The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai (41 page)

He presses his fingertips against the raised platform and says to himself, ‘In outward aspect a Bodhisattva; at innermost heart, a demon. I have met such priests before. Some apprentice monks have weaker spirits than others.’ He sits back, his eyes soft again. ‘Kozaishō, I humbly ask you to forgive me for not protecting you, for not holding you near me.’

‘If you can forgive me, my honourable lord, for trusting Daigoro no Goro and accepting your desire for punishment rather than my own experiences of your Right Mindedness. Obāsan has extolled your virtuous heart.’

‘No. It is I who beg your forgiveness. I promise Daigoro no Goro’s head to you – and more, if it can be arranged.’

I see the waters of repentance in his eyes. After a time, he rubs the back of my hand with a finger. ‘Guards. My personal guards, shall be with you always.’

I gulp, clear my throat and make another decision. ‘I humbly request that Akio, the samurai who has been my teacher for many years, now be one of my personal guards as well. As my honourable lord said, Akio is here and he can attest to my
bokken
’s work on Goro’s face.’

Michimori pulls his paper and brush from his writing box, writes, and calls, ‘Messenger.’ A guard rushes to the platform, lies on the floor with one palm up. Michimori folds the paper like a flower, gives the messenger directions and drops the note into an open palm. The messenger scuttles away.

He turns to me. ‘You have already asked me about him. I keep my word. Akio is with my troops. His family has a comfortable place to live. Consider it done.’ He rearranges himself on his cushions so he is closer to me. ‘Now you have heard what is truly in my heart, and I have heard what is in yours. I say again, I wish you to be my wife. Will you consent?’

Concubine, a possibility. Wife? Marriage? He is nephew to the emperor’s father. He is truly the noble, the
kuge
.

‘Why, my lord?’

What does he want from me? What kind of pawn am I – and in what kind of game? A wife has more responsibilities. As a concubine, I would be freer to search for Goro. ‘My lord, I have no need of marriage. Why should you?’

‘I need to marry you.’

‘Surely not.’ A small smile wipes my lips. ‘You may have me as often as you desire. Whenever you wish.’ What more does he want? ‘Surely you know my oath binds me in fidelity. Have not my sacrifices proven my trustworthiness?’

‘I have been enamoured of you since I heard Tokikazu describe you. I love you more now because you have proved more honourable with your sacrifice. Still, I
must
marry you.’

‘I do not understand why it is necessary.’

His hand brushes across mine.

The easy touch brings quivering to my spine.

‘To protect you. To give you deference and rank. Above all other reasons, to have others give you the high respect and esteem that I already accord you. This is not without precedent. Minamoto no Yoshitomo has a mistress. Her name is Ōi, I think. A
ch
ō
ja
at Aohaka Inn in Mino Province, if my messengers are correct. They usually are.’ His smile is broad, and his arms stretch out to each side with a slight lift in the shoulders.

‘My uncle, Kiyomori, had problems with Hotoke, another Woman-for-Play, I believe. Know that I am not my uncle, neither do I waver in my feelings as he does. I am not married and never have been. I will be faithful to you, my beautiful sparrow.’

My eyes fill with the long-sought goal achieved. My breath shortens and my arms tremble.

Deference and rank? My father had required me to be mindful of our family’s honour. How much more honour can there be in third rank? Third rank visits the emperor, his palaces, his festivals. How much more respect can there be in becoming the wife of the nephew of the emperor’s grandfather? He is offering an honourable life, one my ancestors and my family will cherish.

I nod, indicating agreement, because I fear my words will tangle. I dare not think of Tokikazu, our friendship and – understanding.

The warm brown eyes crinkle, and he makes an odd motion with his hand. A servant brings a lacquered tray, holding three red cups and a
sake
jug. Another servant pours
sake
into all three cups, each larger than the next, and finally removes the jug. The servants leave.

‘Is
sansankudo
known to you?’

