‘There was no investigation, of course. No one ever found out who had hated Lady Hitsu enough to kill her, whether it was jealousy or because she tried to reach above her station. No one dared suggest it was anything to do with Lady Honju-in; and even if it was, she was far too powerful for anyone to do anything about it.’
Sachi shuddered with horror. Her hands were clasped so tight her palms were clammy with sweat. She glanced around at the ladies-in-waiting, imagining she saw them exchanging glances, plotting against her. She knew very well that beneath its placid surface the women’s palace was seething with rivalries and hatreds. But she had always assumed such enmities would never affect a lowly person like herself. Now her position had changed. Everyone must be waiting to see if she would be the mother of the shogun’s heir. She would have to be very careful indeed.
Suddenly she thought of the Retired One. She must have been still in her teens – not much older than Sachi was now – when she entered the palace to be Lord Iesada’s third bride. And she had won. She had outlived him and taken old Lady Honju-in’s place. But all the same, to have shared a bed with such a lord . . . In this world no man could choose the path his life took and women even less so, even someone as brilliant, fiery and beautiful as the Retired One. And then, at the end of it all, to be a widow, washed up on the shore of life not long after her twentieth year. Sachi tried to imagine what sadness and disappointment lurked behind her steely exterior. It was something that previously would never have entered her mind. But now, with the memory of His Majesty still so fresh, the world looked different.
‘What happened to Lord Ieyoshi?’ she asked uneasily. ‘And to Lord Iesada?’
Haru scowled and shook her head. ‘Another day,’ she said grimly.
III
Sachi was so distracted she was sure she would not be able to concentrate on her studies. But as she copied out poems, trying to make her brush dance across the paper with the same fluidity and grace as Haru’s, she felt her mind becoming calm like the surface of a pond after the wind has died down. She was way behind the other junior ladies in practically everything – calligraphy, poetry writing, tea ceremony, incense guessing and all the other courtly arts that women had to know – but she was determined to catch up as quickly as she could.
In the afternoon she went to the training hall. Her maids followed behind her, bearing her costume. Taki carried her halberd.
Several junior women were already there, dressed in the uniform of palace guards. Sachi too changed into stiff black divided skirts and a black jacket of coarsely woven silk with the crest of the House of Tokugawa – three hollyhock leaves – appliquéd on the back. The fabric felt rough against her skin. She put on a stiff black cap and tied it firmly in place with a white band wrapped tightly around her head.
It was the first time she had seen the others since her promotion. They gazed at her curiously. They were still children, with thick black eyebrows and white teeth. She alone had the shaved eyebrows and blackened teeth of a married woman, one who has known a man. She kept her face lowered. Her cheeks were blazing with self-consciousness but she also felt a quiet sense of pride.
Her fellow pupils gathered around her, bowing and chorusing ‘Congratulations.’ Fuyu was among them, as pretty and pert as ever, her make-up perfect, her hair glossy with oil. She even managed an icy smile as she spat out the word ‘Congratulations.’
The first job was to clean the mats. As the students scuttled up and down, sliding damp cloths across the tatami, Fuyu pushed in between Taki and Sachi, close to Sachi’s shoulder.
‘Well,’ she hissed, ‘what a surprise. I suppose Her Highness forced His Majesty to choose one of her women, and the only one the right age was you. What an ordeal for His Majesty, having to touch a creature like you!’
Sachi was taken aback. Fuyu must have forgotten herself completely to reveal her feelings like this, in such a crude, direct way. She started to run faster but Fuyu sped up too.
‘If you need anything, let me know, anything at all,’ Fuyu panted, her voice growing louder. ‘You must have trouble eating white rice. I’ll get you some barley, or millet. Or some animal feed from the stables. You should sleep there too. You’d feel at home.’
Sachi said nothing. Perhaps Fuyu was hoping she would make a fool of herself by getting angry. But she would not succeed in provoking her.
