The Return of the Warrior

by Chris Bradford

  Contents

  Map: England – 17th Century

  Prologue: Ghost Ship

  1 An English Welcome

  2 Cheapside

  3 Vagabond

  4 Giving the Lie

  5 A Matter of Honour

  6 Gaol

  7 Judge and Jury

  8 The Gallows

  9 Shooting the Bridge

  10 Plague House

  11 Rose

  12 Bedlam

  13 Silver Locket

  14 The Miniaturist

  15 Confession

  16 An Unexpected Guest

  17 Shadow

  18 Prophecy

  19 The Courtesy-Man

  20 Target Practice

  21 Thunderstorm

  22 The Bailiff

  23 Ducking Stool

  24 Plague Doctors

  25 Kanzashi

  26 The Sleep of the Dead

  27 Harvest Festival

  28 Bear-Baiting

  29 Bulldog

  30 Sword Master

  31 Horatio’s School of Fencing

  32 Parry and Riposte

  33 Pommelling

  34 Lupus Hall

  35 The Masque

  36 First Blood

  37 The Truth

  38 Priest Hole

  39 Prisoner

  40 Last Stand

  41 Vengeance

  42 Militia

  43 The Library

  44 Three Tides

  45 Cast Off

  46 The Return of the Warrior

  Japanese Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  As an author, Chris Bradford employs a technique he terms ‘method-writing’. For his Young Samurai series, he trained in samurai swordsmanship, karate, ninjutsu and earned his black belt in Zen Kyu Shin taijutsu. For his Bodyguard series, Chris embarked on an intensive close-protection course to become a qualified professional bodyguard.

  His bestselling books are published in over twenty-five languages and have garnered more than thirty children’s book awards and nominations.

  Before becoming a full-time author, he was a professional musician (who once performed for HRH Queen Elizabeth II), songwriter and music teacher.

  Discover more about Chris at www.chrisbradford.co.uk

  Books by Chris Bradford

  The Young Samurai series (in reading order)

  THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR

  THE WAY OF THE SWORD

  THE WAY OF THE DRAGON

  THE RING OF EARTH

  THE RING OF WATER

  THE RING OF FIRE

  THE RING OF WIND

  THE RING OF SKY

  THE RETURN OF THE WARRIOR

  Available as ebook

  THE WAY OF FIRE

  The Bodyguard series (in reading order)

  HOSTAGE

  RANSOM

  AMBUSH

  TARGET

  ASSASSIN

  FUGITIVE

  Praise for the Young Samurai series:

  ‘A fantastic adventure that floors the reader on page one and keeps them there until the end. The pace is furious and the martial arts detail authentic’ – Eoin Colfer, author of the bestselling Artemis Fowl series

  ‘Fierce fiction … captivating for young readers’ – Daily Telegraph

  ‘Addictive’ – Evening Standard

  ‘More and more absorbing … vivid and enjoyable’ – The Times

  ‘Bradford comes out swinging in this fast-paced adventure … and produces an adventure novel to rank among the genre’s best. This book earns the literary equivalent of a black belt’ – Publishers Weekly

  ‘The most exciting fight sequences imaginable on paper!’ – Booklist

  Winner of Northern Ireland Book Award 2011 Shortlisted for Red House Children’s Book Award 2009 School Library Association’s Riveting Read 2009

  Dedicated to Jan, Órla and Cíara Murphy, and all Young Samurai fans who have fought for this final chapter!

  Hole Haven, England, autumn 1616

  The galleon ship slid through the sea mist, a phantom in the darkness, her sails rippling like shrouds. Entering the Thames Estuary, the vessel maintained her steady silent course. From the shoreline, keen eyes followed her progress.

  ‘Smugglers?’ grunted the nightwatchman, a gaunt-faced fellow with a pinched nose underlined by a pencil-thin moustache. He pulled his cloak tightly round his skinny frame to ward off the night’s chill.

