The Last Concubine Page 11

  ‘I can’t see any,’ said Taki, getting bored.

  ‘Here are some,’ said Sachi, picking a couple and slipping them into her basket. The important thing was not to be too successful but to leave plenty for the other ladies to find.

  Haru came bustling over, bundled in so many layers that she looked like a big round dumpling. Her cheeks were even pinker than usual and her eyes were screwed up against the cold. She turned the large brown flat-topped matsutaké mushroom that she was holding upside down so that the fat stem stood straight up.

  ‘Look what I found,’ she said. She peeked into Sachi’s empty basket. ‘You’ll have to do better than that at pulling up mushrooms.’ She covered her mouth and shook with laughter. ‘You never heard the verse about the bride who didn’t know how to pull up a mushroom stem? This is the closest any of us will ever get to being a bride – apart from you, of course, my dear Lady of the Side Chamber! You can tell us all about mushroom stems!’

  Sachi and Taki looked at each other. Every year Haru made the same joke, but this year for the first time Sachi understood it. Hot with embarrassment, the two girls put their hands over their faces and giggled.

  Then Sachi heard the crackle of pine needles. Footsteps were approaching through the trees. A young woman dressed as a junior handmaiden was stumbling towards them, staring at the ground, chewing her lip. Her pretty pert-nosed face was pale and drawn, her eyes puffy. Her make-up was smudged, her hair roughly twisted into a knot. Her kimonos had been carelessly thrown on. Strangest of all, she was alone.

  It was Fuyu.

  Sachi looked around hastily, wondering how they could escape. But Fuyu had already reached them. Her eyes flickered downwards then up at Sachi, as if she had been overcome by an uncharacteristic bout of shyness.

  ‘So it’s you,’ she said in a dull voice.

  Sachi could not bear to look at her. She had not forgotten Fuyu’s savage attack in the training hall, nor the blow with the sandal.

  ‘You’ve done well, peasant girl,’ said Fuyu. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Your star’s gone up and mine’s gone down. There must be some destiny that joins us.’

  Sachi frowned. Was this a game? Was Fuyu playing with her? She didn’t know how to reply. Taki had grabbed her sleeve and was trying to pull her away.

  ‘I know you hate me . . . I wanted to see you,’ Fuyu mumbled, brushing her eyes with her sleeve. ‘There are things I understand now. No matter what you hear about me . . . I wish we could have talked.’

  For a moment she looked straight at Sachi. In her eyes Sachi caught a glimpse of the same wild fear she sometimes saw in the princess’s eyes, like that of a deer caught in a trap. Then Fuyu turned and rushed away distractedly as if she hardly knew where she was.

  Taki and Sachi looked at each other and laughed uneasily. It was a laugh of perplexity, not amusement. The day seemed suddenly to have grown colder and darker.

  A couple of days later, Taki came bursting into the room where Sachi sat sewing.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she gasped.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Sachi, pretending to be cross. ‘I don’t hear anything these days unless you tell me.’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ said Taki. They pulled on extra kimonos and went into the gardens. It was a chilly autumn morning and the sun cast a pale light on the rocks, ponds and pine trees. They hurried along until they came to Lapis Teahouse, as far as possible from curious ears, and huddled together on a sheltered corner of the veranda.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Sachi asked, smiling in anticipation of exciting news.

  ‘It’s Fuyu,’ said Taki. ‘She’s run away. The palace is full of it.’

  Sachi wanted to laugh with relief. Could it really be true? Was her rival really gone? Could she walk in the gardens and go to halberd class freely, without worrying about meeting her? Yet somehow she was not surprised. Fuyu had looked almost haunted the other day, as if she barely belonged to this world any longer.

  ‘It was yesterday, when Lady Onkyo-in went out to pray at the shogunal tombs,’ said Taki. ‘Fuyu was in her retinue. When it was time to leave they found she was missing. In the end they had to come back without her.’

  ‘Lady Onkyo-in . . . ?’

