The Last Concubine (35 page)

The following evening they reached the castle town of Takasaki. They left before dawn. They could not help noticing bodies tied to crosses at the edge of the city as a warning to lawless characters who might think of taking advantage of the chaos to attack travellers. The mountains loomed behind them, monstrous shapes in the darkness, filling the sky. From now on they would be walking across the plains.

Around the hour of the horse, when the sun was high in the sky, they came to a river too wide and fast-flowing to ford.

‘The River Toné,’ said Shinzaemon. ‘Once we’ve crossed it we’re on the last stretch.’

The river was in flood, swollen with melting snow. The houses on the far side were like houses in a painted landscape. On the bank people peered anxiously out across the water. An ancient flat-bottomed ferry boat was zigzagging precariously towards them, propelled by a bald-headed ferryman heaving and shoving a long bamboo pole while another squatted in the stern, steering. The wind rustled the reeds at the water’s edge.

A gnarled old man with a money belt around his waist growled something in a dialect so uncouth that Sachi couldn’t make out a word.

‘What? That’s ten times the proper rate,’ Shinzaemon yelled. ‘Greedy wretch! The country’s up in flames and all you can think about is how much money you can make out of it?’

‘Sorry, your lordship,’ squawked the old man. Sachi was becoming attuned to the accent. ‘That’s the rate, your honour. Take it or leave it. Or find your own way across.’

The boat creaked and groaned towards them, so jam-packed it looked as if it would sink under the weight of people and goods. The boatman leaned hard on his pole, nearly toppling into the water with each stroke. There were porters crowded in the stern, standing miserably around a pile of strongboxes, shivering and pale, wearing nothing but loincloths. In the prow were some wellfed characters who looked like the owners of the porters. There was a furtive air about them. From time to time they glanced over their shoulders as if they were being followed. Keeping her scarf pulled well across her face, Sachi peeped at them curiously.

They looked like Edo merchants, like the merchants she used to see bringing rolls of silk to the palace to sell. They were wearing costly gowns in rich fabrics, drab on the outside but with lustrous linings visible at the cuffs and collar. But there was something strange about these supposed merchants. The men grouped around them had two swords poking out from beneath their townsmen’s cloaks and seemed to be guarding the three in the middle, whose faces were shaded under travelling hats.

The prow of the ferry pushed up on to the riverbank with a great swell of water and the men stepped out, so close to Sachi that she could have reached out and touched them. As the first man brushed past her, the wind rippled his sleeves and for a moment a faint hint of perfume scented the air. Sachi closed her eyes and inhaled. It was a plum blossom blend, mild and sweet, a winter scent with a hint of camellias. This man was no merchant, she thought. No merchant would ever have access to a sophisticated fragrance like that or be allowed to wear it. There was something familiar about it. An obscure memory stirred in her mind.

For a moment she was back in the palace, gliding through the great chambers with their coffered ceilings and walls glimmering with gold, the quilted hem of her train swishing behind her. The women she passed were talking and laughing, each of them with her own distinctive perfume. She was hurrying, with Taki, following Lady Tsuguko who strode in front, her long hair streaked with grey sweeping the ground. But where to, and why? She groped in her mind, trying to remember. The fragrance gave her a terrible sense of foreboding.

She opened her eyes. Glancing down she saw the man’s hand. It was soft and white, fleshy and manicured like a woman’s. A shock tingled through her body. It had been pressed to the tatami in the princess’s audience chamber. The scent was so overwhelming she felt herself growing dizzy. A man’s silken tones echoed in her ears, whispering again and again in the convoluted language of the court that His Majesty the shogun was gravely ill.

His Majesty the shogun. She saw his smooth pale chest, his boyish smile. She had thought with time the pain would become less intense but she felt hot tears spring to her eyes. Then she pictured the princess weeping behind her screens and heard her asking, ‘Oguri. Oguri. His Majesty’s illness – is it natural?’ Oguri. That had been his name.

Recklessly she raised her head. There was no mistaking that bland, doughy face with the shifty-eyed look of the eternal courtier. For a moment their eyes met. His registered nothing. Of course, she had been hidden that day so he had not seen her.

