The Last Concubine (43 page)

His eyes were shining with a fiery, devil-may-care madness – as if nothing mattered any more, as if he could see death holding out its arms, waiting to take him in its icy embrace. She had thought he would stop, speak, say something, but he walked straight up to her.

‘You,’ he said softly. The sound of his voice, gruff and tender, sent a shiver through her.

He pulled her towards him. She could feel the firmness of his body pressing against hers, crushing her. She felt his heat, smelt the salt of his sweat.

He pressed his face to her hair. Then he ran his lips greedily across her ear and the back of her neck as if he was going to eat her. The sensation of his mouth on her skin made her shudder. Almost fainting, she let her body fall against his. She was aware of nothing but a burning desire to be one with him.

Somewhere in the depths of her mind she was aware that decent women didn’t behave this way. Maybe in the pleasure quarters, but not samurai and certainly not court ladies. But her
mother . . . She had to save herself. She would not repeat the pattern, she would not.

‘Stop, stop,’ she gasped. ‘I’ll be . . . ruined.’

He took a deep breath and stepped back, gazing at her.

‘We don’t have much time. I had to dodge a gang of southern soldiers heading for the castle. You need to get back inside. It’s too dangerous out here.’

He grinned at her, that conspiratorial grin of his. She was aware of how different she must look in her nun’s robes, even though it was nearly dark and she had thrown a cloak over them. She was dressed as she had been when he first saw her.

‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ she whispered.

‘I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve thought of nothing but you. How can I be a soldier when you turn me into a woman?’

‘I missed you.’

They stood in silence, held in each other’s gaze.

‘We’re alike,’ he said, ‘you and I. All . . . this.’ He gestured at the castle ramparts and the great white-walled fortifications looming on the other side of the moat. ‘We’re outside it. I ride alone. You do too. I still don’t know who or what you are, but I know that.’

For a moment she wanted to tell him everything – that she was the Retired Lady Shoko-in, the concubine of the late shogun, that she had taken holy orders. That she was the daughter of another concubine, of the Lady Okoto. But he was soon to die and they would never meet again.

‘Everyone is mad for bloodshed, mad for war,’ he said. ‘Only I have anything else on my mind. But . . .’ In the dying light she could see his eyes flash. ‘I shall fight all the better. I shall fight for you.’

He took her in his arms again and everything faded away. There were just the two of them, standing on the bridge while above them the moon shone, reflected in the water rippling below. In the whole universe there was only her and Shinzaemon.

Footsteps were approaching. There were shadowy figures at the top of the rise, approaching along the road. She realized the door in the gate would shut at any moment.

He took something from his belt.

‘Take this,’ he said, reluctantly drawing apart. ‘For you. A keepsake. The clasp of my tobacco pouch.’

She felt the rough skin of his hands on hers as he closed her fingers around it. It was small and heavy, like a pebble, and warm with the warmth of his body. Tears welled in her eyes.

‘I have to get back,’ he said.

‘To Kanei-ji Temple?’

He nodded. ‘On Ueno Hill. The retired shogun, Lord Yoshinobu, is there. There are thousands of us. We have men up in the hills, picking off the southerners, holding them off for as long as we can. I can’t wait to feel my sword cutting southern flesh again. We’ll put His Majesty back where he belongs, up there in the castle. It’ll be glorious!’

He held her with his eyes.

‘I look forward to the honour of dying in battle for my lord. But if I survive I shall come and find you.’

She nodded, her lips trembling.

‘I’ll wait for you – in this world or the next,’ she said.

Reluctantly she turned and ran back up the bridge to the great gate of the castle. As she pushed the door, it creaked open. She looked back and saw him standing on the bridge still, a dark shape, keeping watch. She bowed. He raised his hand and strode away.

Safely inside the gate she opened her hand. Taki held up a lantern. He had given her a
netsuke
, a wooden toggle, carved in the shape of a monkey. His birth year. She held it to her nose. It smelt of him, his body.