  ‘The one everyone calls Lady Shiga. The late Lord Iesada’s concubine – you know, old Lady Honju-in’s son, the one who . . . She was Lady Shiga before she took the veil.’

  Sachi drew her breath through her teeth and pulled her padded outer kimono tighter around her. The wind rattled the thin walls of the teahouse. A heron rose, startled, from the far side of the pond and flapped away, its white wings flashing. Somewhere, somehow she had heard of Lady Shiga, but she could not remember why or what she had done. She had a feeling that whatever it was, it had not been good.

  ‘Maybe Fuyu wandered off,’ she said slowly. ‘She was acting so strangely. It’s dangerous out there in the city. Maybe she was abducted.’

  ‘She told Yano, one of the Retired One’s maids, she was going to try to escape. She sometimes got letters in a man’s handwriting. When she failed to be chosen as lady of the side chamber, she went a bit crazy. Some of the maids say she might have got herself with child.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘She often went out with Lady Onkyo-in. You can always find opportunities if you want something badly enough and don’t care what happens. Maybe that was how she felt. She might have smuggled someone in, in one of those big luggage trunks. That’s what some of the women do sometimes.’

  ‘So they’re out searching for her?’

  ‘She’ll probably go home. Or the palace police will find her and take her home. I have a feeling we’ll hear she’s suddenly been taken ill and died. That’s what happened with a lady-in-waiting who ran off a few years ago.’

  Sachi gasped in horror. She hoped this was not her doing. She had wished for it so hard, maybe she had made it happen. But she had only wished for Fuyu to go away, not to die. Even Fuyu did not deserve such a fate.

  ‘Won’t they just bring her back?’ she asked, aghast.

  Taki shook her head.

  ‘I keep forgetting you’re not a samurai. Of course not. Women can’t just do as they please. We samurai know that. And she’s shogunal property, like us. Her whole family will be in terrible trouble. Her father will have to deal with her immediately.’

  Sachi nodded numbly. She remembered now why she had heard of Lady Shiga. Haru had mentioned her when she had told the story of the body in the palanquin. Lady Shiga had been Lady Hitsu’s lover – and perhaps her betrayer or even her murderer.

  It should have been a relief that Fuyu had gone. It meant Sachi could walk around freely without bumping into her or having to think about her any more. But in fact she thought about her more than ever. There was an unbearable mystery around her disappearance, as dark and sinister as Haru’s story of Lady Shiga and Lady Hitsu.

  Sachi was becoming aware that something was terribly wrong. Everyone seemed to know something she didn’t, and no one would tell her what it was. They seemed to think she was just a child and wouldn’t understand – or were they trying to hide something from her? She heard footsteps in the corridor, not gliding in a slow and dignified way but running, panic-stricken footsteps pattering to and fro. Shrill voices were raised, then, when they realized she was around, fell silent. It was as if she had awoken from the innocence of childhood. Suddenly she could see the flicker of fear in every eye. Perhaps it had been there all along but she had never noticed before.

  Then news arrived that the shogun was finally massing his troops and preparing to march on Choshu. One day Lady Tsuguko flung open the door to Sachi’s rooms. Sachi had never seen her so agitated.

  ‘Her Highness urgently requires your presence,’ she said breathlessly. ‘There is no need for your attendants. Only your maid of honour need accompany you.’

  She rushed Sachi and Taki along the corridors, moving so rapidly that they almost had to run to keep up, and ushered them into the princess’s p
rivate audience chamber. Princess Kazu was in her usual place on the dais with her screens arranged in front of her. Her ladies-in-waiting would normally have filled the room, but today the great chamber was empty.

  Lady Tsuguko showed Sachi to a place in the shadows at the back of the dais where her face could not be seen.

  ‘You need not speak,’ she told her, ‘but the princess wishes you to be present.’

  Sachi was still adjusting her skirts when the doors at the far end of the chamber opened. Two men were waiting there on their hands and knees. They were in formal dress, in layered black kimonos and wide pleated hakama trousers, and without their swords. They bowed in unison then slid forward until they reached the dais. Each laid a small fan on the floor in front of him, then they prostrated again and remained on their knees with their foreheads on their hands.

