Shogun

“My darlings: This is the first letter I’ve been able to send home since we made landfall in Japan. Things are well now that I know how to live according to their ways. The food is terrible but tonight I had pheasant and soon I’ll get my ship back again. Where to start my story? Today I’m like a feudal lord in this strange country. I have a house, a horse, eight servants, a housekeeper, my own barber, and my own interpreter. I’m clean-shaven now and shave every day—the steel razors they have here must certainly be the best in the world. My salary’s huge—enough to feed two hundred and fifty Japan families for one year. In England that’d be the equivalent of almost a thousand golden guineas a year! Ten times my salary from the Dutch company.?.?.?.”

The shoji began to open. His hand sought his pistol under the pillow and he readied, dragging himself back. Then he caught the almost imperceptible rustle of silk and a waft of perfume.

“Anjin-san?” A thread of whisper, filled with promise.

“Hai?” he asked as softly, peering into the darkness, unable to see clearly.

Footsteps came closer. There was the sound of her kneeling and the net was pulled aside and she joined him inside the enclosing net. She took his hand and lifted it to her breast, then to her lips.

“Mariko-san?”

At once fingers reached up in the darkness and touched his lips, cautioning silence. He nodded, understanding the awful risk they were taking. He held her tiny wrist and brushed it with his lips. In the pitch black his other hand sought and caressed her face. She kissed his fingers one by one. Her hair was loose and waist length now. His hands traveled her. The lovely feel of silk, nothing beneath.

Her taste was sweet. His tongue touched her teeth, then rimmed her ears, discovering her. She loosened his robe and let hers fall aside, her breathing more languorous now. She pushed closer, nestling, and pulled the covering over their heads. Then she began to love him, with hands and with lips. With more tenderness and seeking and knowledge than he had ever known.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Blackthorne awoke at dawn. Alone. At first he was sure he had been dreaming, but her perfume still lingered and he knew that it had not been a dream.

A discreet knock.

“Hai?”

“Ohayo, Anjin-san, gomen nasai.” A maid opened the shoji for Fujiko, then carried in the tray with cha and a bowl of rice gruel and sweet rice cakes.

“Ohayo, Fujiko-san, domo,” he said, thanking her. She always came with his first meal personally, opened the net and waited while he ate, and the maid laid out a fresh kimono and tabi and loincloth.

He sipped the cha, wondering if Fujiko knew about last night. Her face gave nothing away.

“Ikaga desu ka?” How are you, Blackthorne asked.

“Okagasama de genki desu, Anjin-san. Anata wa?” Very well, thank you. And you?

The maid took out his fresh clothes from the concealed cupboard that melted neatly into the rest of the paper-latticed room, then left them alone.

“Anata wa yoku nemutta ka?” Did you sleep well?

“Hai, Anjin-san, arigato gozaimashita!” She smiled, put her hand to her head pretending pain, mimed being drunk and sleeping like a stone. “Anata wa? ”

“Watashi wa yoku nemuru.” I slept very well.

She corrected him, “Watashi wa yoku nemutta.”

“Domo. Watashi wa yoku nemutta.”

“Yoi! Taihenyoi!” Good. Very good.

Then from the corridor he heard Mariko call out, “Fujiko-san?”

“Hai, Mariko-san?” Fujiko went to the shoji and opened it a crack. He could not see Mariko. And he did not understand what they were saying.

I hope no one knows, he thought. I pray it is secret, just between us. Perhaps it would be better if it had been a dream.

He began to dress. Fujiko came back and knelt to do up the catches on the tabi.

“Mariko-san? Nan ja?”

“Nane mo, Anjin-san,” she replied. It was nothing important.

She went to the tokonoma, the alcove with its hanging scroll and flower arrangement, where his swords were always put. She gave them to him. He stuck them in his belt. The swords no longer felt ridiculous to him, though he wished that he could wear them less self-consciously.

She had told him that her father had been granted the swords for bravery after a particularly bloody battle in the far north of Korea, seven years ago during the first invasion. The Japanese armies had ripped through the kingdom, victorious, slashing north. Then, when they were near the Yalu River, the Chinese hordes had abruptly poured across the border to join battle with the Japanese armies and, through the weight of their incredible numbers, had routed them. Fujiko’s father had been part of the rearguard that had covered the retreat back to the mountains north of Seoul, where they had turned and fought the battle to a stalemate. This and the second campaign had been the costliest military expedition ever undertaken. When the Taiko had died last year, Toranaga, on behalf of the Council of Regents, had at once ordered the remnants of their armies home, to the great relief of the vast majority of daimyos, who detested the Korean campaign.

Blackthorne walked out to the veranda. He stepped into his thongs and nodded to his servants, who had been assembled in a neat line to bow him off, as was custom.

It was a drab day. The sky was overcast and a warm wet wind came off the sea. The steppingstones that were set into the gravel of the path were wet with the rain that had fallen in the night.

Beyond the gate were the horses and his ten samurai outriders. And Mariko.

She was already mounted and wore a pale yellow mantle over pale green silk trousers, a wide-brimmed hat and veil held with yellow ribbons, and gloves. A rain parasol was ready in its saddle-sheath.

“Ohayo,” he said formally. “Ohayo, Mariko-san.”

“Ohayo, Anjin-san. Ikaga desu ka?”

“Okagesama de genki desu. Anata wa?”

She smiled. “Yoi, arigato gozaimashita.”

She gave not the faintest hint that anything was different between them. But he expected none, not in public, knowing how dangerous the situation was. Her perfume came over him and he would have liked to kiss her here, in front of everyone.

“Ikimasho!” he said and swung into the saddle, motioning the samurai to ride off ahead. He walked his horse leisurely and Mariko fell into place beside him. When they were alone, he relaxed.

“Mariko.”

“Hai?”

Then he said in Latin, “Thou art beautiful and I love thee.”

“I thank thee, but so much wine last night makes my head to feel not beautiful today, not in truth, and love is a Christian word.”

“Thou art beautiful and Christian, and wine could not touch thee.”

“Thank thee for the lie, Anjin-san, yes, thank thee.”

“No. I should thank thee.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Never ‘why,’ no ‘why’. I thank thee sincerely.”

“If wine and meat make thee so warm and fine and gallant,” she said, “then I must tell thy consort to move the heaven and the earth to obtain them for thee every evening.”

“Yes. I would have everything the same, always.”