Tears filled her eyes and poured in a hot stream down her cheeks. If he had asked her to run away with him . . . What might she have done? She told herself sternly not to be so foolish. They had made their farewells. They had had their last moment together. There was nothing left now to look forward to but death – his . . . and hers.

V

Sachi ground a little more ink then dipped her brush and wrote some characters in a few elegant strokes, letting the brush rise and fall like a plover in flight. She should have been composing her death poem, but instead the passionate lines of the Heian-period poetess Ono no Komachi thrummed insistently in her mind:

‘One waking glimpse of you yourself . . .’ One moment of closeness. As she wrote, she was back on the bridge. She could feel Shinzaemon’s arms around her, the muscles of his body pressed against hers, his lips rough on her neck. The fact they might never meet again made it all the more poignant.

She looked at Taki. They had been through so much together. She was such a tiny, thin little creature, like a bundle of sticks inside her clothes. Yet she was so strong, so indomitable, so dependable. She was like a sister – as Haru had been for her mother.

Taki was frowning at her. ‘She’s not you,’ she said severely. ‘Your mother. That was a long time ago. She was a samurai’s spoilt daughter. You’re different. You grew up in the countryside, your parents were down-to-earth people. Don’t let Haru’s story confuse you.’

Then she smiled and looked down. ‘But who am I to talk?’ she said, blushing. ‘Look at me, I’m just as foolish.’ She whispered hesitantly as if she almost dared not ask, ‘Did Shin . . . have any message for me?’

Sachi took a breath. ‘Toranosuké sends greetings and says he’s thinking of you,’ she said. It was a lie, but she needed to tell it. It was what Taki needed to hear.

Taki nodded, satisfied. Then her eyes opened wide. She tipped her head to one side like a bird and took a breath.

‘Listen,’ she said.

Somewhere in the distance they could hear footsteps. People were walking through the empty rooms, not scurrying like women or sliding their feet deferentially like courtiers but
moving, many of them, with an urgent heavy tread. There were voices too, loud, deep voices. Men’s voices. And laughter, men’s laughter.

Men? In the women’s palace? But that was . . . impossible.

The door slid open. Haru was outside. Her plump face was drawn, her lips trembling.

‘Her Highness requires your presence immediately.’

Women were emerging from the depths of the palace, the younger ones like great flowers in their full-skirted, brilliantly coloured kimonos, the older ones autumn leaves in sere drab colours. Lady Honju-in appeared, hobbling along, more tiny and withered than ever. Of her three hundred aged ladies-in-waiting, there were only two left. The Old Crow, the princess’s mother, shuffled in too, accompanied by a single attendant. Without their pomp and finery they were just tired old ladies, sallow-skinned and wrinkled. But their faces were alight with a fierce joy, as if they could already see their heroic deaths. Sachi hadn’t realized there were so many women left in the palace.

They flocked towards the great hall, the heavy trains of their robes swishing along the tatami mats with a sound like waves breaking on a distant shore, and took their places inside on their knees.

The princess and the Retired One knelt on a dais at the far end of the room. On the wall behind them a gnarled cherry tree spread its branches, covered in clouds of pink blossom. It was so perfectly painted that if it hadn’t been for the background of glimmering gold leaf you might have thought it was a real tree. It spoke of life but on their faces there was nothing but death. They knelt like statues, ominously calm.

A hush fell over the room. The Retired One drew herself up. Her face seemed to have sunk until it was nothing but bone, yet her eyes gleamed feverishly like coals. A vein throbbed in her neck.

‘My ladies. It’s over for the women’s palace – for us, for our world, for our way of life. This great castle, this life of beauty we have led, these traditions we have preserved for hundreds of years, ever since the days of the first shogun, Lord Ieyasu, are at an end.

‘Edo Castle . . . is to be surrendered. It is to be evacuated within seven days. The imperial envoys have arrived. They have read out
the terms of surrender in the Great Audience Hall of the Main Citadel. They will be here at any moment to demand our compliance.’

