Mary Gentle

by A Sundial in a Grave-1610

  Dariole looked across at me from her saddle. The sun has marked her face, I realised. She is as brown as the peasant girls at Brissac, getting in the harvest. The gap of her missing tooth showed as she smiled broadly. The memory of how she lost it hurt me to the heart.

  “I knew what I was getting into,” Dariole said firmly. “Caterina was right, messire.”

  Without warning, she jammed her heels into the flanks of her horse.

  I had not seen—or had not noticed, it seeming so natural a thing to me—that she had put on spurs.

  The dun, being of Nihon, was in no way used to spurs; he reared up, almost unseating her, and I by the width of a finger avoided both his front hooves crashing down onto my thigh and saddle.

  I reined in hard, feeling the straw bindings that the Nihonese use instead of metal horse-shoes lock in the wet grass, and managed to stop my horse bolting.

  Dariole’s rearing mount circled, kicked Gabriel’s gelding—which reared up in turn, backed two steps, swung about, and bolted back into the pines.

  “Gabriel!” He’s let it get the bit!

  Dariole’s spurs gouged bloody channels down the dun’s flanks.

  The animal abruptly charged forward at a flat gallop: only luck taking it in the direction of the promontory’s end.

  I rammed my heels into my mount, slashing him with the ends of the reins—he threw up his head and backed, no easier to move forward than if he were hard up against a wall. “Merde! Dariole!”

  Two tiny figures, down on the white sand at the end of the promontory, looked and pointed.

  My horse backed, circled; would respond neither to whip nor rein. I flung myself out of the saddle, abandoning him, and began to run at full speed over the lush grass. I may catch her—if she stops—if her mount misbehaves again.…

  It felt as if I ran through glue; quicksand; deep mud. I do not move slowly when I run. For all that, she dwindled away in front of me, past the pines and the torii gate.

  Her horse pecked and stumbled, out in the open ground before the beach.

  I heard a thin, seagull-like cry.

  The horse stood, head down, reins trailing.

  I drew in a breath to call her name, and Dariole struggled up to her feet beside the lamed animal.

  Pounding on towards the narrow ribbon of beach, I realised I could make out the two men.

  Robert Fludd.

  And beside him, Tanaka Saburo. God damn his Judas face.

  Breath heaving, I sprinted over the hoof-bruised grass. Ahead of me, Dariole reached down to pull off her spurs and drop them. She limped slowly onward, between infant pines too scant to hide men in their cover. Exposed to the sampan boats fishing on the sea.

  No shot rang out.

  No other men emerged from behind me, from the thicker pines.

  Only the two men stood at the end of Hako Promontory.

  Sweat ran into my eyes. A short, stocky samurai in a brilliant ochre and blue kamashino, over green kosode and kabakama. Is that Saburo? Or is it just the expense of his dress confuses me?

  Beside him, Robert Fludd.

  No doubt in my mind—a European in doublet and trunk-hose, all in sober greens and greys, the sun making a white disc of his face above his small ruff. A skinny man, by his calves, who should be wearing a robe to give him bulk.

  Yes, I am not liable to forget.

  Saburo strode forward.

  “Stop!” The same deep, authoritative booming command.

  Dariole slowed, halted, fifty yards from Robert Fludd, thirty from Saburo.

  I pounded up level with her and stopped, bent over, hands on my thighs, gasping. As soon as I could straighten, I dropped one hand heavily on to her shoulder, pinning her where she stood. She has tried and I have prevented it!

  There was not enough cover for Gabriel to follow behind me and flank Saburo. We stood as exposed as the samurai and Robert Fludd.

  “Is that Fludd?” Dariole wiped sweat off her face, breathing hard, and shaded her eyes with her hand. “The gaijin. Is that him?”

  “You do not recognise—? You’ve never met the man!” I corrected myself, struck suddenly with wonder. To come halfway across the world, only knowing a man from his description!

  “Saburo described him—in the Southwark house. I saw him once. From a distance. And I’ve got a sketch, from Milord Cecil’s files.” She remained staring forward, her eyes narrowed, squinting against the sun. “I thought he’d be more impressive.”

  I did not release my grip on her shoulder.

