The Seabird of Sanematsu (6 page)

As he sat in deep thought in the cool darkness, the sound of the mandatory three handclaps to draw the god’s attention faded. The sweet smell of the incense sticks wafted through the air. Here, he could drop the façade he showed the world.

The real Sanematsu would fight when necessary but found no joy or pride in war. Alone in the shrine, he could give in to the emotion threatening to erupt when he scanned the battlefield and anguished over the deaths he had witnessed. He could drop his shoulders, let the mantle of daimyo roll off and be tired.

Today, he brought confusion and bewilderment to Hachiman Taro. He had canceled his tax-collecting expedition to remain at home. Most of the time, he dreaded the confines of the castle walls. He enjoyed traveling through the countryside, the nights sleeping in the open with his warriors about him; his concerns those of men. He could ignore the problems of women and the difficulties they presented in his life.

Yet today he did not want to be away. He was powerless to get the strange woman out of his head.

The memory of her on the ship and then the previous evening remained etched in his mind. Kneeling before the tea tray, clad like one of Nihon’s peasant women, her face and hair stood out like a rare flower among common ones. She had been bold, staring at him when he had discovered her on the ship, and her demeanor had been defiant. Was she not afraid of him? He who held her life in his hands? A man who could easily, and justifiability, have had Matsumoto sever from her shoulders the head she held so erect with its small chin thrust out?

The night before, he had admired the way she sat, shoulders square, eyes straight forward, a slight smile on her pink lips. She did not cower before the Great Lord. Those eyes, looking into his with confidence, fascinated him. They were a color he had not known existed, reminding him of a lime--a crisp and clear green.

The lighter shade of her hair attracted him, also. The bath maids had pulled the brown tresses with shots of reddish-gold back into one heavy braid hanging down to brush the floor when she knelt. Her skin hue was between dark and fair, the pink tinge covering her cheeks in a permanent blush reddened when she was embarrassed. Her body was as abundant as that of a young wife and mother, but her face held a soft, girlish innocence. All of this combined to touch him.

Nothing about the woman should interest him at all. A samurai’s only dealings with women were of an intimate nature. In return, their chief concern was to care for his every need. Allowing himself to be so bothered by her was not appropriate.

Most intriguing was the part of the world she represented, an area all of Nihon had been shielded from. The Nihonese were too concerned with warring to venture far from their shores. Then, too, the ruling samurai feared outside influence and the threat of conquest by foreigners. Sanematsu viewed this differently, sure there was much to learn from other lands. The knowledge she might possess intrigued him. The woman was his key, although to what he was not sure.

CHAPTER FIVE

Matsumoto Katsura entered the shrine, the only one who dared interrupt Sanematsu when the daimyo was with his god or a woman. The feudal lord needed to be available to his second-in-command at any time without notice. He placed his swords in the rack beside Sanematsu’s. The law required an armed soldier to remain seven feet from a higher lord--a law he and all his kind struggled to obey.

A samurai lived with his swords, wearing them or having them at hand at all times, and setting them aside was difficult, even when done voluntarily.

Matsumoto looked covetously at the scabbards of Sanematsu’s swords, made famous by legend. If only fate had put those blades into his keeping, he would now rule Satsuma Province instead of playing nursemaid to a man who played with children.

Lord of the Satsuma Province Sanematsu Yoshihide had power over a third of the inhabitants of Kyushu. He commanded an army of five thousand-plus men sworn to do his bidding no matter what he asked. The code of bushido held obligation to daimyo the ultimate duty. To fail at that
giri
resulted in dishonor, disgrace and death by the ritual self-kill, seppuku, the ultimate answer for dishonor. No matter how much Matsumoto loathed Sanematsu, he was linked to the Sanematsu clan because of their families’ allegiance to one another.

For generations, the Matsumoto clan had been allied to the Sanematsu. Their great-great-great-great grandfathers were foot soldiers serving Hojo NagaMiyo, a general of the Minamoto clan and, showing themselves loyal, had been rewarded.

Sanematsu’s ancestor had distinguished himself further, surviving the Mongol invasion of 1281 and saving the noted general’s life. For this, he rose in rank. Matsumoto Katsugoro, Katsura’s progenitor, did not garner the same honors, and was left to rise through the ranks to the position of general and receive the title of karou to Sanematsu Shigemasa, the position still held by Matsumoto Katsura.

Sons were born, and upon them more honors were heaped. The Sanematsu attained the ultimate rank of daimyo, an exalted title with heavy pressures and decisions. A Sanematsu two generations past had made a wrong alliance and fell from grace but not power. The ties between the two families remained, and they were cast out of Kamakura with their daimyo to a fief on Kyushu.