‘N-No, my lord.’ My limbs are still shaking, but I am glad to have spoken these few words.

He tilts the smallest cup and allows a few drops to spill into his mouth. ‘
Sansankudo
, three sets of three means nine. Three – the perfect number, because it is indivisible. We drink three times from each cup,’ he says quietly.

He hands me the smallest cup, and I swallow as he has. I return the cup to him and he drinks. ‘For your safety, and to provide you with my rank and recognition, we are joining in this public place.’

I sip, suddenly aware of all the samurai’s eyes focusing on us. He drinks. We alternate, until we have each sipped three times from each cup. He maintains his focus on me. When I return his stare, his intensity shoots through me, as if already piercing my womb, and I drop my eyes often, to the cup or the floor.

All three cups are empty. We are married. In public. With witnesses.

I resolve to be an honourable wife, devote my life to him and sacrifice myself for him if he asks it.

Michimori motions to his personal guards.

Words rumble like thunder in my head. ‘Marry.’ ‘Wife.’ The room revolves like silk spinning. Now married, now third rank, now of the nobility. Tashiko and I could never have imagined such a possibility.

Tears flow from the persistent grief of my lost love, from being forced into a position I do not know how to occupy, with duties I do not know how to perform, and into a rank that holds such honour that even my distant ancestors must sing with joy. I hide my face in my sleeves to conceal my feelings, not knowing how low to bow to a husband. I force myself to make only the deepest bow without the full five-point one.

Personal guards, Akio but not Tokikazu, thank the Goddess of Mercy, conduct me through the corridors to my lord’s chambers. I hear a musician playing in another room. All of the servants are absent, except Obāsan, who lights a delicate incense. I recognise the scent from my first meeting with Michimori. The brazier glows. The room becomes a garden of tender scents. The
futon
s and cleaning cloths are arrayed. Refreshments sit in covered bowls on a table, gold accents shimmering like early dawn. The table’s shape resembles the one Chiba used in Lesser House, worlds away.

I sit and close my eyes. Opening them, I see Obāsan standing behind my honourable lord. He walks to me and puts his fingers through my hair, like a comb. In a low growl, without turning, he commands Obāsan to be gone, and she is.

He takes my hand to help me stand. ‘No stories,’ he murmurs into my neck. ‘My wife,’ he says, skimming his face over mine. ‘My love,’ he says, spreads my robes wide and surveys my body with his hands as carefully as he had his maps for battles and traces Goro’s few remaining visible injuries with a fingertip.

I release his robes, but he holds my wrists. ‘No, my beautiful samurai woman.’ His face lights up. ‘I have dreamed of you, of this. Let me give you happiness. For my delight. My wife.’

I see tears drip. I catch one on the bent knuckle of a finger. The top of my head floats at the word ‘wife’.

‘Never doubt me again.’ His voice is strong and stern.

‘This is beyond my dreams.’ I remove another tear from his sun-darkened cheek, his face thinner than I remember. ‘You have brought me back from Hell, yet I remember the demons.’

He massages my neck and shoulders. ‘How frightened you must have been that morning at the Village after I left. I did not have time to explain. I rarely do.’

He stops, shrugs and smiles, a sweeping smile I have never seen.

He clutches me to him. His heat pushes through his heavy
hitatare
. ‘I will never allow us to be apart again,’ he says, and picks me up as if I were an empty quiver.

Michimori sets me on the
futon
and kneels beside me. His hands caress my face and neck. ‘We will never be separated again. Perhaps that will help to silence your devils, Kozaishō.’

He places his head on my stomach, his arms clasping me, and weeps. I put one hand on his head and the other on his shoulder. So much passion. Is he crying for joy? Or sadness?

I loosen his clothing, rubbing his thick black hair, trying to soothe him. His sobs subside, and his hands seek my Gate. His fingers press against my skin, tender as gosling down, and I spread my robes. Desire bounds forth at these mild touches, his smooth strokes, and the bold, meticulous kneading. I cannot keep my hands from embracing him through the brocade with a long slow rhythm.