  “Doesn’t take being impressive—to let other men do the dirty work.” I glared at Saburo Tanaka, now he came forward to within conversational distance, including him in my anger.

  Saburo held up his hand. The folds of a paper fan caught the light.

  The offshore fishing boats turned as one, men rowing them in to the beach behind him. Thirty or so men in cheap armour, carrying thin long spears, climbed out and splashed ashore, taking up ranks behind Robert Fludd.

  Dariole muttered, “What the hell!”

  “I am sorry, Darioru, Rosh’-fu’.” Saburo called across the space between us with no apparent effort, his voice deep and clear. “Honour means I must defend this man. The Shogun needs him. We must talk, here. Declare peace.”

  A quick glance counted me forty of his hashagar, in rank and file behind Fludd. Are they as disciplined as they seem, when it comes to fighting? How much may I hazard on the chance?

  A second boat landed, closer up the promontory to us. “Fishermen” stripped off their loose kosode and picked up long-barreled teppo from the bottom of the boat. Nihonese-made or imported, they are still muskets.

  Saburo walked a few paces aside to speak to the officers among his heavily armed “peasants.” I saw how his face seemed thinner, his hair showed more grey; and he had shaved the front of his head. Two sword-hilts projected from his obi. His hands were not near them.

  Fludd stayed back, all but in with the first rank of the other soldiers. The distance…. Over-long for an accurate pistol shot on my part; not over-long for a volley of musket-fire to shred us.

  “If you play me another such trick,” I said to Dariole, keeping my voice steady, “You’ll get no closer to revenge than a teppo blowing your head off—and it may be mine! Do you understand me?”

  Dariole nodded without looking at me or speaking.

  “I fear that lacks commitment, mademoiselle.”

  Saburo’s officer yelped something.

  “Monsieur Saburo!” I pointed behind me. “My servant Gabriel Santon is like to come out of these woods. Be pleased not to shoot him.”

  “Hai.” Saburo glanced over his shoulder and grunted.

  That sound, familiar as it was, took me clear back to London. I could not restrain contempt. “You wanted a Nostradamus of your very own? For the King of the Japans? That should always have been in my mind, monsieur. I reprove myself for not thinking of it.”

  Dariole said nothing.

  Her gaze fixed on Fludd, not Saburo—although she might well have blamed him also; the samurai having been there when she was in the Tower, and on the road to Wookey, and being fully cognisant of every action taken by Robert Fludd. And, afterwards, thus as much of a Judas to her.

  She ignored Saburo.

  I knotted a handful of the shoulder of her kosode in my fist.

  “Do nothing.” I managed to look about me, ostensibly casual. “So M. Saburo is a traitor? So. Offer any man a precious resource, and he will take it. That is human nature—which, I have often thought, is much more like that of Judas than any of the other Apostles.”

  Saburo turned away from his soldiers. “Rosh’-fu’, this is difficult for me.”

  I let him see me look at his hashagar troops. “Evidently.”

  “My duty to you and my duty to Tokugawa.” He scowled across the distance between us. “Darioru-sama! Furada doesn’t die at your hands. Furadasan has told me this himself. He made calculation on the ship.”

  “Yes;
he calculated we’d be fool enough to come here and be killed,” I said bitterly. Why does a man ignore his instincts and walk into an ambush? I knew these men must be here!

  A glance to my side told me why.

  Because she would be here whether or not I am. Whether she could ride, or whether she had to walk until her feet bled. I am merely here with her. Even if we stand diametrically opposed: and she needs Fludd dead, and I need him to live; I will still keep her out of any harm I may.

  Saburo turned his black gaze on Dariole. He called, across the open ground, “I defend Furada! Don’t attack him. I don’t want to kill you, Darioru. My duty to the Shogun means I will, if you force me.”

  Dariole stared.

  “I regret and beg pardon.” Saburo bowed. “Shall I tell Furada now that you consent to speak with him, Rosh’-fu’-san? He desires peace.”

  In the French that I badly hoped Fludd had not taught Saburo, I said, “Go along with this, mademoiselle, or we are dead men here and now.”

  A long moment ticked by. Sweat rolled down my back, under my kimono. Dariole gave a single nod, and seemed to shrink into herself.

