Later Akitada had little recollection of how he had crossed the yard and collapsed on the bare floor of his small room. He passed out or fell asleep, and did not return to full consciousness until a touch on his bruised head made him jerk away. This movement caused such a jangling and ringing in his head that he sucked in his breath and closed his eyes again.
But not before he had caught a glimpse of Masako’s face, bent over him with an intense look of concern on her pretty features.
“What happened to you, Taketsuna?” she asked, her voice trembling and cool fingertips touching his cheek. The gentle caress almost brought tears to his eyes, and he snatched at her hand. After a moment, she pulled it from his grasp. “Can you speak?” she asked.
“I . . . yes. It was all a misunderstanding. Yutaka was asleep at his desk and thought I meant him harm. He called for help and his clerks gave me a beating.”
“Oh.” She looked at him from her large, soft eyes, a spot of color in her cheeks. “We should have warned you. You see, he really was attacked last year. One of the prisoners went mad, and Yutaka got cut pretty badly. But that he should have set the clerks on you is outrageous. We must report it to the governor.
And you need a doctor.” She rose with a rustle of silk.
“No!” Akitada snatched at her hem and begged, “Please don’t mention this to Dr. Ogata or the governor. It was nothing, and Yutaka apologized. Please! I don’t want to lose my job in the archives.”
She stood, frowning in indecision. Then she nodded. “Very well. I’ll get some water and salve and see what I can do.” When the door had closed behind her, Akitada stared at it in confusion. Something had just happened between them, something that had made his heart beat faster and heated his blood.
When she had touched him, he had felt a powerful attraction to her, a desire that was more than physical. Only two women in his life had moved him this way. He had lost the first one and been wretched. The second he had taken for his wife. Perhaps the beating had robbed him of his sanity. He loved Tamako. His reaction to this girl seemed like a betrayal, and he was suddenly afraid of being alone with her, of letting her touch him again.
Sitting up, he saw his own robe lying neatly folded on the trunk in which his bedding was kept. He tried to rise, but a blinding pain shot through his skull.
He tensed at the sound of returning steps in the corridor and was ridiculously relieved when the door opened and he saw that Masako was not alone. The white-robed nun he had seen that morning in young Toshito’s cell followed her into the room.
“This is the reverend Ribata,” Masako announced, setting down a bowl of water next to Akitada. “I found her at the well and brought her because she has great skill with wounds.” Intensely aware of the girl, Akitada kept his eyes on the nun.
“Th-there was no need,” he stammered, staring into the strange black eyes, which regarded him fixedly.
“We have met,” Ribata said, in that beautiful, cultured voice of hers. “You are the new prisoner from the capital who has made himself useful to the governor.” She was well informed for an ordinary nun. But then this was no ordinary nun. She came from a background as good as his own, perhaps better. What had brought her to this godforsaken outpost in the Northern Sea?
She came forward and crouched on the floor next to him to examine his head. Her hands were so thin from age and deprivation that they looked more like the claws of some huge bird of prey. But her touch was not ungentle, though certainly more businesslike than Masako’s. The comparison was unfortunate, because it made him glance at the younger woman’s anxious face on his other side. She was leaning forward a little, and the collar of her robe revealed a smooth white neck. The soft silk hid the rest, but as she bent toward him, it was easy enough to imagine her full breasts where the fabric strained against them.
The effort to control his desire brought a frown to his face.
“Oh, you are hurting him,” cried Masako, bending over him more closely so that he could smell the scent of her hair and skin and feel the warmth from her body. “Is it serious?” Ribata sat back, her eyes resting thoughtfully first on Akitada, then on her. “No,” she said. Reaching into her sleeve, she pulled out a handful of bundled herbs. Selecting one, she said, “He has a bad headache and feels slightly feverish. Take a few of these leaves of purple violet and pour boiling water over them. Let them steep as long as it takes to recite the preamble of the lotus sutra, and then bring the infusion back.” Masako left, and Akitada said, “Thank you. It is most kind of you to trouble. I shall be well again shortly, I’m sure.” She nodded and reached for a cloth, which was soaking in the water bowl. Squeezing it out, she began to clean the dried blood from his face and scalp. “They say you killed a political enemy.”
“Yes.” He was glad the story was beginning to circulate. In the abstract it was no lie. He had killed, and killed for the same reasons as the real Taketsuna.
“What did you think of Toshito’s story?” This was strange questioning, but he decided that a nun’s life was of necessity dull. No doubt she took an avid interest in the people she met. He said cautiously, “I liked him and felt sorry for him.”
She paused in her ministrations. “You avoid an answer, so you think his case is hopeless?” Her gaze was intent, as if she willed him to deny it.
“I don’t know much about it,” he said evasively.
She nodded. “You will. You’re not a man to rest until you have the truth.”
He stared at this strange remark, but she resumed her work, firmly turning his head to the side to dab at a particularly sore area. He gritted his teeth and winced at the sharp pain.
“The girl likes you.”
“What?”
“Masako likes you. I could see it in her face and hear it in her voice. Don’t hurt her.”
“Of course not. I hardly know her.” He was glad his face was averted, for he could feel the heat of his embarrassment along with the beginnings of anger. “If you are so concerned about the young lady,” he said, “why don’t you speak to her father? Making his daughter labor like an outcast among rough criminals is cruel and wrong.”
She clicked her tongue. “All human beings have the lotus of Buddhahood within. It flourishes even in foul water.” She had finished what she was doing, and he turned to glance up at her, catching a speculative gleam in those deep-set eyes. A tiny smile formed at the corner of her thin lips and disappeared instantly.
“There may be reasons,” she said, folding away the wet cloth and putting the bowl of dirty water aside. “For example, they may be very poor and need the extra money.”
“Poor?” he scoffed. “Yamada is a man of rank and good family. He has his salary and probably also family income.
How could he be poor enough to treat his only child this way?”
“Masako is not his only child. Yamada has a son in the northern army. He is very proud of him. The boy has distinguished himself and has hopes of a fine military career.”
“Then he cares more about his son than his daughter,” Akitada charged. “As if it were not enough that she is confined to this island where suitable husbands must be singularly lacking-” He stopped abruptly and flushed.
Ribata gave him a sharp glance, and he felt angrier than ever.
Closing his mouth firmly before his temper caused him to say too much, he glared at the ceiling.
When she spoke, her voice was sad. “Sometimes events happen which force us to make cruel choices.” Masako returned with a steaming bowl. He drank the pun-gent, vile-tasting brew and was reminded of Seimei and home.
Ribata’s ministrations had turned the steady pain in his head to vicious pounding.
They left him after a while, and he lay there, miserable in a confusion of pain and puzzlement. After a while, he forced himself to check his robe. The stains were gone, but his papers still stiffened the lining of the collar. With a sigh of relief, he crawled back and tried to think.
He had suffered humiliation, abuse, and repeated beatings without having made the slightest progress. And now, as if this were not enough, he had allowed himself to become distracted by a girl who was of no concern to him and threatened to interfere with his task and peace of mind.