  The customs officer, a portly gentleman with reddened cheeks, lowered his spyglass. ‘I don’t see any boats waitin’ to greet her. She looks to be a trading vessel, though: the Salamander, ’ccording to her bow. Yet she’s sailin’ far too close to shore to be headed for London.’

  A bearded, heavyset constable stood beside them on the sandbank, his cudgel tapping lightly against his leg. As the three-masted ship loomed out of the mist towards them, his deep-set eyes widened slightly. ‘Fie! If the captain don’t change tack soon, she’s going to run aground!’

  The three men watched the galleon glide past, eerie and ominous as a monster of the deep. A little further along the shore – just as the constable had predicted – the boat’s keel ploughed into the soft silt of the estuary’s bank and the ship shuddered to a halt. The three men exchanged an uneasy look, then took off down the beach. Their feet squelching in the sodden sand, they approached the galleon. The vessel lay still and bloated as a beached whale.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ cried the customs officer, craning his neck towards the upper deck.

  But there was no reply, only the creak of timbers, the loose flap of a sail and the lapping of water against the hull.

  The watchman swallowed uneasily. ‘Shouldn’t we call for the militia?’

  The customs officer sneered. ‘And incur the wrath of Sir Francis for waking him at this ungodly hour? No, we investigate further before disturbing the Lord Lieutenant from his bed.’ He gestured towards a loose rigging rope dangling over the side of the ship. ‘Go and look, constable.’

  Hooking his cudgel to his belt, the constable waded through the water, then hauled himself up the barnacled planking and over the gunwale. All remained ominously silent. The watchman pulled the collar of his cloak even tighter, the chill in his bones not from the sea mist but from the galleon’s sinister arrival. As they waited for the constable’s return, the customs officer’s feet began to sink into the silt.

  ‘What’s keeping him?’ he muttered, tugging a leather boot free and irritably kicking off the sludge.

  Another minute or so passed. Then the constable’s bearded face appeared. ‘All clear,’ he called, and dropped down a rope ladder for them.

  Splashing through the frigid sea, they caught hold of the ladder and clambered aboard. The upper deck was deserted. No lanterns were lit. Not a soul in sight.

  The customs officer glanced sidelong at the constable. ‘Where’s her crew, then?’

  The constable shrugged. ‘Below decks maybe.’

  Cautiously the men approached the main hatch. The customs officer silently beckoned to the constable to open it. With a squeal of hinges, the hatch was heaved back. A set of wooden steps led down into the ship’s black belly.

  ‘Light,’ ordered the customs officer.

  The watchman lit a lantern and passed it to him. The gloom fled the flames, and the customs officer gasped as the lower deck revealed itself. A sailor lay slumped against a wall, his head bent forward as if in sleep. But it was the sleep of the dead. A large black rat that had been gnawing on the man’s fingers scuttled away as soon as the lamplight hit it.

  The watchman’s sunken cheeks became even more hollow. ‘You think she’s a plague ship?’

  Taking a handke
rchief from his pocket, the customs officer covered his mouth and descended the steps to inspect the corpse. He set aside the lantern, its orange flame warping the sailor’s waxen face.

  ‘No sign of black spots on him.’ The customs officer drew his dagger from its sheath and prodded the body with the tip of the blade. The sailor’s head lolled unnaturally to one side.

  ‘Looks like his neck is broken,’ said the constable, tightening his grip on the cudgel.

  ‘Perhaps he fell down the stairs?’ the watchman suggested hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps,’ murmured the customs officer, sheathing his dagger and picking up the lantern. ‘Let’s see if we can find the rest of the crew.’

  Reluctantly the watchman followed the constable down the steps. He kept close to the pool of lamplight as his eyes flitted towards every nook and cranny of the lower deck. Shapes took form, then melted back into the shadows: wooden barrels stacked five high … piles of cotton cloth … rolls of expensive silk … hessian sacks of grain … a pair of gleaming black eyes –

  The watchman let out a startled cry, causing the customs officer to turn sharply. ‘What?’ he snapped.

  ‘Someone’s there!’ the watchman whispered, pointing a trembling finger into the inky darkness.