  “Tell him we’ll talk!” I called, at the same time releasing my grip on Dariole. I flexed cramped fingers.

  Saburo bowed sharply, turned about, and stomped back towards his first troop of hashagar, and Fludd. They spoke. Fludd took the samurai’s arm in European fashion, and took a turn or two up and down on the beach, where thin grass grew out of the sand. The soldiers leaned on their twelve-foot spears. The scent of burning match-cord drifted across the yards between us.

  “I do not believe I ever asked if you could swim, mademoiselle.” I looked down at her. “In more than a few feet of the Thames-river.”

  No glimmer of recognition or a smile crossed her face. She watched Fludd as if she watched the gates of Paradise shut in her face. Saburo gave Fludd a curt nod, spoke to the officer of that troop, and then strode over to the flanking squad.

  “I mention this, mademoiselle, because there will likely be more men in the trees behind us now, and swimming may be one better method of escape. Depending on how well they shoot their muskets—”

  —she isn’t listening, I realised.

  “Dariole—”

  Pain jolted through my gut; knocked me breathless, and down on one knee.

  I could realise it only in retrospect—with all of a duellist’s speed of reaction she dropped her hand to her dagger, drew, and slammed it back into me, just below the joining of my ribs.

  I fell, straining for air through glass-filled lungs.

  No blood! I realised, crouching on the earth, bent over; arms clutching involuntarily across my belly.

  The pommel of her dagger—why?

  Dariole moved forward, not stopping—she walked with a sure, direct stride, anger showing in her clenched fists. Her face was set.

  “D—!” I could not get breath to shout out or move. And I thought her move made when she spurred her horse.…

  She went forward towards the end of the promontory, looking neither to right nor left, immune to the noise and shouting that began. There was barely a split second for the hashagar and Saburo both to see her coming. The sun glinted back off her hair, that shone as she walked faster, picking up her pace. The soldiers lowered their spears and lifted the teppo; Saburo cuffed one man, bellowing orders over the noise and shouting. No man fired.

  Saburo strode forward, away from his men, to intercept her. Coming across on a diagonal, to cut between her and Fludd.

  “No!” Hobbling up to my feet, pain catching my chest, vision blurring; I dragged one of the wheel-lock pistols out of my kimono.

  I cannot guarantee who I’ll hit.

  Saburo smoothly drew his cattan-blades as he walked towards her. Dariole strode on as if she didn’t see, her gaze fixed on Robert Fludd. I could only think No, don’t do it, never go into a fight angry—!

  She’s not angry. She’s in a cold fury.

  The samurai’s two swords took the slightest amount of light from the air and flashed it back like mirrors. Two curved blades, heavy as sabres or broadswords.

  Fludd stared across the white sand at Dariole, his expression avid.

  This is what he’s calculated. That she’ll attack. And she’ll die. She’s angry, she’ll make a mistake, she’ll die.

  I brought up my pistol; every man of the nearest troop of hashagar pointed their muskets at me.

  Dariole drew her blade as she walked. The same thirty-six-inch Italian rapier that I brought to her at Wookey. She fumbled her dagger in her other hand, almost dropping it. I knew, from that, what fury must surge through her veins, how it will cloud her judgement, ruin reaction-time, leave her dead on the samurai blade.

  Am I to bear this: Fludd making Saburo her murderer and I still must keep him alive—?

  All of it happened in a few seconds: while a man might tell twenty heartbeats.

  Dariole walked forward, not breaking stride, beginning almost to run towards the samurai. Not until then did I realise she saw him in her path. Saburo raised the point of his cattan-blade, a frown appearing on his face. She called out something, I could not hear what.

  My hand clenched, white-knuckled, on the pistol. I dare not fire at them so close together!

  I must do something.

  Dariole broke into a run, straight at the Nihonese man. Rapier-point out at full stretch, and she didn’t stop coming, she ran on—almost running onto the chisel-point of the samurai’s blade, and Saburo curved fluidly and expertly into a long lunge, and thrust instantly home.

  I heard myself make a stunned noise.

  On the instant he struck, her left arm came up, deliberately blocking the thrust. Blood gouted; flew out in a long, curving string on the air.

