Tenderly, he took her in his arms, knowing that what she had done was the only solution, for him, and for her, awed by her insight in discerning his original intent: that he had planned to hide it, designed to be found and passed on to all those she named, particularly the Princess Yazu.
Koiko’s right, I can see that now. Yazu would have seen through my ploy and read my real thoughts: that her influence over Nobusada must vanish, or I am a dead man. Isn’t that just another way of saying “Power of my ancestor …” But for Koiko I might have put my head on their spike!
“Don’t cry, little one,” he murmured, sure now that she could be trusted.
And while she allowed herself to be gentled and then warmed and then to warm him she was thinking within her third heart, her most secret heart—the first for all the world to see, the second only opened to innermost family, the third never never never revealed to anyone—in this secret place she was sighing silently with relief that she had passed another test, for test it surely was.
Too dangerous for him to keep such treason alive, but much more dangerous for me to have it in my possession. Oh yes, my beautiful patron, it is easy to adore you, to laugh and play games with you, to pretend ecstasy when you enter me—and godlike to remember that at the end of each day, every day I have earned one koku. Think of that, Koiko-chan! One koku a day, for every day, for being part of the most exciting game on earth, with the most exalted name on earth, with a young, handsome, astonishing man of great culture whose stalk is the best I have ever experienced … and yet at the same time to earn more wealth than any, ever before.
Her hands and lips and body were responding adroitly, closing, opening, opening further, receiving him, guiding him, helping him, an exquisitely fine-tuned instrument for him to play upon, allowing herself to brink, pretending ecstasy perfectly, pretending to plunge again and again but never plunging—too important to retain her energies and wits, for he was a man of many appetites—enjoying the contest, never hurrying but always pressing forward, now teetering him on the crevasse, letting him go and pulling him back, letting him go, pulling back, letting go in a seizure of relief.
Quiet now. His sleeping weight not unpleasant, stoically borne, careful not to move lest she disturb his peace. Well satisfied with her art, as she knew he had been with his. Her last, most secret, exhilarating thought before drifting into sleep was, I wonder how Katsumata, Hiraga and their shishi friends will interpret “Sword of my fathers …”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KYŌTO
MONDAY, 29TH SEPTEMBER:
A few miles south of Kyōto in twilight, a vicious rearguard skirmish was in progress between fleeing Satsuma troops and Choshu forces of Lord Ogama who had recently seized control of the Palace Gates from them. The Satsuma sword master, Katsumata, the secret shishi, supported by a hundred mounted samurai, was leading the fight to protect the escape of Lord Sanjiro and their main Satsuma force a few miles southwards. They were heavily outnumbered. The country was open, wind blustering with a heavy stench of human manure from the fields and above an ominous buildup of storm clouds.
Again Katsumata led a furious charge that broke through the forward ranks towards the standard of the Choshu daimyo, Ogama, also mounted, but they were forced back bloodily, with heavy losses as reinforcements rushed to protect their leader.
“All troops advance!” Ogama shouted. He was twenty-eight, a heavyset angry man wearing light bamboo and metal armor and war helmet, his sword out and bloodied. “Bypass these dogs! Go around them! I want Sanjiro’s head!”
At once aides rushed off to relay his orders.
Three or four miles away, Lord Sanjiro and the remnants of his force were hurrying for the coast and Osaka, twenty-odd miles away, to seek boats to carry them home to the South Island of Kyūshū, and the safety of their capital, Kagoshima, four hundred sea miles southwest.
In all there were about eight hundred fighters, well equipped and fanatic samurai desperate to rush back to join the fight, still smarting from their defeat and being forced out of Kyōto a week ago. Ogama had staged a sudden night attack, ringing their barracks and setting fire to the buildings, abrogating the solemn agreements between them.
With many losses the Satsumas had fought their way out of the city to the village of Fushimi where Sanjiro angrily regrouped, Choshu detachments dogging them. “We are trapped.”
One of his captains said, “Lord, I propose an immediate counterattack, towards Kyōto.”
