Shogun

He nodded agreement, knowing that she would dearly like to ask many things: about the new Council and Lord Ito’s appointment and Naga’s sentence and if war would be immediate. “We’re fortunate to have your husband back with us, neh?”

Her fan stopped. “I never thought he’d escape alive. Never. I’ve said a prayer and burnt incense to his memory daily.” Buntaro had told her this morning how another contingent of Toranaga samurai had covered his retreat from the beach and he had made the outskirts of Osaka without trouble. Then, with fifty picked men and spare horses, disguised as bandits, he hastily took to the hills and lesser paths in a headlong dash for Yedo. Twice his pursuers caught up with him but there were not enough of the enemy to contain him and he fought his way through. Once he was ambushed and lost all but four men, and escaped again and went deeper into the forest, traveling by night, sleeping during the day. Berries and spring water, a little rice snatched from lonely farmhouses, then galloping on again, hunters always at his heels. It had taken him twenty days to reach Yedo. Two men had survived with him.

“It was almost a miracle,” she said. “I thought I was possessed by a kami when I saw him here beside you on the beach.”

“He’s clever. Very strong and very clever.”

“May I ask what news of Lord Hiro-matsu, Sire? And Osaka? Lady Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko?”

Noncommittal, Toranaga informed her that Hiro-matsu had arrived back at Yedo the day before he had left, though his ladies had decided to stay at Osaka, the Lady Sazuko’s health being the reason for their delay. There was no need to elaborate. Both he and Mariko knew that this was merely a face-saving formula and that General Ishido would never allow two such valuable hostages to leave now that Toranaga was out of his grasp.

“Shigata ga nai,” he said. “Karma, neh?” There’s nothing that can be done. That’s karma, isn’t it?

“Yes.”

He picked up the scroll. “Now I must read this. Thank you, Mariko-san. You’ve done very well. Please bring the Anjin-san to the fortress at dawn.”

“Sire, now that my Master is here, I will have—”

“Your husband has already agreed that while I’m here you’re to remain where you are and act as interpreter, your prime duty being to the Anjin-san for the next few days.”

“But Sire, I must set up house for my Lord. He’ll need servants and a house.”

“That will be a waste of money, time, and effort at the moment. He’ll stay with the troops—or at the Anjin- san’s house—whichever pleases him.” He noticed a flash of irritation. “Nan ja?”

“My place should be with my Master. To serve him.”

“Your place is where I want it to be. Neh?”

“Yes, please excuse me. Of course.”

“Of course.”

She left.

He read the scroll carefully. And the War Manual. Then he reread parts of the scroll. He put them both away safely and posted guards on the cabin and went aloft.

It was dawn. The day promised warmth and overcast. He canceled the meeting with the Anjin-san, as he had intended, and rode to the plateau with a hundred guards. There he collected his falconers and three hawks and hunted for twenty ri. By noon he had bagged three pheasants, two large woodcock, a hare, and a brace of quail. He sent one pheasant and the hare to the Anjin-san, the rest to the fortress. Some of his samurai were not Buddhists and he was tolerant of their eating habits. For himself he ate a little cold rice with fish paste, some pickled seaweed with slivers of ginger. Then he curled up on the ground and slept.

Now it was late afternoon and Blackthorne was in the kitchen, whistling merrily. Around him were the chief cook, assistant cook, the vegetable preparer, fish preparer, and their assistants, all smiling but inwardly mortified because their master was here in their kitchen with their mistress, also because she had told them he was going to honor them by showing them how to prepare and cook in his style. And last because of the hare.

He had already hung the pheasant under the eaves of an outhouse with careful instructions that no one, no one was to touch it but him. “Do they understand, Fujiko-san? No touching but me?” he asked with mock gravity.

“Oh, yes, Anjin-san. They all understand. So sorry, excuse me, but you should say ‘No one’s to touch it except me.’?”

“Now,” he was saying to no one in particular, “the gentle art of cooking. Lesson One.”

“Dozo gomen nasai?” Fujiko asked.

“Miru!” Watch.

Feeling young again—for one of his first chores had been to clean the game he and his brother poached at such huge risk from the estates around Chatham—he selected a long, curving knife. The sushi chef blanched. This was his favorite knife, with an especially honed edge to ensure that the slivers of raw fish were always sliced to perfection. All the staff knew this and they sucked in their breaths, smiling even more to hide their embarrassment for him, as he increased the size of his smile to hide his own shame.

Blackthorne slit the hare’s belly and neatly turned out the stomach sac and entrails. One of the younger maids heaved and fled silently. Fujiko resolved to fine her a month’s wages, wishing at the same time that she too could be a peasant and so flee with honor.

They watched, glazed, as he cut off the paws and feet, then pushed the forelegs back into the pelt, easing the skin off the legs. He did the same with the back legs and worked the pelt around to bring the naked back legs out through the belly slit, and then, with a deft jerk, he pulled the pelt over the head like a discarded winter coat. He lay the almost skinned animal on the chopping table and decapitated it, leaving the head with its staring, pathetic eyes still attached to the pelt. He turned the pelt right side out again, and put it aside. A sigh went through the kitchen. He did not hear it as he concentrated on slicing off the legs into joints and quartering the carcass. Another maid fled unnoticed.

“Now I want a pot,” Blackthorne said with a hearty grin.

No one answered him. They just stared with the same fixed smiles. He saw a large iron cauldron. It was spotless. He picked it up with bloody hands and filled it with water from a wooden container, then hung the pot over the brazier, which was set into the earthen floor in a pit surrounded by stone. He added the pieces of meat.

“Now some vegetables and spices,” he said.

“Dozo?” Fujiko asked throatily.

He did not know the Japanese words so he looked around. There were some carrots, and some roots that looked like turnips in a wooden basket. These he cleaned and cut up and added to the soup with salt and some of the dark soya sauce.

“We should have some onions and garlic and port wine.”

“Dozo?” Fujiko asked again helplessly.

“Kotoba shirimasen.” I don’t know the words.

She did not correct him, just picked up a spoon and offered it. He shook his head. “Sake,” he ordered. The assistant cook jerked into life and gave him the small wooden barrel.

“Domo.” Blackthorne poured in a cupful, then added another for good measure. He would have drunk some from the barrel but he knew that it would be bad manners, to drink it cold and without ceremony, and certainly not here in the kitchen.

“Christ Jesus, I’d love a beer,” he said.

“Dozo gozaimashita, Anjin-san?”

“Kotoba shirimasen—but this stew’s going to be great. Ichi-ban, neh?” He pointed at the hissing pot.

“Hai,” she said without conviction.

“Okuru tsukai arigato Toranaga-sama,” Blackthorne said. Send a messenger to thank Lord Toranaga. No one corrected the bad Japanese.

“Hai.” Once outside Fujiko rushed for the privy, the little hut that stood in solitary splendor near the front door in the garden. She was very sick.