the Rose & the Crane

by Clint Dohmen

  “Yes and no.”

  “Why do you answer so many of my questions with ‘yes and no?’”

  “He will get a family name now, and it will be Maeda.”

  “What?”

  “Maeda was his first and only name, now he has earned it as his family name, but he will also be called something else.”

  “And that something else will be a first name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What will it be, and who will decide?”

  “It will likely come from one of his characteristics, and he may decide, or Lord Arai may decide, or the samurai may choose his name. ‘Taro’ means firstborn, and Maeda is also firstborn, but he will not take the same name as the daimyo’s son. He is tall, thin, and brave; his name may also come from one of those characteristics.”

  “When will we find out?”

  “Sometime.”

  Simon’s head was spinning so he inquired no further. After the cheers for Maeda died down, the congratulatory sake pours began. Maeda poured with the utmost courtesy; first for Inotogo, then for all the samurai whose ranks he had just entered and whose societal class his entire family had just risen into. After that, in a show that the remaining Arai warriors supported their daimyo’s class-jumping decision, the samurai poured for Maeda, one-handed of course.

  Chapter 14

  KURO WAS WARY of the large man who had killed his master. He did not like to let him out of his eyesight when he came near the stable. When the human walked around the corral where Kuro grazed, Kuro never turned his back on him. Kuro craved exercise and missed the long rides and training he used to do with his master, but his master was gone and he had found a rider he would tolerate. That rider was not the big man. Like his master, this rider too was neither afraid of him nor cruel to him. His commands were different, but the human who sometimes wore black armor with a blue crane insignia was also a masterful rider.

  Neno knew they would be leaving soon so he accompanied Kojiro to the corral one last time. Neno did not like horses, especially the big, black one he had captured. He didn’t like that they had a mind of their own and he didn’t like that you had to feed them and take care of them. Luckily, Kojiro had volunteered to do both, and it seemed to Neno like a good match.

  It also made him uneasy that this horse seemed to follow him with its gaze no matter where he stood. He had seen the damage this horse could do in battle and counted himself lucky that he had emerged from his battle with the beast unscathed.

  When they arrived at the corral Neno pointed at the horse, looked at Kojiro, and said, “Yours.”

  The horse was rightfully Neno’s to give since Neno had killed the previous owner, but Kojiro couldn’t accept such a marvelous gift. “No, it is yours.”

  “I hate horses. Especially that one,” Neno replied, pointing his gigantic index finger straight between Kuro’s eyes.

  “I could not take it,” Kojiro repeated.

  “Then I will eat it for my last dinner here,” Neno said, well aware of the reaction he would get from Kojiro. The Nihon-jin were not the only ones who could achieve their desired results through indirect communication.

  Kuro did not know what the big man and the crane man were talking about, but he didn’t like the tone of their discussion, or the big man’s finger pointing at him.

  “But he is a supreme war horse!” Kojiro protested.

  “Do they taste better?” Neno asked, feigning stupidity.

  “In fact, they taste worse,” Kojiro informed Neno from experience. “Too much muscle; I will accept your gift, for this horse cannot be eaten.” As astute as Kojiro was in the study of man, he still had difficulty comprehending the gaijins’ use of sarcasm, and could not yet tell when they were serious and when they weren’t.

  Kuro didn’t know why, but as the humans walked off, he felt a great sense of relief.

  Later that night, Kojiro decided that his destiny would lie in service to his new friends. Not only had they proven quick of mind and stout in battle, they had shown generosity and nobility in their hearts. He was still conflicted over the idea of serving a foreigner, but he reasoned that the option of seppuku would never be further away than the swords at his waist, should his decision prove to be a foolish one. Although they had saved his life, that, in and of itself, did not make them worthy of his service. He would continue to monitor the foreigners’ behavior and judge for himself.

