The Last Concubine (33 page)

‘He was looking for you,’ said Jiroemon. ‘I told him the princess had taken you, that we hadn’t seen you for years. He said he was going to Edo and would look for you there.’

There was a rustle as Shinzaemon sat back on his heels. He was staring at the tatami, frowning. Sachi looked at him, puzzled. There was something he had seen that she had yet to understand.

‘I thought you said he was a townsman,’ she whispered. ‘How could he possibly have stayed at our inn?’ Only daimyos ever stayed at their inn. No one else was allowed to – at least that was how it had always been when she was a child.

‘Well, you know how things are these days,’ said Jiroemon, avoiding her eyes. ‘Everything’s upside down. He’s an important man now, your father.’

There was a long silence.

‘He was with the southerners,’ Jiroemon muttered finally, staring at the coals. ‘With one of the generals. He’s a powerful man these days.’

So that was it, that was what Shinzaemon had guessed. A southerner . . . If he had turned out to be a criminal, this father of hers, if he had turned out to be a gangster or a gambler – she could have lived with that. But marching to Edo with the conquering southerners . . . ?

‘You must have passed each other on the road,’ whispered Otama.

‘If he’s a southerner, he’s no father of mine.’ The words burst out before she could stop them.

‘Don’t talk like that!’ said Otama. ‘He’s your real father. If he wants you back, we have to yield. He’s family. He has no other child, no heir except you. It’s your duty to go to him. It’s nothing to do with what you want or don’t want.’

‘The southerners carry the brocade banner. They’re calling themselves the imperial army now,’ said Jiroemon heavily. ‘They hold the south. Even a girl like you must know that. And they’ll probably take Edo. They say the shogun has run away. His supporters are still fighting but they can’t do much without a leader. Whether we like it or not, the war is almost over. That’s how it looks to us villagers. It could well turn out to be good for you that your father is with the southerners. You’ll see.’

‘Give us a chance,’ muttered Shinzaemon. ‘The war isn’t over yet, not if I have anything to do with it.’ Genzaburo prodded him with his elbow.

‘People of our sort can’t afford to worry about politics,’ said Otama firmly to Sachi. ‘He’ll find you a good husband. It’ll be best for you to go to him.’

Sachi nodded silently. She knew, though they did not, that she had other ties that bound her far more tightly than any obligation to this unknown father who had abandoned her so many years ago. She was joined to His Majesty, the late shogun. She belonged to his family for ever. Whatever was their fate was hers too.

IV

Sachi sat gazing into the fire long after everyone had left. Genzaburo and Shinzaemon had gone out on patrol, to see if there were any more southern troops on the way. Genzaburo wanted to show his brother-in-arms the village, he had said, and get in some sparring practice. Only Taki was still there, on her knees in a corner of the room, quietly sewing.

Sachi sat trying to absorb everything she had heard. She had thought she was coming home. Now, instead, she felt she
had lost her parents – and as for the village, it seemed to have crumbled into dust, like Urashima. And what had she gained? Some swaggering southerner father and a mother who hardly existed.

The brocade, which had seemed to blaze with a supernatural light, was now just a miserable bundle, lying discarded in the corridor under a heap of belongings. She pulled it out, brought it into the room and began to fumble with the knot. Blinded with tears, she could hardly see. Perhaps it too would swirl away in a puff of smoke, taking her along with it. She almost hoped it would.

But the more she struggled with the knot, the tighter it got. Then suddenly the threads of the worn wrapper gave way and the brocade tumbled out.

It fell open, filling the room with its mysterious silky scent. It was as beautiful as ever, blue as the sky, embroidered with plum, bamboo and pine, the symbols of the New Year, and as soft and fine as a flower petal. Impatiently she shook out the fabric. She turned it this way and that, hardly seeing the landscape which swirled across the hem. In her confusion she could scarcely distinguish top from bottom. Finally she found what she was looking for – the crest embroidered at the back of the neck and on the shoulders.

