It was Misaki in the pictures, there was no doubt in my mind, and in every depiction she was behind bars: a prisoner. Had she been forced to marry against her will, was that it? No, I had seen how she looked at Shimizu; she had not been forced. She spoke of him with love and gratitude. So what did the pictures mean?
As my eyes roamed from page to page, I remembered what I was supposed to be looking for: the hollyhock design. And in picture after picture I found it. In a roof tile. A shadow made by bamboo leaves. Among the flowers of the fireworks. Not immediately obvious, but, as with the scarred girl, once you knew what you were looking for . . .
I traced it with my finger. I was sure it was the Mito crest, just like the one I had seen on the roof tiles of the house, seen worn by the domain’s retainers, worn . . . on the over-jacket . . . of the man who looked like a tanuki.
I could see it now as clearly as if it had been yesterday that I stood in Tsumago watching the two samurai by the notice board.
Lord Shimizu had said he was giving the man directions. They had been looking at a piece of paper — but not a map, I thought now: a woodblock print. Yet why would Shimizu be showing a woodblock print to a samurai from Mito . . .?
I snatched up the sheaf of prints, hardly daring to let the thoughts form in my mind. I would show Isamu. If I ran, I might catch him before he accused Misaki’s father.
As I slipped on my sandals at the entry, I was already arguing with myself in my mind. Tanuki could place spells on people; perhaps that was what had happened? But of course, the man from Mito was hardly a real tanuki, I reminded myself crossly. As much as I wanted to find an excuse for my master’s treachery, there was none.
I dashed into the courtyard and saw Haru emerging from the public reception room.
‘Is Lord Shimizu home?’ Without thinking, I made for the entrance.
‘Hey, you can’t go in there.’ The servant held out a hand as if to stop me, but I pushed past him.
Shimizu’s swords were in the rack by the entrance, and the man himself was sitting at a writing desk. The room was perfectly still and quiet except for the whisk of his brush on the paper. As if sensing a presence, he looked up.
‘Kasumi, what are you doing in here? I had a message from Isamu that he needed to see me here urgently — I thought it must be something to do with Misaki, but she seems unchanged. Do you know where my nephew is?’
‘He . . . he’s been called away.’
Perhaps alerted by something in my voice — a tremor that I had failed to disguise — he looked at me more closely. Then his eyes fell on the prints I was holding. When he looked up at me again his expression was wary.
The words burst from my lips: ‘It was you!’
Immediately his face changed.
Of all the times to speak without thinking, this had to be the worst. To accuse my master, and to his face! He had been nothing but kind to me. I had to be wrong. I had taken an innocent encounter between two travellers and accused one of the most trusted and revered samurai of the Matsuyama domain of being a traitor.
‘What are you talking about, Kasumi?’ His voice had a hard edge, but — and it was this that confirmed it for me — no surprise, no bewilderment. He knew. He knew exactly what I was talking about.
‘The tanuki, the man I saw you with that day in Tsumago — he was from Mito.’
‘Was he? I didn’t know.’ Despite his denial, there was nothing quizzical or questioning in his tone.
‘You weren’t giving him directions at all. You were showing him one of these.’ I shook the prints I was holding.
And it struck me, suddenly, that if he had never brought me here I would never have found him out. And yet here I was, a witness to his treachery, living in his own home.
‘Why did you bring me to Edo?’ I asked, my mouth dry.
He put down his brush and appeared to consider the question. ‘I panicked, I suppose, when I saw you at your family’s inn and realised that you knew my name, and had seen me talking to the liaison from Mito . . . He and I had faked a fight in Edo so no one would suspect us of colluding, and agreed to meet along the Nakasendo, where we were unlikely to encounter members of either of our domains. I was only just putting my plan into place, showing him the codes we would use in the prints, when you saw us. I couldn’t risk you telling anyone what you’d seen. I thought that if you were in my household I would be able to watch over you, control your movements.
‘And it occurred to me that I could use you to watch over Misaki for me,’ he continued, ‘to ensure that there was no contact between my wife and her family.’