  The customs officer directed his lantern at a gap between two barrels. ‘I see no one.’

  ‘I tell ye, a pair of eyes was watching us.’

  Raising his cudgel, the constable stalked forward to investigate. As he approached the barrels, there was a hiss and a black shape bolted from the shadows. The constable brought his cudgel down but stopped short as a furred creature shot between his legs.

  ‘It’s just the ship’s cat!’ the constable snorted, lowering his cudgel.

  The customs officer scowled at the watchman, then turned away with a shake of the head and resumed the search.

  ‘It wasn’t the ship’s cat,’ the watchman insisted. ‘The eyes were human … or else demon!’

  ‘Pull yourself together, man,’ muttered the constable as he shouldered past.

  Ignoring the watchman’s protests, they headed deeper below deck where they discovered the galleon to be laden with exotic spices from the Far East: clove, nutmeg and mace. A king’s ransom in cargo, destined for the London docks. But still no sign of the crew. The ship groaned as the hull shifted with the incoming tide.

  ‘Strange,’ remarked the customs officer, completing their sweep of the lowest deck. ‘Her crew must be somewhere aboard.’

  ‘Let’s try the hold,’ suggested the constable.

  As the three men headed towards the ladder that descended into the ship’s bowels, a flicker of movement caught the watchman’s eye. ‘Over there!’

  The customs officer swivelled round, the lantern light casting a yellow wave through the darkness. But there was no one to be seen.

  ‘Call yourself a watchman?’ sneered the customs officer. ‘You’re jumping at shadows!’

  ‘B-believe me, I saw a shadow move,’ replied the watchman, his breathing now panicky and shallow. ‘This is a ghost ship! We should leave. Right now.’

  The customs officer raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘A ghost ship? I didn’t take you to be such a superstitious fellow. Get a grip of yourself! There’s no –’

  His rebuke was cut short by a clatter as the constable’s cudgel rolled across the wooden planks and stopped at his feet. The two men glanced down at the weapon before peering nervously into the gloom for its owner.

  The watchman’s eyes were as round as two full moons. ‘Where’s the constable gone?’

  The customs officer held up his lantern, pivoting slowly to reveal yet more barrels, grain sacks and piles of cloth … but no constable. ‘Samuel?’ he called. ‘You playin’ games?’

  Then the lamplight fell upon an open hatch. Through it, the customs officer could see body upon body piled like ballast in the hold. Their cold dead eyes stared blankly at him. The missing crew!

  The customs officer stumbled away. His heart hammering in his chest, he spun back towards the watchman – only to see a black limb reach out and drag his companion away. The darkness appeared to swallow him whole, not even giving him a chance to scream. Dropping the lantern in horror, the customs officer fumbled for his dagger. But his sheath was empty. A moment later, the missing blade was pressed against his neck, the razor-sharp steel cutting into his skin and drawing a bead of blood. A shadow materialized in front of him, silhouetted against the guttering flame of the discarded lantern. Only a pair of demon-black eyes were visible.

  ‘Is this England?’ hissed the shadow, its accent strange and sinister.

  The customs officer nodded, terror taking his tongue. The shadow held a piece of paper before his face. Upon it was a hand-drawn portrait of a young man with straggly straw-blond hair and ocean-blue eyes.

  ‘You know him?’ asked the shadow.

  The customs officer shook his head. ‘W-w-who is he?’

  ‘Jack Fletcher, the gaijin samurai.’

  The customs officer frowned. ‘I never heard of him.’

  ‘Pity.’

  The dagger was drawn sharply across the customs officer’s throat and he collapsed in a spluttering heap. As his blood spilled over the wooden deck and flowed into the hold, three more shadows emerged from the darkness. On their leader’s command, they swiftly and silently made their way to the galleon’s upper deck. Then, vaulting over the side and down the ladder, all four ninjas disappeared into the night.

  London, England, autumn 1616

  ‘Welcome to England!’ said Jack, spreading his arms wide with pride.