  When Kojiro announced this news the next morning it was difficult to pin down who was most pleased by the news. Morale soared amongst the Tigre’s crew, who welcomed such a boost to their combined martial prowess. Simon and Aldo couldn’t have been more pleased to have kept their friend, and both Inotogo and Taro Arai shared satisfied glances that their machinations had had the desired effect. The only disappointed party was the villagers at Kannoura who did not like the thought of losing such a great protector with the clouds of war rolling across their island.

  Chapter 15

  MESSENGERS ARRIVED IN the village daily with news of alliances made or broken, and battles won or lost in the weeks following their hanami outing. Simon had grown attached to the Nihon-jin, but he had his own war to fight, and, with Aldo’s crew as healthy as it was ever going to get, he was prepared to leave. On the day that they finally and regretfully left Kannoura, Lord Arai brought his entire village to the beach to bid them farewell.

  As the profuse bowing drew to a close, Taro approached Simon and handed him a sword in a scabbard. Simon looked at Kojiro, not knowing if he was meant to look at it now, or just to take it. The Nihon-jin were quite tied up in their etiquette, and he did not want to violate yet another rule just as he was leaving. Aldo already had enough stories of his faux-pas to use against him for two lifetimes as it was.

  Kojiro met Simon’s eyes, nodded at him, and said, “Douzo.”

  Simon drew the blade from its scabbard. Instead of the single-edged blade of the Nihon-jin, it appeared to be an exact replica of the English blade that he had broken; only it wasn’t. Simon had never wielded a blade with such balance, flexibility, and strength. The edges were polished to razor sharpness along both cutting edges, and carved into the blade, just above the hilt, was a beautifully detailed red rose.

  Kojiro spoke. “The best swordsmith in Kannoura said there was nothing wrong with the design of your sword, and it was my observation that you are used to fighting with it, no? All have said you fought with it effectively, so I asked him to honor the original design. This blade, however, has forty thousand layers of steel hammered together at temperatures regulated by the master swordsmith himself. Each thin layer joins together to form an edge that is the sharpest in all of Nihon, yet strong and flexible enough to never break. In your stories you told me that you serve a family of the rose. A master engraver, different from the swordsmith himself, carved the rose. The black lacquer handle was done by a master of his trade separate from the swordsmith or the engraver. The Arai family and I commissioned the seventeen best craftsmen in Tosa to create this humble token as a symbol of our gratitude.”

  For not more than the third time in his life, Simon was speechless. He could only bow, and he did not give his flourishing European style bow. Instead, he put his arms at his sides and bent slowly at the waist in the way of the people he had received this gift from. He held the position as he had seen done when a great deal of respect was called for, then he slowly rose again.

  Taro then turned to a nearby cart and picked up what appeared to be a long pole wrapped in a blanket. He walked over to Neno and handed it to him, which he followed with a short bow. Neno unwrapped the blanket to reveal a weapon that none assembled, neither gaijin nor Nihon-jin, had ever seen before. It was a combination of Neno’s deadly halberd and the naginata. An eight-foot pole ended in a two-foot, curved scythe, while a triangular eight-inch dagger protruded from the reverse side of the blade just where the shaft met it. It was a weapon meant to be wielded by a large man, and meant to inflict gruesome damage.

  Neno swung the w
eapon in a circle around his body, then brought it down in a chopping motion. “It is so light,” he said, trying to sound grateful but doubting how such a light weapon could possibly be strong enough.

  Kojiro understood the question implicit in the compliment. “It was forged just as the Simon’s sword was. The blade will not break, and the force from the increased speed of your wielding will make up for the loss in weight.”

  Neno, not convinced, but aware of the honor of such a gift spoke again, “È incredibile. Grazie.”

  “It is not a horse, but it’s the best I could do,” Kojiro responded.

  “I don’t like the horse, and with this I can kill many horses,” Neno smiled.

  Lord Arai, his retainers, and Taro all bowed. It was a hard farewell. Fighting next to a man created a bond like no other, and the hospitality of these people towards peculiar looking strangers from across the ocean was almost inconceivable. They left the four cannons behind, and God willing, Simon thought, the village and the Arai clan would survive.

