The Ronin's Mistress
To my husband, Marty.
After thirty years of marriage, you’ve earned another dedication.
Historical Note
I AM FASCINATED
by the true story of the forty-seven
r
ō
nin,
which is one of the most famous, beloved tales in Japanese history. A difficulty in understanding it is that although there are many sources of information on it, few historical details have been established beyond doubt. Much information about the forty-seven
r
ō
nin
’s vendetta is based on speculation by historians during the course of more than three hundred years. The many fictionalized accounts further obscure the truth. Details that appear in books, plays, and movies have been repeated so often that they pass for facts even when they are not indeed facts. Setting the record straight is probably impossible, and I won’t try. Here I will lay out the facts that are known and explain what in this novel is a product of my imagination.
In 1701, Lord Asano of Harima Province was the host for visiting envoys from the Emperor’s court. Kira Yoshinaka, the master of ceremonies at Edo Castle, was responsible for instructing Lord Asano in the necessary etiquette. On April 21, 1701, Lord Asano drew his sword on Kira, mentioned that he had a grievance against him, attacked him, and wounded him. The only witness to the attack was Kajikawa Yosobei, a keeper of the castle. Drawing a sword inside Edo Castle was a capital offense, and Lord Asano was forced to commit ritual suicide that same day. His retainers became
r
ō
nin,
masterless samurai. The house of Asano was dissolved. Kira claimed that Lord Asano had attacked him for no reason. Kira wasn’t punished for his part in the fiasco, and the government ruled that no action should be taken against him. On February 1, 1703, after some secret conspiring, forty-seven of the
r
ō
nin
sought revenge on Kira, whom they blamed for Lord Asano’s death. They invaded Kira’s house, fought the guards, killed Kira by decapitating him, then carried his severed head to Sengaku Temple and laid it at Lord Asano’s grave. There they awaited orders. A big controversy developed: What should be done with the forty-seven
r
ō
nin,
who had fulfilled their duty to their master by avenging his death but broken the law? A supreme court was created to decide.
Those are the bare bones of the story. Intriguing questions remain. Why did Lord Asano attack Kira? If there was a quarrel, what was it about? Why did the forty-seven
r
ō
nin
wait almost two years to avenge Lord Asano? What orders were they expecting?
Many writers have posed answers to these questions.
The R
ō
nin’s Mistress
offers my answers. In presenting my version of the events that led up to and came after the vendetta, I have followed the real timeline and based characters on actual historical figures. Oishi was Lord Asano’s chief retainer and the leader of the forty-seven
r
ō
nin.
He did have a wife and a mistress, as well as a son named Chikara, who was one of the forty-seven. Lord Asano’s wife went to live in a convent after he died. The shogun and Chamberlain Yanagisawa are based on the real men. (I have left out some historical figures from the forty-seven
r
ō
nin
tale, in order to keep this book from growing too long and unwieldy. I have also altered minor details.) One of the supreme court judges was a magistrate, but he wasn’t Magistrate Ueda, who is my creation. My creations also include the personalities, actions, and words attributed to the “real” characters. I invented everyone else, including Sano, Reiko, Hirata, and their families.
Although I believe that some dark, dirty secrets must have motivated Lord Asano’s attack on Kira, and the forty-seven
r
ō
nin
’s vendetta, there is no historical evidence for the scenario that I have presented or for my ending to the trial. (No one knows exactly what happened during the time between the forty-seven
r
ō
nin
’s arrest and the supreme court’s verdict, or what was said in the courtroom on the day the verdict was rendered.) This book is fiction. I ask readers to keep in mind that most of the things in it—and in the previous books in my series—never happened.
Contents
Edo, Month 12, Genroku Year 15
(Tokyo, February 1703)
Prologue
SNOW SIFTED FROM
the night sky over Edo. The wind howled, whipping the snow into torn veils, piling drifts against the shuttered buildings. Flakes gleamed in white halos around lamps at the gates at every intersection. Time was suspended, the city frozen in a dream of winter.