When the mats were spotless, the students knelt at the side of the hall and slid their halberds from their bags. With an effort Sachi focused her attention on her weapon. Just to hold it made her feel calm. She drew it from its scabbard and studied the blade. It was beautiful, of the finest steel, elegantly curved. The convex edge was sharp enough to cut a man in half with a single sweep and there was a channel along the blunt side to let the blood drain away. Like a sword, it was strong enough to slice through armour twice as thick as a man’s finger but flexible enough not to shatter, made by a swordsmith whose family had specialized in the art for many generations. The long wooden shaft was lacquered with a design of flowers and inlaid in gold with the Tokugawa crest. With the blunt side towards her Sachi powdered the blade, cleaned and oiled it. She ran a cloth along the handle, then returned the blade to its scabbard and put the weapon back in its bag.
Then she took a practice stick from the side of the hall. When she held it upright it was nearly twice as long as she was tall. It was of white oak, light and smooth, tapering at one end.
‘Do your best,’ shouted the teacher, Lady Masa, a sinewy, greyhaired woman. She was nearly as tall and slender as a halberd herself and had a reputation as a dazzling swordswoman. ‘These are dangerous times. Now that His Majesty is absent, we must be ready to defend the castle. Focus your minds. Train hard.’
The students practised the different moves – striking, slashing, thrusting, parrying and blocking. Then they put on helmets and protective clothing and began to spar. The hall was filled with the deafening smack of wood on wood.
Growing up in samurai households, Sachi’s companions had begun learning the halberd when they were little girls so that they would be ready to defend their houses when the menfolk were away. Among the samurai, halberds – naginata, ‘long-handled swords’ – were part of a bride’s trousseau. They were long and light – light enough for a woman to wield and long enough to enable her to take a good swipe at her assailant’s legs before he could get close enough to grab at her or strike with his sword. For many years – throughout the reigns of twelve generations of shoguns, longer than anyone could remember – Japan had been at peace. Apart from driving off the occasional brigand or thief, women had never expected that they would have to use a halberd for defence. Halberd practice had become largely a form of martial art, a discipline of mind and body.
But in the women’s palace halberd practice was deadly serious. The palace was the shogun’s home. He went to the outer palace, where the men gathered, to deal with matters of state, but the women’s palace was where he relaxed and spent his nights. And of course there were no male guards there. All the palace women were required to be adept with the halberd so that they could defend the shogun if an enemy ever attacked. Everyone knew that the women of the shogun’s palace were formidable warriors, and to reach such a level of expertise required strict training and daily practice.
Sachi had missed years of training, but today she felt invincible. Her body seemed light as a flame. She darted forward, scything at her opponent, then skipped out of reach before letting fly with a barrage of sweeping cuts and thrusts. She could feel the lightness of the stick in her hand and the tingling vibration of the tip as it swept through the air.
But compared to Fuyu she was clumsy. Fuyu was the best fighter in the class. She and her stick seemed to become one, flowing gracefully from one crisp movement to the next. She was beautiful to watch.
They hadn’t been practising for long when Fuyu broke away from her sparring partner. Out of the corner of her eye Sachi saw Fuyu coming towards her. She planted herself firmly in fron
t of her and stared at Sachi, her eyelids twitching and her eyes narrowed to slits. It seemed she had totally lost control of herself.
‘Such pretty white skin,’ she sneered, her voice shaking. ‘So proud of yourself with your shaved eyebrows and black teeth. Think you fool us, do you? We know what you are. Well, peasant girl, let’s see you fight.’
Her lips drew back. Sachi remembered both Lady Tsuguko’s and Haru’s warnings. She knew Fuyu was a much better fighter. There would be no quarter. She was in for a beating, that was sure, but nothing would stop her accepting Fuyu’s challenge. Nothing could be worse than to be seen as a coward. She drew herself up, trying to match Fuyu’s disdain. She thought of the shogun’s steady eyes and cool touch. She would prove to everyone that she was worthy to be his concubine.
She bowed. Then she braced herself, feet wide apart, holding her staff loosely in both hands, and took a deep breath. Focus, she told herself. Hold your centre.