‘So she doesn’t know what you’re doing? That you’re a — a —’ I couldn’t say the word traitor aloud, even though he had admitted it. What about his grief when Taro was killed? Surely that wasn’t feigned. In fact . . . ‘But you were injured yourself,’ I said.
He stroked the sleeve covering his injured arm. ‘That was deliberate. Further insurance against suspicion.’
‘And . . . and Taro?’
‘Ah, Taro.’ There was no mistaking the regret in his voice. ‘Taro knew too much. He had already coaxed the secret of Misaki’s background from me; I was afraid he would coax more.’
There was so much I wanted to know — about his marriage to Misaki, about her father’s role in the plot — but he was still speaking.
‘And you, Kasumi.’ There was a sad finality to his tone. ‘Now I find that you know too much.’
His movement was almost too quick for my eye, but all at once he was standing — and in his hand was the sword that had hung in the tokonoma. Though hundreds of years old, the blade gleamed as if it had been forged yesterday. It occurred to me that while his family might be on the side of the Shogun now, back then they had ties with the Emperor. I would have done well to remember that.
‘I tried to kill you once before, you know.’
It was obvious now. ‘The night when Misaki was in Hakone?’
‘You had guessed she wasn’t a samurai. I worried about what else you might learn.’
Moving fluidly, he advanced towards me, positioning himself between me and the door. ‘Kneel!’ he ordered, pointing to the tatami with his sword.
A shiver of pure terror ran through me as I imagined the cold steel on the back of my bare neck.
‘I order you to kneel!’
My breath was coming in gasping sobs. ‘Please! I won’t tell.’
‘Kneel!’ he roared, his eyes blazing.
And then my trembling legs collapsed beneath me, and I fell at his feet.
Chapter
Twenty-five
The air cleaved in two
By the sword’s final journey
The world rearranged
‘No!’
Shimizu spun around, sword raised. Still shivering and weeping, I cautiously raised my head.
Isamu, his own sword in hand, stood at the threshold of the room.
‘Nephew, what are you doing? I order you to put that sword down.’
‘Misaki-san can’t read or write,’ Isamu said. His voice was unnaturally calm. ‘I was almost at Nihonbashi when it occurred to me. That was why she asked me to write the poem for your scroll, Kasumi.’ He glanced at me then returned his gaze to his uncle. ‘Which means those letters she gave me to deliver were written by you. I was helping to frame her.’
His uncle shrugged. ‘You’re right, I wrote those letters for her. But I was only copying what she dictated.’
‘I don’t believe you. Her father was no willing accomplice. Now I understand why he was so rude to me when I delivered the messages. I thought it was because he cared so little for his daughter, but it wasn’t that: he thought I was part of your plot. How did you threaten him?’
Shimizu smiled slightly at Isamu’s persistence. He spoke as if the answer were obvious. ‘I had his daughter’s life in my keeping.’
I was reminded that despite Isamu’s presence, my own life was now balanced on the edge of a blade. But still I spoke.
‘Misaki’s father painted her,’ I said to Isamu. ‘In every picture there’s an imprisoned girl — with a scar on her cheek.’
I held up the prints. With the tip of his sword, Shimizu dashed them from my hand and they fell to the floor.
‘I thought you supported the Shogun,’ Isamu said.
‘The Shogun is weak; he makes concession after concession.’
‘But you said yourself that if he didn’t we risked losing everything.’
‘We are warriors! It is better to die fighting than to crawl to the foreigners. There’s no honour in negotiating.’
‘This is your idea of honour?’ Isamu demanded, gesturing at the prints scattered on the floor. ‘To plot secretly? No! You have chosen the coward’s way.’ He kicked at the papers, exposing one of the catfish prints; in my haste, I had snatched both piles from the cabinet.
‘You always told me you hated woodblock prints. So why do you have these? Is it because of Lady Aimi?’
