The Samurai's Wife

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “What did you think about the left minister’s persistent attentions?” Sano was too disconcerted by Kozeri’s interest to know whether he should believe her.

  “I didn’t understand why my husband acted the way he did,” Kozeri said. “I felt as though I must have driven him to it, although I gave him no encouragement. At first I was resentful, but after years passed, I came to see the left minister as a man with a flaw in his spirit. He thought he could have whatever he wanted, and he was too stubborn to accept defeat. I pitied him.”

  An extraordinarily forgiving attitude, Sano noted. “Still, you must be glad Konoe is dead, because now you’re free of the nuisance.”

  Kozeri gave him an uncertain smile. “Perhaps his spirit now enjoys a peace he never knew in life. But I wouldn’t wish murder upon anyone. And I’ve not had time to absorb the fact that he’s truly gone. I suppose I shall rest easier, but I can’t help blaming myself for the pain we caused each other.”

  Sano wondered whether her guilt arose from a different source. Had she played a role in Konoe’s death? The room seemed to have grown hotter, and the effort of thinking in Kozeri’s presence strangely difficult. “The left minister visited you,” Sano said, trying to will away confusion. “When did you last see him?”

  She frowned, remembering. “At the beginning of summer, I think. He forced his way into the convent, as he had many times before. The guards escorted him out, as always.”

  If Kozeri was telling the truth, then she had no motive for killing Konoe. Yet Sano would have to check the story of their relationship with people who’d known them both, because Kozeri was still a suspect. Fifteen years in a Buddhist convent offered a possible connection between her and the method used to murder Konoe.

  “Do the nuns practice shugendo here?” Sano asked.

  Shugendo, the Way of Supernatural Powers, had been pioneered by Buddhist priests. The legendary hero En-no-Gyoja, who’d lived sixteen hundred years earlier, could command armies from far away, walk on water, fly through the air, and appear in different places simultaneously. His followers were renowned for their knowledge of the occult. Ancient magistrates hired them to read men’s minds and divine facts through magic trances. Throughout history, samurai had studied with Zen monks who taught the esoteric techniques of mental control…including the art of kiai.

  “We practice some methods related to shugendo,” Kozeri said, “but only those that involve developing inner harmony.” She added, “This is a peaceful religious order. We shun violence and have no need of supernatural combat skills.”

  This had been far from true in the past, however, when Buddhist monasteries had participated actively in warfare. Finally the samurai had razed enough temples and slaughtered enough priests to subjugate the clergy. The Tokugawa kept them under strict surveillance. But here at Kodai Temple, a haven of Buddhist tradition, had ancient practices survived? Maybe Yoriki Hoshina was mistaken in believing there’d been no outsiders in the Imperial Palace on the night of the murder. Was it possible that Kozeri could have acquired the ability to kill with her voice? Maybe she was the enemy who had failed to turn up in the preliminary investigation.

  Contemplating her, Sano grew ever more aware of Kozeri’s attractions. Her unconscious habit of touching herself suggested a delight in the senses despite her choice of a religious life. Sano pictured the lush body concealed beneath her robe. Sexual desire assailed him in a hot, turbulent rush.

  He asked his next question while hardly conscious of the words he spoke: “A clerk from Left Minister Konoe’s staff was murdered soon before you married Konoe. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  Kozeri’s veiled eyes and parted lips gleamed wetly in the smoky light. “I vaguely recall the incident.” Hearing her breath catch, Sano knew she felt desire, too. The thought thrilled him. “But I was quite ill at the time, and not much aware of anything except my own troubles. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  Now horror and guilt overwhelmed Sano; he barely heard Kozeri’s words. How could he want another woman when he had Reiko?

  There was something important that he’d forgotten to ask Kozeri, but he couldn’t think what it was. He must get out of here, now. “Excuse me,” he said abruptly.

  Leaving Kozeri standing alone, he fled the sanctuary. The rain had slackened to a drizzle; puddles in the temple grounds reflected the leaden sky. Sano breathed the moist, fragrant air and wondered what had come over him. Then he heard someone call out his title. He saw one of his soldiers hurrying toward him.

  “I have an urgent message for you,” the soldier said, “from your wife.”

  12

  Sano said to Lady Asagao, “I’ve summoned you here to discuss the murder of Left Minister Konoe.”

  He was seated in the reception hall of the bakufu office that had been built in the imperial enclosure for ceremonial visits from shoguns, and to accommodate local officials on business at the palace. Opposite him sat Lady Asagao, Right Minister Ichijo, Lady Jokyden, and a group of court nobles. Emperor Tomohito occupied a canopied dais nearby. Asagao’s expression was vacant and Tomohito’s bewildered, while caution hooded the faces of their companions. Tokugawa troops stood guard around the room.