The next moment Fuyu was bearing down on her, her eyes glaring and her forehead beaded with sweat. Sachi quailed like a field mouse watching as a hawk swoops down, unable to move, unable to escape. Flailing her stick and shouting at the top of her voice, Fuyu took a swipe at her chest.
Sachi felt the rush of air as the stick swung towards her. She was braced, staff poised. She parried the blow, though the force of the stroke sent her staggering back. Her staff was still quivering when Fuyu spun round and aimed another, then another, launching blows at her chest, her head, her shins. Sachi leaped and danced, blocking and parrying. It was all she could do just to fend off the attack. She tried to get a blow in for herself but there was no chance.
Then Fuyu paused, panting, just long enough for Sachi to get her balance. When Fuyu hurled herself at her again, Sachi was ready. Sachi caught the blow on the handle of her staff, spun round on her toes and lashed out with the blade end. Fuyu drove her back, striking at her chest and shins, battering at her wrists, trying to force her to drop her staff.
Sachi was gasping for breath. For a moment she lost concentration and let down her guard. A mighty whack in her ribs sent her staggering back. Fuyu charged in, walloping her with her staff, battering her with blows. Then she dropped to her knees and stabbed at her stomach. Sachi doubled up, gasping. The room spun. She could hear the blood ringing in her ears. Fuyu loomed over her, her face purple, her stick raised.
An image swam into Sachi’s mind of the gentle shogun and of the baby that might be growing inside her. Suddenly she was perfectly focused. Panting, she straightened up. The two women circled around and around, holding each other with their eyes, staves pointed. Sachi could see nothing but Fuyu’s hate-filled face and the walls of the training hall revolving behind her.
Then Fuyu stepped back and raised her staff. It curved through the air and came swinging down in a blur. Sachi parried the blow. The two staffs came together with a thwack.
Sachi leaped back, spun round on her toes and lashed out, driving Fuyu back. She struck out with one end of the staff then Sachi leapt back, spun round on her toes and lashed out, driving Fuyu back. She struck out with one end of the staff then spun round and struck with the other before Fuyu had time to recover her balance. A look of disbelief flashed across Fuyu’s face. Sachi had her on the defensive. She skipped to and fro, poised like a dancer. She was air, she was flame. The staff was part of her body, an extension of her arm. Sachi danced forward and back, putting her weight behind every blow, striking here, thrusting there, trying to get under Fuyu’s defences.
Fuyu’s face was puffy. She looked as if she wanted to cry. She lost concentration. At that moment Sachi brought her staff down on Fuyu’s arm. Fuyu yelled, her face twisted in fury. Sachi dropped to her knees and swung at Fuyu’s legs.
Fuyu returned to the attack. Her face was flushed dark red. She struck at Sachi’s stomach. Sachi tried to parry the blow but her stick flew from her hand. Thrown off balance, she staggered and fell. Before she could get up Fuyu started to rain blows on her, whacking her back, her legs, her arms. Then she tossed away her stick and jumped on her, pummelling with her fists.
Sachi twisted, wriggled and got in a punch wherever she could but Fuyu had her firmly pinioned. They rolled over and over, punching, kicking and scratching. Sachi felt Fuyu’s hands close around her throat. She grabbed Fuyu’s hair and felt a triumphant thrill as a clump came out in her hand. Fuyu let out a shriek and relaxed her grip. Sachi sat up sharply, threw her on to her face and knelt on top of her. Fuyu was wriggling and shrieking. Sachi took hold of her arm and twisted it up her back until Fuyu thumped the floor with her free hand in submission.
Apart from their gasps, the hall was totally silent. A long shadow fell across them. Lady Masa was standing over them.
‘Enough!’ she yelled. ‘Never bring your private feelings into this hall. You’re breaking the prime rule of the samurai code. Training is to be done with humility, you hear?’
Gingerly Sachi took off her helmet. She was bruised all over, but she didn’t care. She threw Fuyu a triumphant glance. But she now knew for sure she had an enemy.