  As the crew rowed out to the Tigre, Simon looked at Aldo, “It seems you are not to receive a gift. Unlucky!” He smiled grandly at this.

  Aldo smiled back and said, “My dear Simon, I have a gift that you will be offering me your sword for within a fortnight.”

  And with that, Simon knew immediately what gift Aldo had received. “They gave you sake, didn’t they?”

  “Barrels of that wonderful Tosatsuru, my dear friend; enough to fill a quarter of the hold. You were sleeping when they loaded it aboard.”

  That was not my only gift, sempre sia lodato! Aldo thought to himself. He had enough loot aboard, were they to make it back to Venice, for him to turn a healthy profit and still offer reasonable compensation to the families of the sailors who had died. But Aldo had not sailed to China to make a healthy profit, he had sailed to China to become wealthy.

  And thus, the reason for a temporary addition to their crew. Inotogo had told Aldo that the tattooed pilot on the dinghy with them could lead them to the wealthy Ryukyu trading kingdom. Aldo hoped that in that kingdom, he might find a clue to the location of the fabled Spice Islands.

  Simon looked at his sword and hoped they weren’t blown off course again. As he cradled the sword in his hands, his mind drifted to his mother’s flaxen hair, that he would smell as often as possible when he was a child. From there, he was helpless to stop his mind from remembering Lord Percy Blythe yanking at her beautiful hair, to free his mother’s head from the mud and hold it up for display.

  Chapter 16

  Rougemont Castle, Exeter, Southwest England

  “IN GOD’S NAME, what is that confounded noise?”

  The naked woman with long golden locks and generous tits turned to face Lord Percy Blythe. “I don’t know, my lord, but it must be something important.”

  The commotion outside could have been less important than the temperature of the guards’ oatmeal, but Maureen didn’t give a damn. She’d already been awake for half an hour contemplating how to separate her skin from the foul-smelling rolls of pale stomach fat that were glued to her back by a combination of dried sweat and bodily fluids. The brief spate of yelling outside the window came as a godsend.

  Must be some village idiot horsing around, Lord Blythe presumed. This village seems overly blessed with that sort. He studied the woman’s face. He didn’t know her name, nor did he want to. She was nothing more than lowborn rubbish he had picked up slumming in a village alehouse. But you know what, as long as she’s here, maybe I’ll do her another favor before I send her off.

  Lord Blythe strode over to the window and looked into the courtyard, then towards the red walls that gave the stout castle its name. His bed companion heard the sound of urine splashing into the pisspot. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, Blythe thought. “Do you know where I was educated?” he asked pompously.

  “No,” she said massaging her temple to relieve her pounding headache. He may be lord of the manor, but he barely lasted sixty seconds, and his member is no longer than an inchworm. I better lay off the mead for a while.

  “It was at Winchester College,” the lord said bombastically, “one of the oldest and best schools in all of England.”

  Shut up, you pompous ass, the peasant girl thought to herself. I can’t believe I washed for this twat.

  “And do you know our school motto?”

  Who gives a toss, she thought.

  “Manners makyth man.” Blythe let out a loud morning fart. His right hand held his George Thomas firmly while his left fanned his ass. He was about to say something more marvelous about himself to the local strumpet, but a loud rapping on his door preempted the remark. I guess I’ll find out what this bothersome ruckus is about.

  Lord Blythe turned from the window, walked to his clothes, and started to dress. After putting on his leggings and tunic, he adjusted his oversized codpiece, buckled his belt, and walked towards the door. “Keep your delicate little buttocks beneath the sheets. I shan’t be long.” Blythe paused and stroked the thin black wisps of hair emanating from his chin as if they were a grand lion’s mane.

  This forced Lord Blythe’s bed companion to consider another factor that the demon of fermented barley had disguised from her the night before. Jaisus, there’s not a spot of difference between the hairs on his face and those between his legs.

  Percy continued. “And there will be a couple more pennies and a penis coming your way,” he said with a lecherous grin.

  The tavern girl threw up in her mouth.