Katsumata said emphatically, “Too dangerous, too many troops against us, they will overwhelm us. Sire, you will alienate all daimyos and further frighten the Court. I propose you offer Ogama a truce—if he allows an orderly withdrawal.”
“On what grounds?”
“As part of the truce you accept that his forces will be custodians of the Gates—his forces, not the Tosa, and that will sow further dissension between them.”
“I cannot accept that,” Sanjiro had said, shaking with rage that Ogama had duped him. “Even if I did he will not consent, why should he? We are in his grasp. He can piss all over us. If I were him I would fall on us here before midday.”
“Yes, Lord, he will—unless we forestall him. We can by this ruse, he’s not a real fighter like you—his troops are not filled with zeal like ours, nor are they as well trained. He only succeeded against us because he fell on us by night in a filthy betrayal. Remember, his alliance with the Tosa is precarious. He must consolidate his hold of the Gates and has insufficient troops to meet every problem for the next few weeks. He has to organize and get reinforcements without provoking opposition. And soon the Bakufu must come back in force to take back the Gates as is their right.”
By Toranaga Edict, all daimyos visiting Kyōto were limited to five hundred guards, all of whom had to live under severe restrictions in their own fief barracks, built by decree without defenses. The same Edict allowed Shōgunate forces to number more than all the others together. Over the centuries of peace the Bakufu had allowed these laws to languish. In recent years, Tosa, Choshu and Satsumas daimyos—depending on personal strength—had twisted the bureaucracy to increase their numbers until forced to send the added warriors home.
“Ogama is not a fool, he will never let me escape,” Sanjiro said. “I would spike him if I had him trapped.”
“He is not a fool, but he can be manipulated.” Then Katsumata dropped his voice. “Added to the Gates, you could agree that, if or when there is a Convention of Daimyos, you would support his claims to head the Council of Elders.”
Sanjiro exploded, “Never! He has to know I would never agree to that. Why should he believe such nonsense?”
“Because he is Ogama. Because he has fortified his Shimonoseki Straits with dozens of cannon from his not-so-secret, Dutch-built weapons factory and believes therefore, rightly, he can stop gai-jin ships from using it at his whim, yet still be safe against them. That he alone, he thinks, can put into practice the Emperor’s wish to expel the gai-jin, that he alone can restore the trappings of power to the Emperor—why shouldn’t he claim the big prize, tairō—Dictator?”
“The Land will be torn apart before that.”
“The last reason he would welcome a possible truce is because, Sire, never before has he possessed the Gates—isn’t he an upstart, a usurper, isn’t his line ordinary,” Katsumata said with a sneer, “not ancient or exalted like yours. A further reason: he will accept the truce you offer because you will offer it to be permanent.”
In the rumble of astonished, angry opposition, Sanjiro had stared at his counselor, astounded at the vast range of concessions Katsumata proposed. Not understanding, but knowing Katsumata too well, he dismissed the others.
“What is behind all this?” he asked impatiently. “Ogama must know any truce is only good until I am safe behind my mountains where I will mobilize all Satsuma and then march on Kyōto to repossess my rights, avenge the insult and take his head. Why such nonsense from you?”
“Because you are in mo
rtal danger like never before, Sire. You are trapped. There are spies amongst us. I need time to organize boats in Osaka, and I have a battle plan.”
At length Sanjiro had said, “Very well. Negotiate.”
The negotiations had so far lasted six days.
During this time Sanjiro placidly stayed at Fushimi, but with spies on all roads to and from Kyōto. As a measure of mutual trust, Sanjiro had agreed to move into a less defensible position, and Ogama had withdrawn all but a token force athwart the escape route. Then both waited for the other to make a mistake.
With supreme power in Kyōto, however tenuous, Ogama, supported by more than a thousand samurai, seemed to be content to tighten his grasp on the Gates, cultivating daimyos and, more particularly, courtiers who were sympathetic. These Ogama persuaded to approach the Emperor, asking Him to “request” the immediate resignation of Anjo and the Council of Elders, to convene a Convention of Daimyos who would be given the power to appoint a new Council of Elders—with himself as tairō—who would rule until Shōgun Nobusada came of age, and at one stroke replacing all Toranaga adherents in the Bakufu.
