Shogun (81 page)

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.

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 goziemashita!”
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.”

“
Dome. 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
takonama
, 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 Taikō 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 goziemashita.”

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.”

“Thou art untoward happy today,” she said. “Good, very good. But why? Why truly?”

“Because of thee. Thou knowest why.”

“I know nothing, Anjin-san.”

“Nothing?” he teased.

“Nothing.”

He was taken aback. They were quite alone, and safe.

“Why doth ‘nothing’ take the heart out of thy smile?” she asked.

“Stupidity! Absolute stupidity! I forgot that it is most wise to be cautious. It was only that we were alone and I wanted to speak of it. And, in truth, to say more.”

“Thou speakest in riddles. I do not understand thee.”

He was nonplussed again. “Thou dost not wish to talk about it? At all?”

“About what, Anjin-san?”

“What passed in the night then?”

“I passed thy door in the night when my maid, Koi, was with thee.”

“What!”

“We, your consort and I, we thought she would be a pleasing gift for thee. She pleased thee, did she not?”

Blackthorne was trying to recover. Mariko’s maid was her size but younger and never so fair and never so pretty, and yes, it was pitch dark and yes, his head was fogged with wine but no, it was not the maid.

“That’s not possible,” he said in Portuguese.

“What’s not possible, senhor?” she asked in the same language.

He reverted to Latin again, as the outriders were not far away, the wind blowing in their direction. “Please do not joke with me. No one can hear. I know a presence and a perfume.”

“Thou thinkest it was me? Oh, it was not, Anjin-san. I would be honored but I could never possibly … however much I might want—oh no, Anjin-san. It was not me but Koi, my maid. I would be honored, but I belong to another even though he’s dead.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t your maid.” He bit back his anger. “But leave it as thou desirest.”

“It was my maid, Anjin-san,” she said placatingly. “We anointed her with my perfume and instructed her: no words, only touch. We never thought for a moment thou wouldst consider her to be me! This was not to trick thee but for thine ease, knowing that discussing things of the pillow still embarrasses thee.” She was looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. “She pleasured thee, Anjin-san? Thou pleasured her.”

“A joke concerning things of great importance is sometimes without humor.”

“Things of great import will always be treated with great import. But a maid in the night with a man is without import.”

“I do not consider thee without import.”

“I thank thee. I say that equally. But a maid in the night with a man is private and without import. It is a gift from her to him and, sometimes, from him to her. Nothing more.”

“Never?”

“Sometimes. But this private pillow matter does not have this vast seriousness of thine.”

“Never?”

“Only when the woman and man join together against the law. In
this
land.”

He reined in, finally comprehending the reason for her denial. “I apologize,” he said. “Yes, thou art right and I most very wrong. I should never have spoken. I apologize.”

“Why apologize? For what? Tell me, Anjin-san, was this girl wearing a crucifix?”

“No.”

“I always wear it. Always.”

“A crucifix can be taken off,” he said automatically in Portuguese. “That proves nothing. It could be loaned, like a perfume.”

“Tell me a last truth: Did you really see the girl? Really
see
her?”

“Of course. Please let us forget I ever—”

“The night was very dark, the moon overcast. Please, the truth, Anjin-san. Think! Did you really see the girl?”

Of course I saw her, he thought indignantly.

God damn it, think truly. You didn’t
see
her. Your head
was
fogged. She could have been the maid but you knew it was Mariko because you wanted Mariko and saw only Mariko in your head, believing that Mariko would want you equally. You’re a fool. A goddamned fool.

“In truth, no. In truth I should really apologize,” he said. “How do I apologize?”

“There’s no need to apologize, Anjin-san,” she replied calmly. “I’ve told you many times a man never apologizes, even when he’s wrong. You were not wrong.” Her eyes teased him now. “My maid needs no apology.”

“Thank you,” he said, laughing. “You make me feel less of a fool.”

“The years flee from you when you laugh. The so-serious Anjin-san becomes a boy again.”

“My father told me I was born old.”

“Were you?”

“He thought so.”

“What’s he like?”

“He was a fine man. A shipowner, a captain. The Spanish killed him at a place called Antwerp when they put that city to the sword. They burned his ship. I was six, but I remember him as a big, tall, good-natured man with golden hair. My older brother, Arthur, he was just eight…. We had bad times then, Mariko-san.”

“Why? Please tell me. Please!”

“It’s all very ordinary. Every penny of money was tied into the ship and that was lost … and, well, not long after that, my sister died. She starved to death really. There was famine in ’71 and plague again.”

“We have plague sometimes. The smallpox. You were many in your family?”

“Three of us,” he said, glad to talk to take away the other hurt.
“Willia, my sister, she was nine when she died. Arthur, he was next—he wanted to be an artist, a sculptor, but he had to become an apprentice stonemason to help support us. He was killed in the Armada. He was twenty-five, poor fool, he just joined a ship, untrained, such a waste. I’m the last of the Blackthornes. Arthur’s wife and daughter live with my wife and kids now. My mother’s still alive and so’s old Granny Jacoba—she’s seventy-five and hard as a piece of English oak though she was Irish. At least they were alive when I left more than two years ago.”

The ache was coming back. I’ll think about them when I start for home, he promised himself, but not until then.

“There’ll be a storm tomorrow,” he said, watching the sea. “A strong one, Mariko-san. Then in three days we’ll have fair weather.”

“This is the season of squalls. Mostly it’s overcast and rain-filled. When the rains stop it becomes very humid. Then begin the
tai-funs.”

I wish I were at sea again, he was thinking. Was I ever at sea? Was the ship real? What’s reality? Mariko or the maid?

“You don’t laugh very much, do you, Anjin-san?”

“I’ve been seafaring too long. Seamen’re always serious. We’ve learned to watch the sea. We’re always watching and waiting for disaster. Take your eyes off the sea for a second and she’ll grasp your ship and make her matchwood.”

“I’m afraid of the sea,” she said.

“So am I. An old fisherman told me once, ‘The man who’s not afraid of the sea’ll soon be drownded for he’ll go out on a day he shouldn’t. But we be afraid of the sea so we be only drownded now and again.’” He looked at her. “Mariko-San …”

“Yes?”

“A few minutes ago you’d convinced me that—well, let’s say I was convinced. Now I’m not. What’s the truth? The
honto
. I must know.”

“Ears are to hear with. Of course it was the maid.”

“This maid. Can I ask for her whenever I want?”

“Of course. A wise man would not.”

“Because I might be disappointed? Next time?”

“Possibly.”

“I find it difficult to possess a maid and lose a maid, difficult to say nothing….”

“Pillowing is a pleasure. Of the body. Nothing has to be said.”