As the Matsumoto clan served the Sanematsu, discontent increased with each new branch of the family tree. Now Matsumoto Katsura combined the anger and resentment with a personality capable of acting on the ambitions so long held in check.

He did not linger on his animosity today, as more pressing business forced his hunger for power aside for the time being. He moved near Lord Sanematsu.

“My lord.” He spoke so as not to alarm him.

“Come.”

**
*

Sanematsu did not turn. He had been aware of Matsumoto’s presence the moment the karou stepped inside the shrine, seeing him with his sixth sense. Matsumoto had never been able to hide his envy of Sanematsu’s perfection of what their sensei called
hara-gi
, the art of seeing without seeing, any more than the man could hide his hatred of his position as second to a man he despised.

His flesh crawled in Matsumoto’s presence. Equals on no level, Matsumoto exceeded him in lust, greed, treachery and shrewdness. He despised the man, respected the warrior and mourned the adolescent who had been his friend but had grown into a villain full of spite.

“It has been some time since we talked as childhood friends,” he commented, airing his thoughts.

“We are no longer children, sire.” Matsumoto knelt beside him. They faced the altar, but Matsumoto did not offer the god his devotion.

“How well aware of that I am, Katsura-dono.” Sanematsu sighed. He longed for the blissful days of boyhood, with their freedom from responsibility and absence of care. For a moment, he wished to be young and innocent once more. “It has been a long time since we played in the garden.”

“It has, sire.” Matsumoto bowed his head to him.

“Can you not bring yourself to call me by my name? Even in private?”

First names were not bandied about among their people; it was an ultimate honor to be asked to call another by that name a mother gave her son. The closeness of a strong friendship permitted its use. Sanematsu had given that freedom to Matsumoto when they were youths, before he was aware of Matsumoto’s treachery.

“I will try, Yoshihide-dono.”

“You come to reproach me.” He knew what Matsumoto wished to say to him. They seldom had conversations that did not involve business of the army.

“I am concerned about the attitude of the men after your actions aboard the ship. Regretfully, it is my task as karou to remind you that you cannot afford to be reduced in the garrison’s eyes.”

Sanematsu knew his preoccupation with the barbarian woman was causing muttering among the household staff. The servants were, in theory, to close their eyes to whatever the lord of Satsuma Province chose to do, but he had heard the whispers of the maids this morning. Not that any of them would deny him his pleasures, but this girl was a foreign devil! He had overheard them speculating whether there where not sufficient women among the civilized people of Nihon to satisfy his lusts.

Sanematsu turned on his knees to face Matsumoto. The warrior he had called ally coveted everything he had--his power, his position, his possessions and his women. His appetite for sexual playthings was well known, as Matsumoto was never subtle in his lusts. Sanematsu could almost see the hot rush of passion in his eyes at the thought of taking the barbarian in the same manner he had often employed with defeated enemies’ women. Matsumoto’s admonishment seemed quite hypocritical.

“My honorable karou, I appreciate your concern. I also know many things about you and your appetites. You have a taste for that which is not yours to enjoy.” His forceful and robust voice echoed in the small dwelling.

“I do not understand what you mean.” Matsumoto’s eyes narrowed in mock confusion, but Sanematsu read him with ease.

“I think you do. You are more acquainted with indulging in the passion for women than I, so I am sure you think I ordered the foreign woman taken prisoner for certain pleasures you have tasted. I assure you I did not have the same thoughts you did.”

“So sorry, but I wonder if it is too soon since the honorable Lady Masa’s death for you to return to your duties,” Matsumoto’s words were full of respect but his tone lascivious. “The ashes of Lady Masa’s funeral pyre have been cold less than half a moon.”

Sanematsu studied the thin stream of smoke rising from the incense, the stick half-spent. One hour had elapsed in prayer and still calm had not come over his soul. With Matsumoto’s arrival, his unrest had become worse.

“Masa was very beautiful, was she not?” he commented.

“It has been spoken throughout the province that Lady Masa rivaled the goddess Amaterasu Omikami with her great beauty.” Matsumoto used words designed to cloak any overt observation of his daimyo’s wife’s beauty.

Masa, daughter of Kazamaki Sukezane, had been fourteen when she came to the twenty-year-old Sanematsu as bride, tiny, with large, oblong eyes dark as ebony and glowing, her hair cascading to her knees in a black river and framing a face as white as alabaster. Her grace had been certain to catch the eye of every man, even though to look upon the daimyo’s wife, or any of his women, was punishable by death in the most dishonorable manner. There were ways, however, not to be caught.