His uncle looked pained at the mention of his first wife. ‘Don’t you see? The timing of the great earthquake was no coincidence; it was a sign. The world is out of alignment because the Shogun’s government is too weak to keep the foreigners out: that is what caused the earth to rock.’
Isamu gave him a look of deep sympathy, though he held his sword steady. ‘And the earthquake took your family.’
‘When Misaki told me her father painted images for catfish prints after the earthquake, it was like another sign. The daimyo had ordered me to form a secret circle to negotiate with our allies. I did not want to advance the cause, so I had been looking for a way to tell those who would oppose it, who could disrupt the meetings and stall the negotiations. But the Shogun’s spies were everywhere, I couldn’t risk meeting with those who were opposing him. Instead, I came up with a way to communicate the time and place of the meetings through the prints.’
‘So you betrayed the daimyo. You caused men from our own domain to be killed.’ If Isamu had sounded sympathetic before, he sounded repulsed now. ‘You are a traitor.’ His voice lashed like a whip and his uncle recoiled as if stung.
Slowly Isamu walked forwards. ‘You have disgraced yourself, you have disgraced our family — it is impossible that you should live with such shame. If you have any shred of honour left, you know what you have to do.’ His voice was steady, authoritative, as if it were he who was head of the family and his uncle must obey.
And, to my surprise, he did.
Shimizu dropped to his knees on the tatami.
‘Kasumi, you had better leave,’ Isamu murmured without looking at me.
I slipped past the two men and into the courtyard.
There I leaned against the outer wall of the house, legs unsteady, trying to summon the courage to face what was ahead of me. I would have to tell Misaki that her husband was a traitor, that he had blackmailed her father into painting the messages — and that he had made sure that if his treachery was discovered it would look like her doing. She was already so weak. What would the news do to her fragile health?
Then the air was pierced by a cry and I knew that Shimizu had ended his dishonour in the way tradition demanded: with a blade to the stomach.
I would also have to tell Misaki that Shimizu had committed seppuku because Isamu and I had exposed him. Isamu . . . I couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling right now.
I was still standing outside, reluctant to face the task before me, when he came out a few minutes later. His face was grey.
‘My uncle is dead.’
I inclined my head. ‘I know.’
‘I have to go to the mansion to tell Shunsho.’
‘And I’m going inside now to tell Misaki.’
His expression softened. ‘Poor Misaki. Tell her I’ll come to see her as soon as I can. If I can . . .’
I couldn’t help but notice the change in him when he mentioned Misaki. ‘I’ll let her know,’ I said, feeling my spine stiffen.
‘Kasumi, wait . . .’
Unwilling to let him see the hurt I knew must be in my eyes, I pushed myself off the side of the house and strode around the corner without looking back.
When I entered her room Misaki sat up. ‘Kasumi, where were you? I thought I heard my husband’s voice. A cry . . .’
I lowered myself to sit on the edge of her futon. ‘Misaki, I . . . I don’t know where to start.’
‘Just tell me who is the traitor: my father or my husband.’
I looked at her in astonishment.
‘I know it’s one of them,’ she said. ‘Just tell me who.’
‘It was Lord Shimizu,’ I whispered.
She closed her eyes. Her face was so waxen I might have thought she was lifeless if not for the pulse fluttering at her throat.
‘Misaki?’ I touched her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and I saw the anguish in them. ‘And is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
She threw back the quilt and struggled to rise.
‘Please,’ I said, ‘you shouldn’t exert yourself. You’ve had a terrible shock.’ I tried to push her back down gently but she resisted.
‘I need to get up,’ she insisted. ‘I need air.’
As we walked in the garden, the plum blossoms scattering in the wind like snowflakes, she told me the story of her marriage.
‘It’s as I told you: we met at a shrine. But it was here in Edo, not Morioka. I was praying for my mother and he for his wife and daughter. We discovered that they had been killed by fire on the same day.’ She raised a hand to her blemished cheek. ‘Instead of being repulsed by my scar he said it was a sign.’
I didn’t tell her that, in his grief, Lord Shimizu had seen many signs — and that these had led him down the path to dishonour.