A younger man followed him. He was still a boy, no older than Tatsuemon. Then came the third. She was so swept up in her memories, so shocked at seeing Lord Oguri again, that she let her scarf fall away from her face. She knew her white skin, delicately boned nose and dark green eyes stood out in the crowd and it was important not to draw attention to herself. But everyone was so concerned with their own business, no one would notice. Besides, these men had never seen her before. She meant nothing to them.

She recognized the craggy hawk-like face passing before her – a swarthy heavy-jowled face, scarred with the marks of smallpox, with a mouth that creased naturally into a scowl. The man’s samurai topknot lay, hard and shiny, on top of his tanned, leathery head. It was Lord Mizuno, who had been Lord Oguri’s companion on that dreadful day.

His eyes met hers – and his face dissolved with shock. His thick-lipped mouth fell open and he started backwards as if he had seen a ghost.

‘Go! Go! Let me alone! Leave me be!’ he bellowed. His sword arm twitched – she remembered that odd twitch of his – and the guards reached for their sword hilts. His eyes were
starting out of his head, his mouth wide open in a silent scream.

Oguri swung round, glaring.

‘Silence,’ he hissed in a strangled voice. ‘You want to destroy us all with your madness?’

The men pushed through the crowds, the bodyguards thrusting people aside to make way for them, and scrambled into palanquins. Lord Mizuno was still looking back, staring at Sachi wild-eyed. She watched as they moved away from the river, towards the mountains, followed by a long train of porters staggering under the weight of strongboxes, four men to a box.

Taki was standing at Sachi’s shoulder. ‘Those men . . . Did you see them?’ she murmured. ‘Wasn’t it . . . ?’

But Sachi was still incredulous, aghast at Mizuno’s behaviour. Had he somehow managed to see her that day? Surely not. It was impossible that he could know her. But there was no other time they might have met. That was the only time she had ever seen men of any sort in the women’s palace. And to see these men out here on the road . . . She wondered what could have made him react like that.

‘Things must be very bad in Edo if even they’re leaving,’ whispered Taki. ‘And the way he looked at you. What did it mean?’

Sachi shook her head. ‘I suppose they’re just not used to seeing women travelling freely,’ she whispered. She flushed red, burning with shame that she had been so foolish as to draw these men’s attention by letting her veil fall. She must never be so careless again.

The ferry going towards Edo was nearly empty. Besides Sachi, Taki and Shinzaemon and their porters there were only a couple of farmers on it. The water was in full flood and it was all the ferryman could do to hang on to his pole as the boat bobbed across the swell. Sachi, Taki and Shinzaemon were tossed from side to side while a cold wind whipped through their thin cotton clothes. Icy foam showered them with stinging spray. Gulls flapped overhead and wild geese shrieked.

The bank on the Edo side was crammed with frightened faces and heaps of baggage. People shoved and pushed, elbowing each
other out of the way, yelling, ‘My old mother’s ill, she needs to go first,’ and ‘We’re in a hurry, we were here first.’ The boatmen shoved them off, bawling, ‘Get back. Boat’s full.’ There were people clinging to the sides and crowded on to the bows. By the time the ferry left it was riding dangerously low in the water.

The three travellers tramped through woods and moorland and between brown paddy fields ploughed and ready for planting. Temples and villages jutted like islands in a sea of green and shops and stalls dotted the highway. Clouds scudded across the sky. It was only twenty
ri
to Edo – just a couple more days to go.

Shinzaemon slowed his pace and he and Sachi walked together. From time to time she glanced up at him – his broad nose, his wild hair, his big hands, his cheekbones – trying to fix the memory in her mind, knowing what a short time was left to them.

As they got closer to Edo they met more and more grim-faced refugees shuffling wearily along, hauling carts piled high with belongings. The road was overflowing with them. There were long processions of palanquins and litters jogging along at a trot, preceded by servants and followed by trains of packhorses and porters carrying baskets and trunks strung on poles. Poorer folk tramped along bent under bundles of bedding and clothes, overtaking oxcarts pulled by sleepy oxen. There were shaven-headed monks, nuns mumbling prayers and ragged beggars, all skin and bone, calling out for alms. Groups of pilgrims ambled along, gossiping, as if nothing in the world had changed.