  “I told you not to bother me when I’m providing enjoyment to the female of the species,” Lord Blythe scolded his Captain of the Guard as he opened the door.

  “I’m most regretful for the interruption sir, but I’ve got some Frenchie here demanding to see you.” The captain glanced in the direction of Blythe’s bed, where he saw a woman with a look on her face that he did not interpret as enjoyment.

  “What’s his name?”

  “He calls himself John Paul the Belly, though I can’t make out why that is. Thin as a straw of barley.”

  “Jean-Paul de Bailly,” Lord Percy corrected. “Send him in immediately and have the kitchen bring some wine.”

  A slender, well-dressed man entered the room. Subtle creases in his forehead hinted that he was older than his otherwise youthful appearance and healthy physique would suggest. His deep-set green eyes were carved into a perpetual squint.

  Lord Percy waved in a servant bearing a crystal decanter and two silver goblets. The decanter contained a thin, purplish-pink liquid that his guest glanced at disapprovingly. Lord Blythe noticed the look. “I assure you it’s decent. Chianti from a vineyard nestled in a small valley in the Hampshire countryside.”

  Jean-Paul looked from his employer to the naked woman in the bed. “Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private?” he asked in modestly accented English.

  “She has no concern for worldly matters, Jean-Paul. Her thoughts extend as far as where her next coin is coming from and nothing more. Is he dead?”

  The professional spymaster was not convinced it was wise to discuss important matters in front of uninvolved parties, but Lord Blythe was paying his wages, and generous wages they were. “In London he escaped the four men that I hired from the establishment you recommended.” Jean-Paul stressed the word “you” ever so slightly; just enough to make a point.

  “Escaped?”

  “Did I say escaped? I meant killed. He filleted all four of them like they were flounder. He was drunk and leaving the Red Lion Pub with a very pretty young lady, but according to the jolie femme, less than a minute after his sword left its scabbard, he was the only one standing. I saw the results of his sword work the next day.”

  “He was up against amateur London river rats, but I didn’t know he had such skill with a blade.”

  “I have nothing but the testimony of the woman and four dead bodies to support that conclusion, but I would hazard to guess that he took his young knightly training seriously
. And he did have the Lancastrian veterans in this castle to learn from.”

  “Yes, yes, but surely you were able to take care of him?”

  “Is there a reason the life of this minor noble causes you such distress?”

  Percy Blythe gulped down his second glass of wine and ruminated for a moment, then, perhaps inopportunely, decided there wasn’t any harm in sharing more information with the hired killer. This was after he’d poured himself another full goblet and cast a pointed glare toward de Bailly who hadn’t touched his wine.

  “Apparently he’s a distant second cousin, twice removed or something like that, of someone with royal blood. It’s all too confusing these days. The red rose of the House of Lancaster, the white rose of the House of York, I need a bloody guidebook to remember what family falls on which side of the shrub. And that’s not to count the families that may, at any given point in time, be playing both sides of the family tree.

  “I just know King Edward doesn’t want any complications when it’s time for his young sons to succeed him. I can’t imagine Simon Lang having any claim to the throne, though. I mean, he’s half Welsh for Chrissakes. Far be it from me to second-guess our good king, of course, and the Langs’ misfortune has proven to be my rather good fortune.” With that remark, Lord Blythe gestured to indicate the castle around him. “Rooting out these Lancastrian sympathizers has been no easy task, mind you; they’re more common than lice around these parts. My public beheading of the Lady Lang has kept them on their best behavior for the time being, but I still desire to crush their spirits further.”

  Not wishing to offend his host and benefactor, but against his better judgment, Jean-Paul took a sip of wine from his goblet. He immediately regretted it; overly sweet, it had fruit characteristics suitable for jam. So the English king himself wants this man dead. That could make it worth more money. “I employed a crossbowman at Calais, but Madame Luck seems to favor Monsieur Lang. He was seen entering the house of yet another pretty woman, this one married apparently, but my man never saw him leave and never saw him in Calais again.”