She paused to pluck a camellia from a bush. ‘He told me that we were meant to be together; that he hadn’t been able to save his wife and daughter from the fire, but he could save me. He told Father he wished to marry me. Father had been so sure no one would have me like this.’ She touched the petals to her scarred cheek. ‘Of course, we all knew it was not allowed, that a girl like me could never be a samurai’s wife. But Minoru said it could be done, if I would agree to leave my old life behind completely. I understood. I knew how much he was risking by marrying me. I would never be allowed to visit my family again, but we could exchange letters. I can’t write, so my husband offered to write for me, and he taught me to sign my name.’
She drew in a ragged breath. ‘We sent the first message before the fireworks festival. He had Isamu carry it. There was no reply. Months passed, and although I wrote several times, with my husband’s help, I never received an answer to my letters. I couldn’t understand why my father was ignoring me.
‘Then I saw my brother at the kabuki. He told me that Minoru was a traitor, that he had only married me so that he could use Father to send coded messages through the prints. He had threatened to harm me if Father didn’t comply. I was a hostage.’ She gave a hollow laugh.
I couldn’t believe I’d thought she was the traitor; I’d got it so wrong.
Misaki was saying, ‘When Kenta told me, I didn’t know what to believe. Minoru was always so kind to me. He was overprotective, perhaps, but I thought that was understandable given the dangers if I was recognised, not to mention what had happened to his first wife. He wanted me to be safe. And of course he feared that I would give myself away, that his friends would guess that I was not one of them. No, I thought Kenta must be mistaken. But then I saw the Torinomachi print . . .’ She shuddered.
‘Did you see yourself in it?’ I asked.
She started. ‘You saw it too? I didn’t know what to make of it, and there was no one I could ask. But I knew that if something happened during the days of the rooster in the eleventh month that Kenta was right in one respect: there was a traitor. But I couldn’t believe it was my husband! Nor could I believe it of my father.’
I remembered her anguished words: If it’s not one, it must b
e the other; it’s one of the two. What an awful choice!
‘And in the eleventh month Taro died,’ I said quietly.
‘I started to wonder then about the letters. I realised it was possible that the words I spoke were not the words my husband wrote. But they were all signed by me. I wished I could talk to you, but I didn’t know who to trust. For all I knew, you and Isamu were part of the conspiracy and had been spying on me all along. Isamu was delivering the messages and you — you were my constant companion, witness to my every move. A stranger to me . . .’
‘That’s what he intended, that I should spy on you, though I didn’t know it.’ Imagine if I’d told Shimizu about his wife’s encounter with Kenta at the kabuki — what might that have led to? The exposure of her father and brother as traitors? Of Misaki herself? Certainly death for all of them. And for me? Yes, me too: I was a loose end he had to tidy up.
‘I was kind of a prisoner too,’ I said. I told her about seeing Shimizu and the Mito liaison together in Tsumago: a chance moment that had changed my life completely.
‘I still can’t believe that my husband could be a traitor. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Kasumi.’ She held out her hand and I took it. ‘I can’t imagine what you must have thought of me these last few months.’
‘I thought you had been possessed by an evil spirit, like in the ghost stories. That you were one of those beautiful women who bewitch the men.’
‘I’m not one of those beauties,’ she said. ‘You’re forgetting about this.’ She ran the camellia over her scar again.
‘I never see it,’ I said. ‘And nor does anyone who knows you. Like Isamu.’
At the mention of his name I felt a surge of guilt, remembering the occasion when I had drawn her scarred cheek; when jealousy had overpowered me. I resolved that I would not let that happen again. Isamu loved whom he loved, and there was nothing I could do to change it.
He arrived a couple of hours later. Misaki was in bed once more, exhausted — though despite the day’s horrors she was calmer than she had been. ‘It’s better to know,’ she said. ‘Though I have no idea what’s going to happen to me now. Will the daimyo punish me? I was part of Minoru’s deception.’
The Peony Lantern Page 21