Some were humming that maddening, defiant, hopeless chorus: ‘
Ee ja nai ka? Ee ja nai ka?
Who gives a damn? Who gives a damn?’ Others took up the refrain and soon the whole road was full of people singing, some under their breath, others at the tops of their voices. The more they repeated the meaningless phrase, the more wild their eyes became. Some even began to hop and skip. With everything falling apart, the song seemed to say, what else was there to do except throw up your hands and dance?

Sachi and Taki scoured the blank, exhausted faces, wondering if there were any women from the palace among them. Every now and then there was a warning shout in the distance. As people scrambled to get out of the way an express palanquin would go
flying by, the bearers kicking up the dust with their strawsandalled feet.

Sachi and her companions were the only ones going towards Edo. Everyone else was fleeing the city.

They took the long bridge across the River Kanna at Honjo and rested in a teahouse on the other side. A group of men were sitting there, puffing small pipes. They were dressed as townsmen but talked like samurai. Everyone seemed to be in disguise.

‘Which way are you headed?’ asked one. He was a mousy little man – his false topknot had slipped a little – who looked as if he had spent his life bent over account books, lodged in one of the miserable apartment blocks where low-level samurai lived. Sachi suspected he would have no idea what to do if he ever found himself in a fight.

Shinzaemon took a puff of his pipe and jerked his head to the south, towards Edo.

The man drew his breath through his teeth with a sharp hiss.

‘Wouldn’t do that,’ he muttered, blinking behind his glasses and glancing over his shoulder. ‘Everyone’s getting out. It’s a dead city. The southerners are at the gates. They’ve got a checkpoint at Itabashi and they’re interrogating everyone. Word is they’re at Shinagawa too. They’ve got control of the Inner Mountain Road and the Eastern Sea Road. City’s under siege. I should turn right round if I was you.’

‘We’re only women,’ Sachi piped up. She spoke in Kiso dialect to conceal the fact she was a lady of the court. ‘They won’t bother us.’

‘You can’t go walking the streets,’ said the man, nervously sipping his tea. ‘Too dangerous by far. Most of the samurai have left and there’s no one keeping order. Thugs and hoodlums all over the place. It’s a free-for-all.’

‘Most of those so-called hoodlums are southerners,’ said another man. He too looked like a samurai in disguise. ‘Stirring up trouble.’

Sachi yearned to ask about the castle. But ordinary people like these knew nothing about the castle or its inhabitants. All she could do was listen hard and hope she might hear some news.

The road wound through marshland and paddy fields and great
swathes of safflower just coming into bloom, stretching away to the distant hills. There were thatched teahouses and stalls at regular intervals for travellers to rest, and groves of cherry trees.

They were trudging on against the tide when they saw a group of southerners ahead of them. They were easy to spot – squat, brawny men with narrow eyes and leathery faces, dressed in those strange tight black uniforms. Some had conical helmets, others white headbands. They looked like a bunch of roughnecks who had broken away from the main army and were out for trouble, harassing the northerners fleeing Edo.

They were waiting belligerently, filling the entire road. Sachi realized they had no choice but to try to weave their way through them. She walked quickly, head bowed, keeping her eyes on the ground, hoping that if she imagined herself invisible, she would be. She was right in the middle of the crowd of soldiers when she raised her eyes and peeked through the fabric hanging down like a veil from her hat. She started. It couldn’t be . . . Desperately she prayed that it was not. She knew that swarthy pockmarked face.

At the same moment the man leaned forward, staring hard at her. A grimy hand shot out and snatched her hat off her head. She grabbed at it but it was gone.

‘Well, if it isn’t . . .’ he shouted. ‘That peasant. That pretty little pale-faced peasant!’

He gripped her clothes and dragged her up against him. She struggled frantically but he was very strong.

‘Remember me?’ he sneered, rubbing his greasy face against hers and squinting at her with his small close-set eyes. He reeked of dirt and stale sweat.

Sachi twisted her head away and recoiled in disgust. She knew that peasants were fair game and women even more so. Samurai could legally cut a peasant’s head off with impunity – though she was not at all sure that this man was a samurai. In any case, it was wartime and soldiers did as they pleased. Passers-by were slowing their pace, turning to gawp. She knew very well that none of them would dream of getting hurt to defend her.