She reached into her sleeve and brought out her beautiful tortoiseshell comb embossed with gold. It sparkled in her hand. She looked at the crest inlaid in gold on the edge: it was the same as the crest on the brocade. So the brocade, like the comb, had been her mother’s. She gazed and gazed at the crest as if it would yield up its secret if she stared long and hard enough. The most frustrating thing was that it seemed somehow familiar.

Taki came over, knelt beside her and gently put her thin arms round her.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I heard what your parents told you. I’m not surprised. I knew you didn’t belong here. These are good people but they’re not yours. It’s only a distant blood connection you have with them.’

‘This crest . . . It’s my mother’s. If only I can identify it, I might be able to find her family. And her too.’

Taki picked up the fabric and ran her fingers over it thoughtfully. She turned the comb over and shook her head.

‘I’ve seen it before but I can’t remember where,’ she said.

They sat in silence, studying the brocade and the comb.

‘Well,’ Taki said at last, ‘I can tell you one thing. This is a concubine’s robe. It’s a style that only concubines of the shogun’s household are allowed to wear. I’d say it’s from the court of the twelfth shogun, Lord Ieyoshi. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t that the time when you were born?’

‘I don’t know when I was born. It was the year of the dog, that’s all I know.’

‘You’re in your eighteenth year, aren’t you, same as me? That year of the dog was an iron dog year. His Majesty would still have been on the throne.’

‘So this is a concubine’s robe from when I was born . . .’ said Sachi.

‘It must be. That’s why you were wrapped up in it.’

‘But don’t you see, Taki? Don’t you see what that means? If this was my mother’s robe, she . . . must be a concubine. Or at least she must have been when I was born. She must have been one of Lord Ieyoshi’s concubines!’

‘That’s not possible,’ said Taki sharply. ‘Didn’t your parents say your real father was a townsman?’

They looked at each other. A concubine of the shogun could never have had an affair with anyone, let alone a low-class townsman. It was inconceivable. It would have been a terrible breach of duty – a shocking crime.

‘Perhaps the man who brought you here was not your father,’ said Taki. ‘Maybe he was instructed to say he was. Maybe he was a courier, a servant . . .’

‘Or maybe my mother was not a concubine. Maybe someone gave her the brocade . . .’ whispered Sachi.

She picked up the robe and buried her face in it. It was a woman’s scent. What did it tell her? There was musk in it, aloe, wormwood, frankincense, mingled with woodsmoke from the many nights her father had spent on the road.

She spread the brocade across her knees. It was exquisitely soft and fine. The gold and silver threads of the embroidery were stiff
with age and crackled as she ran her fingers over them. At the hem, a nobleman’s carriage with the harness coiled picturesquely on the ground as if the oxen that pulled it had wandered off; on the skirts, a thatch-roofed doorway with the ropes swinging as if someone had just rushed through and a rustic gate in a bamboo fence; and embroidered across the seam of the sleeve, the veranda of a secret pavilion overlooking a stream . . . Only a beautiful woman could have worn such a garment.

Supposing it were true, Sachi thought. Supposing her mother really had been a concubine and her father a townsman? That would explain why her mother had not been able to keep her, why she had been brought to the village. Perhaps she had had to be smuggled out to the countryside so that no one would know of her mother’s crime. But what kind of a woman would dare do such a thing? Only someone who had let herself be caught up in a passion so consuming that she no longer cared about her duty. And what a secret she had had to keep.

Sachi gasped and sat up sharply. She felt the blood rush to her face as she thought of Shinzaemon. She had been on the verge of committing that same crime herself. She had not given her body to another man but she had allowed him to enter her heart. Had she inherited her mother’s reckless nature? she wondered. Did the same wild blood run in her veins?

For a moment the thought filled her with horror. Perhaps the brocade had revealed its secret as a warning to her. If only she could find her lost mother, then she might understand the wild impulses that drove her too.

She looked at Taki. Taki was staring at her, her big eyes wide. Sachi could see that the same thoughts were running through her mind.

‘My mother could still be in the women’s palace,’ Sachi whispered. ‘That could be why no one here knows anything about her.’

‘After His Majesty died she would have moved to the Ninomaru, the Second Citadel, where the widows live,’ said Taki thoughtfully. ‘Like old Lady Honju-in.’