  “My wife found these in your room, Your Highness,” Sano said, pointing to a clothes stand that held the bloodstained robes. “Please explain them.”

  The message Reiko had sent to Kodai Temple had asked Sano to meet her at Nij Manor immediately. When he got there, she’d given him the garments and told how she’d discovered them. Sano had left Reiko there and ridden to the palace. His order for Asagao to report to the bakufu office had also brought the emperor and his mother, chief official, and top advisers.

  Right Minister Ichijo said coldly, “For your wife to search Lady Asagao’s rooms without her permission was a grave insult to the Imperial Court.”

  “Lady Asagao and I offered your wife friendship, and she took advantage of our trust by spying on us.” Lady Jokyden spoke with stern reproach. Beautiful and authoritative, she was exactly as Reiko had described her to Sano. “Such underhanded tactics are deplorable.”

  The emperor glared at Sano. “Lady Asagao is my sacred consort. It’s against the rules for anyone to order her around as if she were a commoner. She doesn’t have to talk to you.”

  Asagao sat mute and immobile. She was pretty, as Reiko had said, but her bright clothing ill suited her lifeless manner. Sano couldn’t imagine her performing in amateur Kabuki or spilling drunken confidences to Reiko.

  “She had nothing to do with Left Minister Konoe,” Emperor Tomohito said. “You’ve no right to treat her this way!”

  Sano saw his earlier fears realized: Through his investigation, he’d seriously offended these people. By worsening the age-old tension between the Imperial Court and the bakufu, he risked upsetting Japan’s balance of power. He—and Reiko, who’d precipitated the crisis—could expect punishment from the shogun if he continued this way. Yet he saw no alternative.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said politely, “but justice takes precedence over court rules. I have orders to investigate Left Minister Konoe’s death, and I must find out the truth about it. I’m not accusing Lady Asagao of any wrongdoing. I just want to know how the blood got on her clothes.” Sano turned to Asagao. “Your Highness?”

  She looked at him as though he’d spoken in a language she didn’t understand.

  “You’ve frightened her so badly that she can’t talk,” the emperor said.

  “ssakan-sama, there’s obviously been a mistake. You seem to be suggesting that Lady Asagao soiled her clothes while killing the left minister. Yet we don’t even know if those are in fact her clothes.” Ichijo attempted to defend his daughter in a controlled, reasonable voice. “The stains may not even be the left minister’s blood.”

  “Someone else could have put the stained robes in Lady Asagao’s room,” said Lady Jokyden.

  Sano had considered these possibilities. Now he noted that the three pe
ople trying to protect Lady Asagao had reason to do as Jokyden suggested, to divert suspicion toward Asagao and away from them. But although he sympathized with the confused young woman, he needed to hear her story.

  “Are they not your clothes, Your Highness?” Sano said gently.

  Instead of answering, Asagao gazed at a point somewhere beyond him.

  “Did someone hide them in your cabinet?”

  No reply came. The emperor muttered angrily; the nobles watched Sano, their faces and postures rigid. Weak sunlight cast the wind-stirred shadows of trees against the paper walls, but in the reception hall, no one moved.

  Then Asagao bowed her head and spoke in a trembling, barely audible voice: “They’re mine. I wore them the night Left Minister Konoe died. I killed him.”

  The frozen vacuum of silence filled the room. Emperor Tomohito’s mouth dropped; shock blanched the elegant features of Right Minister Ichijo and Lady Jokyden; the nobles stared. Then everyone spoke at once.

  “No! You couldn’t!” Scrambling to the edge of his dais, the emperor grabbed his consort by the shoulders and shook her. “Why do you say such a thing? Take it back before you get in trouble!”

  The nobles murmured anxiously among themselves. Ichijo said, “Speak no more, daughter.” Panic shone through his controlled manner as he turned to Sano. “She’s not in her right mind. Don’t believe what she says.”

  “You’ve intimidated her into saying what you want to hear,” Jokyden said. “Now she’s distraught and ill. We must take her to her room and call a physician.”

  The group rose, except for Asagao, who knelt with eyes downcast and arms clasped around her stomach.

  “Sit down!” Sano ordered. He hated to antagonize the Imperial Court any further, but he had to reestablish control over the situation. “No one leaves this room.”

  Soldiers blocked the doors. The emperor, Jokyden, Ichijo, and the rest reluctantly resumed their places. Sano perceived fear beneath their infuriated expressions. In the uneasy quiet that ensued, he focused his attention on Lady Asagao.

  Cowering on the floor, she appeared steeped in guilt. But although Sano had hoped for a quick solution to the murder case, Asagao’s confession had come too easily, before he could even ask her if she’d killed Konoe. He still couldn’t believe he’d explored the full scope of the case, and he wouldn’t act on the confession until he made sure it was valid.

  “Your Highness,” he said, “you stated that you killed Left Minister Konoe. Is that correct?”