Stifled gasps and sobs filled the hall.

‘Surrender?’ It was Lady Honju-in’s croaky old voice. ‘Whoever heard of such a thing? You, daughter-in-law,’ she shrilled, shaking a gnarled finger at the Retired One. ‘You should be the last to accept such ignominy. Give ourselves up to the enemy? Never! We’ve been betrayed. But there is still time. Ladies, we must kill ourselves now!’

The Retired One grew paler still. ‘On the orders of His Majesty the retired shogun, Lord Yoshinobu,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘we are denied the privilege of suicide. We have no choice but to obey. We are to leave without a fight.’

‘Like dogs, with our tails between our legs!’ snarled Lady Honju-in. At her age she could say what she liked. ‘The Two-Faced One, up to his tricks again. Hardly a surprise.’

Sachi could hardly breathe. Her heart was pounding, her throat constricted, her breath coming in short gasps.

To Lady Honju-in, to surrender was the ultimate disgrace, to die with honour what every samurai yearned for. But Lady Honju-in was old. Things were different now, Sachi could see that. The shogun was no longer at the head of his troops. He was in hiding and had already surrendered. So why should the castle hold out? Why should they fight and die for a shogun who was not prepared to die himself?

She looked around at the princess and the Retired One and the women. The princess was deathly white, so pale Sachi was afraid she would faint. The glorious destiny they had foreseen for themselves had been ripped from their grasp. There was defiance on every face, yet they were the shogun’s household, bound to him for ever and they would do whatever he ordered them to do. In the past they had shared in his wealth and power and glory. Now they would share in his disgrace. It would have been better by far if they had died.

Sachi understood all this. But deep inside she felt something else so shameful she hardly dared acknowledge it, even to herself. It was a kind of relief. She was going to live.

The shuffle of footsteps grew louder and stopped right outside. The doors slid open.

As one the women dropped their heads, as if afraid that if they glimpsed the enemy even for a moment they would be turned to stone. No man but the shogun had ever seen their faces. It was unthinkable to let these hateful intruders violate them with their eyes. There was to be not a sound – not a sob, not a sniffle. They still had their pride, at least. But though their eyes were cast down, every hair on the back of every neck was prickling. Everyone was determined that the arch of their backs should communicate not deference but defiance.

Sachi stared hard at the tatami as men swaggered in, their voices incongruously loud in the hush. A complicated mix of odours swirled in with them. She made out a delicate perfume redolent of the imperial court, so there were imperial envoys present. But it was overwhelmed by earthier smells – the stench of sweat mixed with tobacco smoke, of leather, horses, dirty clothes. It was the reek of samurai of the lower ranks. She wrinkled her nose as the sharp tang of clove oil assailed her nostrils. The oil that was used for polishing swords. How could that be? It must mean . . . Surely even ruffians like these could not be so ignorant as to wear their swords in the women’s palace!

At least she had mixed with men on her travels, she thought; it was not such a shock for her. But these women had not been near a man for twenty or thirty years or even more, and in all those years the only man they had ever glimpsed had been the exquisitely perfumed shogun. For them the contrast between those days of culture and beauty and the grim reality of the present must be almost too much to bear.

A voice grunted in a gruff southern burr so outlandish it was almost impossible to understand him.

‘Well, ‘ere we are . . . er . . . ladies.’

The women froze. There were stifled gasps, a few horrified titters. He didn’t even know the proper language to use to address ladies of rank. And these were to be their new masters. Victors or not, for such lowly men to set foot inside the palace and look upon the most powerful women in the land, beautiful enough to have been chosen for the shogun’s household . . . If Sachi had not
been present she would never have believed it. Before this war, men such as these could never have dreamed of finding themselves in such a place. The man even sounded a little awestruck, as indeed he should.

‘As from now, Edo Castle belongs to the emperor . . .’ It was one of the envoys, speaking in the formal language of the court. ‘The castle is to be handed over to the imperial troops. We are taking possession of it in seven days. The ladies are required to leave.’