A band of forty-seven samurai marched through the deserted streets east of the Sumida River. They wore heavy padded cloaks and trousers, their faces shaded by wicker hats and muffled in scarves. Their boots crunched in the snow as they leaned into the wind. Each wore two swords at his waist. Some carried bows and slings of arrows over their shoulders; others clutched spears in gloved hands. The men at the end of the procession lumbered under the weight of ladders, coiled ropes, and huge wooden mallets. They did not speak.
There was no need for discussion. Their plans were set, understood by all. The time for doubts, fear, and turning back had passed. Their feet marched in lockstep. The wind blew stinging flakes into eyes hard with determination.
They halted in a road where high earthen walls protected estates inside, gazing up at the mansion where their destiny waited. Two stories tall, surrounded by barracks, it had curved tile roofs that spread like snow-covered wings. All was dark and tranquil, the sleeping residents oblivious to danger.
The leader of the forty-seven samurai was a lean, agile man with fierce eyes and strong, slanted brows visible above the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. He nodded to his comrades. Twenty-three men stole around the corner. The leader stayed with the others. As they advanced toward the front gate, a watchdog lunged out from beneath its roof. He uttered a single bark before two samurai tied his legs and fastened a muzzle over his snout. He whimpered and writhed helplessly. Other samurai positioned ladders against the walls. Up they climbed. Some let themselves down on ropes on the inside. Archers leaped onto the roofs. The leader and his remaining men gathered by the gate and waited.
Three deep, hollow beats struck on a war drum told them that their comrades were in position at the rear of the mansion. Two samurai took up the wooden mallets and pounded the gate. Planks shattered.
Inside the mansion’s barracks, the guards slumbered. The pounding awakened them. They leaped out of their beds, crying, “We’re under attack!”
Grabbing their swords, they ran outside, barefoot and half dressed, into the blizzard. Through the broken gate charged the invaders, swords drawn, spears aimed. The guards tried to defend themselves, but the invaders cut them down. Swords sliced open throats and bellies; spears pierced naked chests. Blood splashed the snow. The guards scattered, turned, and fled toward the mansion, crying for help.
More guards poured out of the barracks. The archers on the roofs fired arrows at them. The samurai who’d breached the back gate came rushing to join their band. They intercepted the guards trying to escape. The battle was a tumult of ringing blades, colliding fighters, falling bodies, and whirling snow. Soon most of the guards lay dead or wounded.
Accompanied by a few men, the leader of the forty-seven ran to the mansion. They brandished their swords in the entryway, but no one stopped them. The leader took down a lantern that hung on the wall, carrying it as he and his men moved along the dark corridors. All was quiet until they penetrated deeper into the mansion, when they heard sobbing. The lantern illuminated a room filled with women and children, huddled together in fright.
“Where is he?” the leader demanded.
The women hid their faces and cried. The samurai continued searching. They came to a bedchamber whose size and elegant furnishings were fit for the lord of the mansion. A futon was spread on the floor, the quilt flung back. The leader touched the bed.
“It’s still warm,” he said.
His gaze went to a large scroll hanging on the wall. He yanked aside the scroll. Behind it was a door, which he opened. Cold air and snowflakes blew in from a courtyard. Bare footprints in the snow led to a shed. The samurai rushed to the shed and flung the door open. The leader shone the lantern inside.
On the floor, amid firewood and coal, sat an old man. His knees were drawn up to his chin, his arms folded across his chest. He wore a cotton night robe and cap. He shivered, his teeth chattering, his breath puffs of vapor. His lined face was white; his eyes shone with terror.
“Who are you?” asked one of the samurai, the youngest, a sturdy boy.
The old man lashed out with a dagger he’d been hiding. The boy grabbed his wrist and wrenched the dagger from his grasp. He cried out in weak, pained protest. The leader pulled off the man’s cap and held the lantern near his head. A white scar gleamed on his bald crown.
“It’s him,” the leader said. “Bring him outside.”
The samurai threw the old man on his back in the snow. They pinned his arms and legs while he screamed. The leader stood over the captive. He removed the scarf that hid his face, then held up the lantern so that the old man could see him. Below his fierce eyes, his nose was long with flared nostrils, his mouth thick but firm. He wasn’t young, and his features wore the stamp of suffering.
“You know who we are. You know why we’re here.” He chanted the words as if he’d rehearsed them. “Now you’ll pay for the evil you’ve done.”
