her life is very different to theirs but they pray for her. They still think of her as one of their own. The sister or daughter they never had."
Jace scrubbed at his face, a childish tic, at the mention of unborn children. "I came here for my wife. For my daughter. I wanted…" He trailed off. It was unlike him to be tongue tied. He didn't know why he was here, anymore. He had wanted to see Agnes, to speak to her, but found he had little to say. She just nodded along, as though she understood.
He'd been thinking to find her muttering over potions and poisons. Not scraping and weeding in a garden she plainly tended carefully. He thought she might spit and damn him on sight.
"I-" Both Jace and Agnes began at the same time, broke off embarrassed, and frantically gestured for the other to speak first. Finally, Agnes conceded, "I have thought of you too, you know. All these years. Quite often. I imagined that you might look like my Stephen, that you would have his smile and his wit. You do it would seem have his looks at least" she began, scrutinising Jace closely, "I think, now I have spent some time with you, you must favour your mother." It was said without a flicker of bitterness. Just wonder and curiosity.
"I never knew my mother" Jace found himself saying, by way of apology, mayhap. "Or my father, of course." He didn't return Agnes's gaze but kept staring ahead to the neatly tended hedgerows. He wondered what it was about her waiting silence, the quiet hush of the garden around them, that simple expression of wonder and kindness on the nun's face, whenever Jace dared look at it. It made him feel as though he were in a confessional. "And I've been angry," he heard himself say, "For a very long time. At both of them. Him, especially. For being weak, and proud, and stupid." Jace was silent again for a moment. Agnes did not break his thoughts, sensing there was more to come. Jace discovered there was. "For overreaching himself in taking that great, ill-considered gamble for power and leaving me alone. I have children of my own now, and there is nothing, nothing I would not do to protect my family. But you see," he looked over at last, sadly, "My family is not like most."
"Did you not anticipate that, when you married the King's daughter?" Agnes did not sound judgemental or mocking, merely curious, "Did you not marry her to reclaim your father's duchy?"
"No," Jace said earnestly, "I love her. I just wanted her to be mine. Being made Duke of Broceland to seem more worthy of her was utterly secondary." Emotion did dance, across Agnes's face at the admission.
"I don't want to be like him. Stephen." Jace murmured. Try as he might, the term 'father' still made him think more of Valentine than Stephen Herondale. "I want to be a man who protects those he loves, who makes the right choices. I fear, every day, that I am slipping evermore into him. Things at our court are so unpredictable. Power so fickle. I worry that I might make the wrong move, selfishly or stupidly, and cost Clary and Isabella everything. I-" The admission he had almost done precisely that almost spilled out into the quiet. Jace dragged himself back from the precipice with a heavy breath, "I don't want to be like him." He repeated instead.
To his surprise, Agnes smiled softly. "Stephen was flawed, no doubt, but he not a bad man."
"You could forgive him? After everything he did to you?"
"I forgave him long ago." She admitted, "For carrying his weight around would crush the life from me. At first, I thought surely my life would wither away without him to give me meaning. I didn't know who I was without him. I too, Jace, was very angry. Angry that he did not fight for me. Angry at the choices he made after he left me. Slowly, I learned to let go. I found other things that gave life meaning. My sisters. My garden. Even my chickens." She laughed lightly. "I cursed God once, for not letting me bear Stephen's children. I thought it a punishment, especially after it proved the cause of his casting me aside. In time, I came to realise it was indeed part of God's plan for me. For your see, I never was the woman they all wanted me to be. Neither at Valentine's court or at Chatton. I was always too loud, too unruly, too emotional, too honest. I was simply not made to be the lady, nor the wife and mother. Here, I can just be what I am. Here, what I do matters. It doesn't matter that I cannot bear children for none of us can. I am still another pair of hands to help feed the convent. I am another voice to add to the prayers. I can help bathe and feed the paupers' children. I can listen to those who need kindly ears. I am, for the first time, free of anyone's expectations."
It was true, Amatis seemed at peace. That was, deep down, what Jace had hoped for. It was not what he had expected. He had thought finding her an unremarkable, ageing matron would allay his unease. Now he knew her better, Jace realised she was in fact remarkable, in a way. Not in a way that threatened him. And yet he felt no relief.
"I had expectations of you," Jace admitted, "You have defied them." He looked over to her, "I have been more honest with you today than I intended. I wonder if you might repay the favour."
"Oh?"
"Why did you write to Clary? I cannot believe it was to find out about seeds."
"I hardly know myself." Agnes plucked her gloves off, finger by finger, then laid them in her lap, "I hear so much about her. Even before I joined the sisters here. I am told all about her by my brother who writes to me from Alicante. His letters are full of her, the Princess. Jocelyn's great triumph. I have often thought of her. Upon hearing that she had wed you- the Duke of Broceland returned to greatness- I cast my hand out into the dark. I suspected if I tried writing to you, you would simply burn my letters. I thought she likely would too, but it seemed the more sensible course to try. To my surprise, Clary Herondale wrote back. She cared enough about an old, disgraced and forgotten woman enough to write back to her. Even if only to answer her question about seeds."
"Does she-"Jace cleared his throat, suspicions rising, "Does she still write to you? Has she, of late? This past fortnight, say?"
Agnes raised her thinning eyebrows, "Did you ask her not to?" She chortled to herself, talking his new silence to be an answer. Which it was. "Yes. I am afraid your Duchess has written to me even this very week, Jace. What is more, she has just backed my bid to be the next Mother Superior."
Jace exhaled. On this count, he was not surprised. "You know, sometimes I think I may as well talk to your legumes as try to tell my wife what to do."
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Banc Palace, Alicante, Summer 1539
The rain ceased. For several weeks, the heat climbed.
Every night, Valentine sweated through shirt after shirt. Some of the sweats arose from the climate but the others were cold and doubly as discomforting.
He prayed, nigh on incessantly.
For guidance, for strength. For the heavens to smile on him and his legacy. For the birth of the prince that would make it all worthwhile. That would prove his Lord had not forsaken him.
Eventually, the heaviness in the air cleaved into thunderstorms. Great, booming claps of thunder, right over the roof of the King, so great they seemed sure to shake the walls. Sudden, violent flashes of lightning through the dark violet of the late summer nights.
A sleepless Valentine prayed on, the door to his bedchamber locked from the inside.
He prayed for the way to become clear. Above all he prayed for time, as a furious downpour of rain slashed into the night. Just a little more time, to bring the baby into the world. Time to give Valentine the chance to teach him and prepare the boy to be a worthy successor. Properly, this time.
It would be a boy. It had to be.
The fate of more than a kingdom depended upon it.
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