Sachi remembered the old lady, as dry and withered as an autumn leaf. She was the one who had told her, ‘You are just a
womb.’ Sachi and Taki would never have met the other concubines of Lord Ieyoshi. Only Lady Honju-in had had the honour of bearing a son and only she had wielded power in the palace. The rest would have been left to their prayers.

‘Taki, I have to find my mother,’ said Sachi.

‘In that case, we have to get back to Edo immediately,’ said Taki. ‘The southerners are heading for the city and they’ll be determined to take the castle. The women might have fled already and there’ll be no chance at all of finding her.’

‘But I have to try.’

But the moment Sachi got back to Edo was the moment she would have to say goodbye to Shinzaemon, she thought. The longer they stayed in the village, the more time they had together. Even though their feelings for each other had to be kept secret, she enjoyed knowing he was there, feeling his presence, being able to glance at him from time to time – his great hands, his rather delicate nose, the way his hair bushed out in that unruly way. From time to time she had the chance to pass a little closer to him than was strictly proper, to feel the heat of his body, smell his salty smell. Sometimes their hands brushed or she felt his eyes on her. But once they got to Edo it would be an end to all that. He would join the militia and would most likely be killed. That was what he expected himself.

But she knew she couldn’t hold him back for much longer. He was far too wild a character to stay in a remote village or to let his life revolve around a woman for long – though she suspected that he too, knowing he was going to his death, wanted to squeeze all the pleasure he could out of these last moments.

They had packed away the brocade when the outer door creaked open. There was a blast of icy air as Shinzaemon and Genzaburo came in. They slid the door closed and stood in the entranceway, their cheeks flushed as if they’d just been sparring.

‘Well, luck was on his side today,’ said Genzaburo, raising his eyebrows wryly as he slipped out of his shoes and wiped his feet before stepping up on to the tatami.

‘But you put up a good fight,’ said Sachi, smiling at him. He was like a brother, this person from her childhood, so rash and
carefree. While she felt weighed down with cares, he was always buoyant, no matter what happened.

He nodded. ‘Don’t worry about this father nonsense,’ he said abruptly. ‘I was adopted three times. I’ve got four fathers and my real mother’s probably that prune-faced old sow who runs the House of Orchids. It’s the throw of the dice. Your parents care about you. You’ll always have a home here.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I don’t belong any more. I’ve been away too long.’

Her eyes were on Shinzaemon. He was putting his long sword in the sword rack. She could see there was something he wanted to say.

‘There’s been news,’ he said quietly. ‘Another detachment of southerners on its way out of Kyoto. It’s time for me to move on, before they get here. The road should be quiet for the time being. It may be the last chance for quite a while.’

So the moment had come, the moment she had been dreading. But now she knew that she was ready to leave too. She needed to get back to Edo, to the palace, to the princess – and perhaps to her mother.

‘I’ve spent enough time polishing my swords,’ said Shinzaemon, staring at the ground, scuffing his feet. She recognized the stubborn set to his jaw. ‘They’re good and sharp now. I need to get back on the road – to help with the defence. If you want to stay longer, you can go with Gen. He’ll be on his way in a few days. But I think you should come with me.’

He spoke carelessly, as if he didn’t mind whether she travelled with Genzaburo or with him, but she knew she was being asked to make a choice.

‘So . . . you’re going to Edo,’ she said.

Into the hornets’ nest. He nodded.

Taki’s big eyes were shining. Her whole face had come alive. It was obvious where she wanted to be.

‘What do you think, Taki?’ Sachi said quietly. ‘Perhaps it’s time to go back to Edo. We’ll take our halberds. Yuki will stay in the village, where she’s safe. A child would be an encumbrance and we’ll need to travel fast.’

‘It’s the right decision,’ Taki said, beaming. ‘But we’ll have to
take care. The road will be full of southerners – people like that awful pockmarked soldier.’

Sachi looked up at Shinzaemon and smiled.

‘Taki and I are coming with you,’ she said.

8

Into the Hornets’ Nest