To Ogama’s delight he was told the news of his cannon’s firing on gai-jin ships had greatly pleased the Emperor, and that, together with Sanjiro’s proffered truce and extraordinary concessions, had further bolstered his influence at Court. “The truce is accepted,” he had imperiously told Katsumata yesterday. “We will ratify the agreement, seven days from now, here in my headquarters. Then you can retire to Kagoshima.”
But this morning had come the astonishing word of Shōgun Nobusada’s proposed visit. At once Sanjiro sent for Katsumata. “What could possess Anjo and Yoshi to agree? Are they mad? Whatever happens they lose.”
“I agree, Sire, but this makes your position even more dangerous. With Ogama holding the Gates, therefore access to the Emperor, any enemy of Ogama’s is an enemy of the Emperor.”
“Obvious! What can I do? What do you suggest?”
“Immediately send Ogama a letter suggesting a meeting in three days to discuss the ramifications of the visit—he must be as astonished as any daimyo. Meanwhile, tonight after dark we implement the battle plan.”
“We can’t escape without Ogama knowing, there are spies all around us, and his troops within easy distance. The moment he hears we’re breaking camp he will fall on us.”
“Yes, but we leave the camp exactly as it is, taking only our weapons—I can outmaneuver him, I know him.”
Angrily Sanjiro had said, “If that is so why didn’t you sniff out the surprise attack, eh?”
Oh, but I did, Katsumata could have said, but it suited me better that Ogama temporarily holds the Gates. Didn’t we escape his trap without much trouble? Ogama will never be able to deal with the Court, hostile daimyos, the Tosa, Shōgun Nobusada’s visit or the Princess Yazu—not that Nobusada will arrive. Ogama will be held responsible for his death also.
“So sorry, Sire,” he had said, pretending an apology, “I am finding out why your spies failed you. Heads will roll.”
“Good.”
Soon after dark Katsumata sent specially trained men who quietly decimated the unsuspecting Choshu troop spying on them. Then, following Katsumata’s battle plan, except for him and his hundred cavalry, Sanjiro and the regiment hurried south with orders to leave a hundred men every three ri to join up with him as he fell back, following them. Confidently Katsumata settled into ambush across the Kyōto road. He was sure that he could survive until dawn, enticing the Choshu into a running fight, when they would probably break off the fight and return to Kyōto to reinforce their position there, leaving only a token force in pursuit. Rumors were rife that Ogama’s alliances were already falling apart, the rift widened by lies spread by Katsumata’s covert allies.
He had been astonished to find Ogama leading the chase and that they had caught up with them so quickly. Karma.
“Attack!” Katsumata shouted, and again he whirled his horse from feigned flight. At once his seemingly scattered cavalry joined into violent phalanxes and burst through their opponents who were sent reeling back in disorder, the cold, wet air heavy with the smell of sweat and fear and blood burning his nostrils. Men died to the left and right, his and theirs, but he fought his way through and now the path was almost clear to Ogama but once more he was foiled so he broke off and fled—really retreated this time—those alive following him. Of the hundred only twenty remained.
“Bring up our reserve! Five hundred koku for Katsumata’s head,” Ogama shouted, “a thousand for Lord Sanjiro!”
“Sire!” One of his most experienced captains was pointing upwards. Un noticed in the excitement, the storm clouds had taken most of the sky and threads reached out for the moon. “So sorry, but the road back to Kyōto is difficult and we don’t know if those cunning dogs have another ambush waiting.”
Ogama thought a moment. “Cancel the reserve! Take fifty horsemen and harry them to death. If you bring me either head, I will make you a general, with ten thousand koku. Break off the battle!”
Instantly his captains hurried away, shouting orders. Ogama sourly peered into the gathering dark where Katsumata and his men had vanished. “By my ancestors,” he muttered, “when I’m tairō, Satsuma will be a Choshu protectorate, the Treaties will be cancelled and no gai-jin ship will ever pass my Straits!” Then he turned his horse and, with his personal guards, spurred gladly for Kyōto. And destiny.