  He stood on the prow of the Hosiander, the Dutch trading ship that had provided him passage back from the Japans. Before him, in all its glory and majesty, lay the great city of London. An awe-inspiring vista of peaked roofs, church spires and palace towers. Beneath them, a sprawling mass of houses, inns, markets and shops stretched almost as far as the eye could see – further than Jack could ever recall. And from its centre, rising like a great monolith to dominate the skyline, stood the immense Gothic tower of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Yet it was London Bridge that truly took his breath away. He’d forgotten just how magnificent and impressive it was. Built upon huge starlings – low pillars of boat-shaped stone – the twenty arches spanned the mighty River Thames from the Great Stone Gate on the southern bank to the New Stone Gate on the north. Eight hundred feet long, sixty feet high and almost thirty feet wide, the bridge towered over the waterway. And along its length, like frosting on top of a cake, was a tier of spectacular buildings, shops and fancy residences, some as many as six or seven storeys high.

  The bridge was far more than just a bridge: it was a symbol of London’s strength and power.

  Jack turned to Akiko and Yori, who stood beside him on the deck. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked in English.

  His two friends gazed around them, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, speechless at the sight. Jack was pleased at their reaction. After so many years of him talking about England and all its splendour, they were finally getting to see it with their own eyes. During his imposed stay in Japan, he’d been introduced by Akiko to the many glittering jewels of her country: from its ancient Buddhist temples and golden palaces to its paradisal gardens and snow-capped mountains, and from the cherry blossoms in spring to the maple leaves in autumn. Now his country would have its turn.

  The Hosiander changed tack as she eased through the river traffic into port. She was greeted by a cacophony of boats creaking, sailors heckling one another and seagulls shrieking overhead. The waterway was bustling with hundreds of ferries, boats, trading ships and galleons. It seemed everyone was seeking to make their fortune in the burgeoning city and simply finding a place to dock was a challenge. The north bank bristled with quays and wharves, but each harboured such a flotilla of vessels that the riverside was transformed into a thick forest of masts and sails.

  ‘Look at all the swans!’ Akiko remarked, gazing in astonishment at the flocks
of regal white birds dotting the water like snowflakes.

  Jack smiled warmly at her wonderment. Akiko’s love of nature was just one of the many things he admired about her, along with her kindness, her steely resolve and her skill with a bow. Like a katana wrapped in silk, she was slim, elegant and razor sharp.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Yori, peering over the gunwale. Standing on tiptoe, he pointed at the formidable drum-towered castle commanding the river’s north bank.

  ‘The Tower of London,’ replied Jack.

  ‘We must go there!’ Yori said enthusiastically, his eyes widening.

  Jack glanced ruefully at his dear friend. ‘I don’t think we’d wish to visit there willingly. It’s a prison for traitors.’

  ‘Oh …’ said Yori, his eager expression deflating like a balloon. ‘Perhaps another castle then.’

  As the Hosiander docked at Somers Quay, they were met by the grim sight of four men hanging by their necks from a gibbet, their feet dangling in the water, their eyes pecked out by crows.

  Akiko and Yori exchanged an anxious look, but Jack attempted a reassuring smile. ‘They’re probably pirates. Don’t worry – we’ll receive a far friendlier reception.’

  With the gangway lowered, Jack led the way down on to the wharf and planted his feet on English soil for the first time in seven years. ‘Home at last!’ he exclaimed, his heart bursting with joy at being back in his own country.

  Yori tottered down the gangplank after him, using his shakujō staff to keep his balance as he adjusted to the sudden stillness of dry land. Akiko joined him too and immediately wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Jack drew in a deep breath … and almost gagged. The city air was putrid and stagnant compared to the fresh breeze of the open ocean. A strong waft of pitch from the shipyards in Wapping mingled with the stench of countless middens, piled high with human waste, in the streets. To make matters worse, the reek of boiling vats of urine, for making alum, blended with the putrid fumes of the leather tanneries to concoct a stink so bad that it turned all their stomachs. After so many years away, Jack had forgotten how foul-smelling daily life was in London.