Sanematsu would confront Matsumoto in time, but he could not be direct until his enemy revealed some hint of his guilt himself. Matsumoto would be even more dangerous once he learned the truth of his transgression was known.

“It is unfortunate the child died with her. Especially for you.”

“Sire, I must…I am…” Matsumoto stuttered.

“Do not speak.” He delighted in the man’s incautious reaction--he had managed to rattle the usually unflappable samurai. His suspicion justified, now he could confront him. “I have known about you for a long time, my friend. And. still, I call you ‘friend.’” He must keep Matsumoto unsettled. He was still much more useful alive and on guard than dead and guilt-free.

“Sanematsu-uji…sire…”

“Do not deny it. It dishonors you more to lie. I know you stole into Masa’s bed, and that she welcomed you there. Have you not wondered why I allowed her to depart from life?”

Matsumoto stared at him, shock and dismay covering his visage for an instant. Sanematsu credited him for his quick recovery.

“I did not ask it of her,” Sanematsu admitted, once more intent on the incense. “She came for my permission of her own will, as was her duty. I would have been forced to order it when the child was born.”

He swallowed hard, remembering the fetal corpse Masa had ripped from her body in the act of ritual seppuku. She had forgone the usual throat puncturing favored by women in order to assure the child’s death.

“She could hardly present me with the product of adultery as my heir.” A bastard of his own could become heir, but the rules for women were different.

He sat, in silence, regarding Matsumoto. They had been children together, fostered at the same temple, taught by the same teachers, fought side-by-side in their first battle and from there planned and executed many more. He knew all of Matsumoto’s foibles long before Matsumoto did himself.

This intimate understanding made him well aware of the attraction of his general to his first wife, Nene. The young men had spent too many hours over sake, reveling amid drunken stories and pursuits of young maidens, for him not to know.

Before Nene was acknowledged as betrothed to Sanematsu, Matsumoto could speak of no other girl. Sanematsu had watched him nurture the seed of covetous hatred planted in his heart on their joining day, and soon the vine grew to enshroud his whole being, choking off any goodness he might have possessed.

The council and Lord Shigehide arranged the joining for the proper reasons. A samurai did not take a wife based on what his heart felt but, rather, the political needs of his clan. Seven years his senior, widow of a daimyo of a nearby ryo-chi, Nene brought with her a three-year-old daughter and her husband’s domain.

After the announcement, Matsumoto asked to serve Satsuma Province by joining the warriors sent each year to increase the emperor’s army at Muromachi. Sanematsu honored the request, and the deepening evil had overcome Matsumoto there. He returned a man different from the one Sanematsu had sent. But, by then, neither was Sanematsu the same.

Remembering Nene brought thoughts of his other wives. He failed to care for Nene as a husband ought, but they had been comfortable with their roles and accepted their duties. She had been a good wife and mother in all respects, obedient and faithful, so he was certain he had fathered his eldest daughter. Sanematsu fed his lusts in the Willow World and she…well, women had few appetites and were allowed to fulfill them in their own, solitary ways.

Matsumoto had by then joined with Nami and was fathering sons, legitimate or otherwise.

Sanematsu wished he could have managed a similar contentment with Suye, the council’s second political choice. How he hated her…and she, him! He would have given his permission for Matsumoto to have a chance with her--they were suited for one another.

Confronting him at every turn, she lashed out with an acid tongue that no amount of punishment would quell. It was as if she knew he did not have the heart to put her aside or have her killed, as was his right. He finally took action to bring harmony to his house by sending her away, out of his sight. She had died a year later of a fever epidemic in the North.

Suye had given Sanematsu his second daughter Miyo, now six, and, his third and last wife, Masa had given birth to Chiyo three years ago to increase his delight. Seen as unfavorable, the birth of girl children softened Sanematsu’s heart. Surrounded by vile and sordid death, his girls were his only joy. He delighted in their laughter, their grace and their beauty, reveling in their femininity. When they were toddlers, he sang songs and told them stories; when they became children, he played silly games with them. With the older two, he was teaching them to write poetry and practice calligraphy.

There was but one drawback--his girls could not govern Satsuma Province when he died. Only a male child could do that, and Nene had given him his only son. The frail boy had died, taking Sanematsu’s first wife with him into the Void minutes after birth.

Like any person, Sanematsu wanted to live a long time, but the life of a warrior tended to be brief. He must have a son to have any hope of peace in Satsuma Province’s future. The political and military plans he established could not be completed in one lifetime. All his hopes to achieve his goals rested in karma--and in the nest of a woman’s body. The future of the ryo-chi and his son were tied together.