  Utterly astonished, Sachi stared at the gleaming pates and pomaded samurai topknots. Apart from His Majesty, they were the first men she had seen since she had come to the women’s palace. Even their smell – the sweat of their bodies, their perfume, their pomade – was unfamiliar.

  ‘Her Imperial Highness has proclaimed that the Honourable Lady of the Side Chamber should attend this meeting,’ Lady Tsuguko announced.

  After a respectful pause, one of the men raised his head and spoke, keeping his eyes respectfully on the floor.

  ‘Tadamasa Oguri, Lord of Bungo, city magistrate, treasury commissioner and commissioner of the army and navy, at your service,’ he said in soft but clear tones. ‘I am glad that Your Imperial Highness is in good health. I beg your clemency for having intruded in this unseemly way into your private quarters. I beg forgiveness too that I am obliged to attend on you without the regular quota of retainers. As Your Highness knows, I have come in secret.’

  He bowed again.

  At first Sachi too kept her eyes cast modestly downwards. But then, remembering that the men could not see her face, she peeked at them curiously.

  The one who was speaking had skin the colour of vellum and the pursed lips and refined expression of a courtier. The hands pressed to the tatami matting were as small and soft as a woman’s, the nails carefully manicured. He reminded her of the village priest, a pale, scholarly man who spent his days in the shadowy depths of the temple, bent over sutras, reading, writing and chanting.

  The other man had broad muscular shoulders and powerful wrists. The top of his head was tanned and leathery. When he looked up she caught a glimpse of a swarthy, heavy-jowled face scarred with the marks of smallpox and a mouth which creased naturally into a scowl. While the first man was like a fox, this one was a hawk.

  ‘Tadanaka Mizuno, governor of Tosa, master of Tankaku Castle in the domain of Shingu and son of Tadahira Mizuno, chamberlain to the House of Kii. I am honoured to serve you, Your Highness,’ he growled. ‘As Your Highness knows, my family has had the privilege of serving His Majesty and his ancestors for many generations.’

  He pressed his face to the ground.

  The first man spoke again. Sachi tried to concentrate but soon gave up. When she first came to the palace she had learned the lisping Kyoto dialect of the princess and her ladies and the more earthy Edo speech that the Retired One and the other ladies used. But that was women’s language. She had never met samurai, let alone heard them speak. The man’s talk was full of rough, guttural sounds and impossibly convoluted, garnished with honorifics and complicated words and phrases.

  The other man was looking at the floor, his topknot bobbing as he grunted agreement. He seemed to have a nervous tic. Every now and then his right arm would jerk back as if to draw an imaginary sword. He would place it firmly back on the floor.

  Then the princess whispered urgently to Lady Tsuguko. Lady Tsuguko moved to the edge of the screen and addressed the two men.

  ‘How long has he been ill?’ she asked, her voice harsh with fear. Sachi started. Suddenly she was paying full attention.

  Lord Oguri slid closer to the screen and leaned forward. ‘Madam,’ he said in confidential tones, ‘we are very concerned.’

  ‘Is he being properly cared for?’

  It was the princess’s own voice, a gentle high-pitched warble like the song of a bird. At the sound of the imperial tones, a tremor of shock rippled through the room. Everyone hastily prostrated.

  ‘Highness, I am here because I wanted to make sure you heard the truth before any rumours reach you. Pay no attention to what others say. Eminent doctors, the best there are, specialists both in western medicine and in Chinese medicine, are in attendance day and night. We are praying for his survival. But his illness is severe. He suffers cramps in his stomach and severe swelling of the legs and groin. He vomits frequently. He has great difficulty passing urine. He has been given boiled sarsaparilla and steam vapour treatments. He—’

  Sachi put her hands over her ears. She could not bear to hear any more. It could not be true.

  ‘Oguri, I want to know.’ The princess was speaking again, her voice shaking. ‘His illness. Is it natural?’

  Lord Oguri sucked his breath through his teeth. The hiss was loud in the silent room. Lord Mizuno’s sword arm twitched.