The women clustered at the entrance to the hall, slipping their feet into wooden sandals. Fuyu glared at Sachi. Her round snubnosed face was stained with tears, her lips pressed together in a scowl. She bent down and picked up a mud-encrusted sandal. Before anyone could stop her she drew her arm back and hit Sachi full on the side of the head with it.
Reeling from the blow, Sachi put her hand to her head. Earthsoiled footwear: it was the ultimate insult. The pain meant nothing, but the humiliation was not to be borne. In the old days a samurai woman, she knew, would have committed suicide in the face of such an affront. She certainly would not do that. She was not a samurai and never would be. She would practise and practise until she could beat Fuyu with ease every time. And one day she would repay the insult.
‘After all,’ Taki said in a triumphant whisper, putting a skinny arm round her, ‘His Majesty chose you, not Fuyu.’
IV
A few days after the shogun left, letters arrived for Princess Kazu, for the Old Crow, his mother, and for the Retired One, his stepmother. There was also a letter for Sachi. She took it off to the room she shared with Lady Tsuguko and held it for a long time then very slowly unscrolled it. It was written on lightly scented mulberry paper. The calligraphy, she could see, was exquisite – gentle but passionate, like His Majesty. She pictured him sitting in his palanquin or at a small table at one of the rest stops, his brush dipping and swooping like a plover in flight. While most women of the samurai class knew only the hiragana syllabary, growing up in the women’s palace she had also begun learning the kanji Chinese characters in which classical literature was written. She did not yet know enough to decipher every word in the shogun’s letter, but she could tell that he was describing his travels. He concluded with a poem in which he referred to some beautiful flowers he had seen which, he wrote, filled him with yearning for her lovely face.
The problem was, she would have to reply. Sachi had learned enough to develop an eye for a fine hand. But her handwriting was so childish it would surely give him a bad impression of her, and her poetry composition was still elementary.
There was also a letter from her mother. The village priest had written it for her in plain round script. As she unrolled it Sachi was overwhelmed with homesickness.
‘We are so happy to hear from you and grateful to you for being such a devoted daughter,’ Otama said. ‘We did not know what had become of you. We dared not write to you at the castle. We were sure if you were living there you would be ashamed of us. Please take care of your health in this humid weather. We are happy to hear that you are working hard. Please be sure not to make yourself a burden on the good people who have adopted you. We are proud you are now a maid of the middle rank. As you know there is great disorder on the road, but don’t worry about us. We’re all fine.’
Disorder on the road? Sachi had never heard of such a thing. Even when there had been famines and rioting, t
he road had always been clear and orderly. Her father had seen to that. It sounded strange and disturbing. But there were more immediate things to think about. Sachi read on.
‘Little Omasa who you used to carry on your back got ill in her stomach when she was in her third year and died. We have another daughter now called Ofuki. So far with the blessing of the gods she is healthy. Your little brother Chobei is in his ninth year. He has become a strong boy. He is doing well with his studies and helping your father at the inn. You remember little ugly Mitsu from the inn along the road? She went as a bride to her cousins on the other side of the hill. Her first baby died but she has a healthy child now.’
Sachi sat in silence for a while. In her mind she was back at the top of the hill with her baby sister on her back and her friend and little brother beside her, on a cold autumn day with clouds scudding across the sky. She could see the line of porters emerging from the woods on the far side of the valley, as small as insects, pouring out in an endless swarm. So many things had changed since then. She thought of her sister and tears ran down her cheeks.
But there had been someone else there too. What of Genzaburo, their leader, with his gangly brown legs, whooping laugh and talent for mischief? He had been an older brother to her, her comrade in arms. She remembered the madcap adventures he had led them on, the forays into the woods to climb trees or root out badgers, the secret jaunts down to the river to swim. What had become of him?
She ground some ink and started to compose an answer. The weather, she wrote, was improving. The rains had come at last and the humidity had lifted. The hydrangeas were in full bloom in the palace gardens. She enquired after her grandmother, the innkeeper across the road and the women who used to gather at the well. Then she added, ‘And by the way, how is the innkeeper next door and his family?’ She rolled the letter up, sealed it and gave it to one of her maids.