  Bright metal stuck in; jutted out from the other side of her flesh.

  As if it were the sole focus of my vision, I saw his cattan-blade jammed between the radius and ulna bones of her forearm; stuck straight through her forearm—

  Still coming on, no break in her pace, Dariole thrust her left arm forward, pushing it up the cattan-blade—bone grating against steel—and grabbed the metal disc of the sword’s guard, her fingers locking into the holes cut out of the iron.

  Blood doused her hand, her arm; streamed like river-water off the point of her elbow.

  In the same second Dariole’s rapier licked out, took Saburo’s smaller cattan-blade; made it a flickering whirl of steel that thudded into the dust as she knocked it from his hand.

  Tightly gripping his long cattan-blade’s guard, she yanked the weapon towards her. Hauled Saburo towards her, his sword immobilised; pulled him into her own thrust with her rapier. Inside his guard—

  Shock held my chest rigid. I couldn’t breathe.

  Dariole’s rapier blade glinted in the sun and winked out.

  Saburo looked down at his stomach with surprised wonder.

  Dariole thrust deeper into his body, pushing forward, leaning all her weight into it. Saburo staggered heavily back, Dariole gripping his sword-hilt tenaciously. Her rapier’s razor-edge yanked in a series of jerky movements across his belly; sliced back up towards his rib cage—

  Her rapier-blade twisted.

  The cattan-blade’s hilt fell out of his hand.

  Still with his sword stuck through her arm, Dariole yanked her rapier’s length out of his flesh. Back out of Saburo’s stomach, above his navel.

  He staggered back a step, Dariole advanced; the impaling sword trailing grotesquely behind her.

  His men yelled; shouted.

  Saburo fell onto the sand, first on his knees, then over onto his side.

  Dariole collapsed down, one knee touching the sand. Her rapier fell out of her hand. She staggered upright again. She did not look at Fludd, where the man stood. She stared down at Saburo on the ground.

  Loud, imperative noise burst from the hashagar soldiers; shattering the shock that held me.

  I made it to Dariole at a limping, breathless d
ead run, tensing against the impact of musket-balls.

  The hashagar soldiers in the front rank moved.

  A score of them grabbed hold of Robert Fludd.

  Rochefort, Memoirs

  43

  I knelt down, seized her, and held her steady; gritted my teeth, and drew out the inch-wide long blade before the weight of it mangled her flesh still more.

  It pours, not spurts; the artery is safe—

  She fell back: I caught her under the arms, my hands instantly covered in blood. “A surgeon! A moi! A surgeon here!”

  “Messire,” Dariole said, sounding bewildered. “I hurt Saburo….”

  The sea-wind whipped at her hair, bringing the smell of salt and fish and blood.

  Her own blood, pouring out of her butchered arm.

  “Whoreson bastards! A doctor—physician—namban igaku!” I could call for gaijin medicine, if not for a doctor. Even as I spoke, I wrenched at the sleeve-cloth of my kosode, ripping it out of the rest of my garment and wrapping it tightly about her forearm.

  The cotton instantly reddened, soaked through.

  I ripped the remainder of the kosode over my head and bound it over the first makeshift bandage, yanking off my obi-belt to tie it down.

  “We’ll go!” I got one hand under her arm, and drew my rapier. Not that this will stop a teppo….

  In the bright sunlight, and the soughing of the sea-wind through pines, the hashagar stood still, to a man.

  Footsteps hammered behind me—and resolved into Gabriel Santon, running from a place where I would have sworn the pines gave no cover sufficient for a man.

  “Oh, Jesu! that was brutal!” Gabriel muttered. “Monsieur, is she alive? Will she live?”

  “She may if we leave here—” I broke off.

  One of the Nihonese soldiers came forward at a dead run; an officer by his armour.

  I raised my sword.

  He fell prostrate to the ground, head in the sand halfway between Saburo and I, and rattled off words too fast for me to comprehend.

  Sluggish, shocked and thick, Saburo’s voice spoke from the ground. “He’ll hold Furada, Rosh’-fu’. Until you’re ready. They’re under my orders, my ashigaru.”