  ‘Well . . .’ said Lord Oguri slowly.

  ‘I see. There’s no hope then. We must all . . . We must all . . .’ Behind the screens the princess had slumped forward with her hands on her face. Tears were trickling through her fingers, spreading in a damp stain across the tatami.

  Lord Tsuguko finished her sentence. ‘We must all pray and make offerings.’

  By the next day the news had spread through the palace, and soon everyone was engaged in prayers for the shogun’s rapid recovery. Candles burned before every shrine and clouds of incense spiralled to the heavens. Priests chanted sutras and rang bells before altars heaped with offerings. Messengers galloped to the Edo branches of the Kurume Suitengu Shrine and the Kompira Daigongen Shrine, the shrines of the two great gods of healing, to order prayers and purchase charms which were sent post haste to Osaka. Women whispered prayers as they went about their work. The faces that passed in the corridors were puffy with weeping and smudged with tears.

  Sachi sat in her room, holding her sewing, trying to concentrate. Every other hour she sent Taki out to see if there was any news. Surely by now the shogun must be recovering. She thought of the handsome, healthy young man with whom she had lain. She pictured his pearly skin, his mischievous smile, his bright eyes. It was inconceivable that he would not soon shake off whatever ailment afflicted him.

  She tried her hardest not to think about what she had heard in the princess’s chamber but it was impossible to forget. His illness not natural? She had heard so many hints of what had happened to previous shoguns that this was too fearful to contemplate. She dared not even let the thought cross her mind that something bad might happen to His Majesty. She was afraid that if she did it might bring it about. She told herself again and again that he would soon recover.

  When the days passed and the news was no better, she prayed to Amida Buddha, begging him not to take His Majesty to the Western Paradise but to leave him here with her. She offered three years of her own life if only he might have three extra years added to his. She prayed to the gods of the trees and mountains who had watched over her in the village. She wrapped up the amulet the shogun had given her in paper blessed by a priest and threw it away, hoping that the shogun’s bad luck might go with it.

  The princess often called for her. She had never seen her so distraught.

  ‘If only I had wished him farewell,’ she whispered again and again, wringing her hands.

  Then one day a letter came. It was brushed in an unfamiliar hand. The signature was so shaky it was almost impossible to decipher. It looked as if it had been written by an old, old man. With a shudder that was like an icy finger running down her back, Sachi recognized it as His Majesty’s.

  ‘It seems Lord Amida summons me,’ he wrote. ‘I will not see you again. I think of you with great fondness. You are young and inno
cent. Your life is before you. Do not weep for me. Life is harsh. Learn to be strong and resilient like bamboo that bends but never breaks, no matter how fierce the wind. Pray that we may meet again in the Western Paradise.’

  Sachi struggled to grasp the meaning of his words. She thought of the delicate, courtly young man she had known, relived every moment of their time together. She wanted to cry out that she wouldn’t accept it, that it couldn’t be true, that it was too much to bear. Then little by little the full impact of the letter swept over her. She rushed away into the gardens where no one would see or hear her and wept at the unfairness of it. They were both so young. What would become of her without him? What would become of everyone? Without him they were all doomed. She was on the edge of an abyss, hanging on for all she was worth. She dared not look down or she would fall for ever.

  Later that day Haru arrived as usual with a poem for Sachi to copy.

  ‘I have a poem already,’ said Sachi. She read it aloud:

  ‘Yugure wa

  Twilight

  Kumo no hatate ni

  With the clouds stretched out like banners

  Mono zo omou

  I think, indeed, of that:

  Amatsu sora naru

  That is how it is to love

  Hito wo kou to te

  One who lives beyond my world.’

  ‘Do you remember?’ she asked. ‘You told me that “one who lives beyond my world” means “one who is impossibly high in rank”. But maybe it means “one who does not live in this world at all”.’

  Kneeling at her small table, she wrote it out, taking care to make her brushstrokes so eloquent that when she next wrote to His Majesty, he would be seduced by the passion and maturity of her writing.