That same evening in the French Legation at Yokohama the party and recital Seratard had arranged in Angelique’s honor was a great success. The chef had surpassed himself: fresh bread, platters of stewed oysters, cold lobster, shrimps and prawns, baked local fish spiced with ginger and garlic served with leeks from his own garden, and tarte aux pommes, the dried apples from France only used on special occasions. Champagne, La Doucette, and a Margaux from his home village of which he was very proud.
After dinner and cigars, great applause had heralded André Poncin, an accomplished though reluctant pianist, more applause after each piece, and now, almost midnight and after three encores, there was a standing ovation as the last lovely chord of a Beethoven sonata died away.
“Marvelous …”
“Superb …”
“Oh, André,” Angelique said breathlessly in French from her place of honor near the piano, her mind cleansed of the lurking misery by his music. “It was beautiful, thank you so very much.” Her fan fluttered charmingly, eyes and face perfection, new crinoline over hooped petticoats, low-cut, shoulders bare, the fine green silk cascading in gathered tiers accentuating her wisp of waist.
“Merci, Mademoiselle,” Poncin replied. He got up and raised his glass, his eyes barely veiled. “À toi!”
“Merci, Monsieur,” she said, then once more turned back to Seratard, surrounded by Norbert Greyforth, Jamie McFay, Dmitri and other traders, everyone in evening dress with ruffled silk shirts, vivid waistcoats and cravats—some new but most old, crumpled and hastily pressed because she was to be there. Some French army and naval officers, uniforms heavy with braid, dress swords added to the unaccustomed splendor, British military equally like peacocks.
Two of the other three women in the Settlement were in the crowded, oil-and candle-lit room, Mabel Swann and Victoria Lunkchurch. Both stout, in their early twenties and childless, wives of traders, both cross-eyed with jealousy, their husbands tethered sweatily beside them. “Tis time, Mr. Swann,” Mabel Swann said with a sour sniff. “Yus. Prayers n’bed with a nice English cup of tea.”
“If you’re tired, my dear, you and Vic—”
“Now!”
“Thee, too, Barnaby,” Victoria Lunkchurch said, her Yorkshire accent as heavy as her hips, “and put dirty thoughts out of thy head, lad, afore I belt thee proper!”
“Who me? Wot thorts?”
“Those thorts, thee’n that foreign baggage there, may God forgive thee,” she said with even more venom. “Out!”
No one missed them or knew they had left. All were concentrating on
the guest of honor, trying to get nearer, or if they were within the circle, to stop being elbowed out.
“A splendid evening, Henri,” Angelique was saying.
“It’s only because of you. By gracing us you make everything better.” Seratard mouthed gallant platitudes while he was thinking, what a pity you’re not already married and therefore ripe for a liaison with a man of culture. Poor girl to have to endure an immature bovine Scot, however rich. I would like to be your first real lover—it will be a joy to teach you.
“You smile, Henri?” she said, suddenly aware that she had better be careful of this man.
“I was just thinking how perfect your future will be and that made me happy.”
“Ah, how kind you are!”
“I think th—”
“Miss Angelique, if I may be so bold, we’re having a race meet this Saturday,” Norbert Greyforth broke in, furious that Seratard was monopolizing her, disgusted that the man had the rudeness to speak French, which he did not understand, detesting him and everything French, except Angelique. “We’re—there’s going to be a new race, in, er, in your honor. We’ve decided to call it the Angel Cup, eh, Jamie?”
“Yes,” Jamie McFay said, both of them Stewards of the Jockey Club, equally under her spell. “We, well, we decided it will be the last race of the day and Struan’s are providing prize money: twenty guineas for the cup. You’ll present the prize, Miss Angelique?”
“Oh, yes, with pleasure, if Mr. Struan approves.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” McFay had already asked Struan’s permission, but he and every man within hearing wondered about the implications of that remark, though all bets against an engagement were off. Even in private, Struan had given him no clue though McFay had felt duty bound to report the rumors.