My honourable lord pulls my arms away, chuckling now. ‘It is my right to delight you, my beautiful strong wife. Allow me.’

With that admonition, I lie on the
futon
, burning and shaking with craving. Is this the way with husbands and wives? He permits me to touch only his chest, neck and face. Nothing else. Impatience controls my limbs, and my hands brush his chest, many times, keeping cadence with his. My breathing frays. My legs unfetter – open in the excitement.

He groans and enters. He rises on his arms and knees and rocks us together to give me bliss. Satisfaction plucks at my body again. Again. I clutch his shoulders. We dance for hours.

‘I hope never to spend another night without you, my brave Kozaishō.’

I lie beside him, aware of the growing knot of fear in my stomach. With such an influential husband, perhaps I have acquired new, fiercer and more dangerous enemies.

When his breathing becomes more regular, I fall asleep.

V. A Hunter’s Dog

This was the beginning of the best, the most difficult and the most perilous time.

I had never thought of marriage, yet the samurai treated me as his bride. They bowed to me as to any of the other wives, although Tokikazu often included a knowing nod or wink. At first these honours were uncomfortable to accept.

Michimori’s family’s other wives and concubines signalled the same hostility as to any other new wife, I supposed, but they showed outward courtesy. I worked hard to earn my place among them. With appropriate protestations that I was undeserving, I gave them most of the gifts my husband heaped on me. But I did not give anything to my new servants, for I had learned how to manage servants at Hitomi’s.

In the first of our night-time talks, Michimori charged me, ‘As my wife it is not your work to perform dances, songs or even play the
biwa
or
koto
. Only play if it is your own desire.’

My own desire. I did not know what that would be, besides the practice field and to see Three Eyes’ head on a spike.

‘Nevertheless, bush warbler. I expect you to sit behind the screens in a room similar in function to the ones you saw in Rokuhara. You are to look through the hinges, observe and listen when men visit. Later, we can discuss our findings.’

He taught me the political language and implications, and I taught him to hear with another ear and see with another eye. A captain who boasts of conquests and wealth, yet comes to the palace with uniforms of second rate silk, is a liar. The way the head is held or the rapidity of darting eyes can yield much information about the truthfulness of the speaker. Michimori and I talked and compared notes, trying to outguess each other with our hypotheses.

He also showed me how he folded his notes so I would not mistake forgeries for his. I designed my own distinct folds and practised them. For the writing I waited for Misuki, because hers was acceptable and mine was not.

When I had grasped how Michimori wanted me to serve him, I said I would be his Hunter’s Dog, recounting this story:

Long, long ago in Mimasuka Province, humans were often sacrificed at the Shinto Shrine of the Monkey. One month a thirteen-year-old, an only child of elderly parents, was chosen. They were sad and shared their wailing with all who would listen.

Inuyama, a hunter, heard their distress. He asked the unfortunate parents if they would allow him to take the place of their daughter. The parents protested at first, but Inuyama insisted. The parents finally consented, with more tears.

The day before the sacrifice, Inuyama secretly put two of his dogs into a large chest and carried it to the shrine. He himself was to stay all night in the shrine and be sacrificed to the monkeys. He waited in the dark for a time, but as a hunter he was patient and skilled. When he heard the scratching of the monkeys’ paws, he opened the chest. Inuyama and his dogs fought the monkeys and won.

The monkeys begged Inuyama to call off his dogs, saying, ‘Please, no more! Let there be no more human sacrifice!’

Inuyama considered this, and in that moment the shrine’s priest also cried out, ‘I am the Deity of the Shrine! No more! Let there be no more human sacrifices!’

The villagers, brought by the parents, heard this and stopped Inuyama killing the monkeys. Later, with joyous feasting, the daughter married Inuyama, who had saved her life.