  Asagao nodded.

  “This is a very serious claim,” Sano said. “Do you understand that it means you could be sentenced to death?”

  Emperor Tomohito opened his mouth to speak, but Lady Jokyden quelled him with a glance.

  “I understand,” Asagao whispered.

  “In case you weren’t telling the truth before,” Sano said, “I’m giving you a chance to do so now. Did you kill Left Minister Konoe?”

  Ichijo leaned toward Asagao, his gaze intense, as if willing her to speak the words that would save her. A strangled sound of protest came from the emperor. Jokyden and the nobles waited and watched, motionless.

  “It was the truth.” Asagao spoke louder, but in a dull voice barren of conviction. “I killed him.”

  Sano inhaled a deep breath, held it a moment, then let the air ease from him. He’d shown more consideration toward Lady Asagao than the law required, yet he still wasn’t satisfied.

  “Why did you kill the left minister?” he said.

  “I was angry at him.”

  “Look at me, Your Highness.”

  Asagao raised her face to Sano. Her mouth trembled.

  “Why were you angry?” Sano said patiently.

  “He had been paying attention to me since last spring. He gave me gifts and compliments. He was so handsome and charming, I fell in love with him.” Asagao continued in the same dull monotone; her eyes kept darting sideways. “A few months ago, when he wanted to make love to me, I let him.”

  “No!” Emperor Tomohito stared at his consort in wounded fury. “You’re mine. You aren’t supposed to have anybody else. And the left minister was my teacher—my friend. You both deceived me!”

  With a howl, he struck out at Asagao. His palm smote her head. She rocked sideways. Tomohito retreated to the back of his dais, where he knelt, his back to everyone. His shoulders quaked with angry, muffled sobs.

  Ichijo shook his head, dazed. The nobles exchanged horrified glances. Belatedly, Sano looked to see Jokyden’s reaction. Her expression was calm.

  As if no interruption had occurred, Asagao continued, “The left minister and I met whenever we could.” She gave Sano a strained, pleading smile. “But then I found out he seduced me because he wanted to separate me from the emperor. He was going to say that I was the one who seduced him, so Tomo-chan would get jealous and drop me. The left minister’s youngest daughter is Tomo-chan’s second favorite lady. She would have been promoted to chief consort. The left minister was Tomo-chan’s idol; Tomo-chan would have forgiven him for making love to me. He would have ended up with even more power over the court. But I didn’t want to give up my position. I couldn’t let the left minister tell anyone about us. So I killed him.”

  This scenario gave Asagao a stronger motive for murder than the quarrel over money that she’d mentioned to Reiko. But Sano realized that an affair between Asagao and Konoe also cast stronger suspicion in other directions.

  “Who knew about this affair?” Sano asked.

  “Only the left minister’s personal attendants. They carried messages between us and arranged our meetings.”

  The nobles whispered among themselves. Sano eyed Emperor Tomohito, who’d stopped weeping and sat with his head half-turned, listening to the conversation. Maybe his shock at the news of his consort’s infidelity was just an act. What if he’d already known that Konoe had seduced Asagao? Jealous temper could have spurred him to murder. Yet Sano could think of someone else besides Asagao who would have suffered if Konoe made the affair public. Someone besides Emperor Tomohito who might have lashed out at Konoe.

  Sano contemplated Right Minister Ichijo. Before Konoe died, Ichijo had been the second highest imperial official. Had the two men been rivals? If Konoe had intended to attack Ichijo by ousting Asagao, then his death would have preserved Ichijo’s status. And after the murder, Ichijo had become the top court official. The affair and resulting scandal would have hurt him more than Lady Jokyden, whose position in the court didn’t depend on her son’s choice of consort, or Prince Momozono, who had no part in imperial politics.

  The right minister met Sano’s gaze. Sudden wariness sharpened his aspect, as if he sensed a threat. Sano knew that Ichijo wasn’t a suspect; Yoriki Hoshina’s report had placed him at home, in the presence of his family and attendants, at the time of the murder. Just the same, Sano wondered whether Ichijo merited investigation.

  “How did you know that Left Minister Konoe meant to betray you?” Sano asked Asagao.

  “I overheard his attendants talking,” she said. “They praised him for the cleverness of his plan and laughed at me for being stupid enough to fall for it.”

  Sano heard a rising inflection at the end of her sentences, as though she wanted him to verify their accuracy. “Tell me what happened the night Left Minister Konoe died,” he said.

  “It was soon after I found out what the left minister was doing to me. I got a message from him, asking me to go to the Pond Garden at midnight. I saw my chance to get rid of him before he could ruin me. So I went to the garden early and waited for him. When he came, I followed him to the cottage.” Asagao had begun speaking faster and faster as she went along; now she ended in a rush: “Then I killed him. I heard people coming, and I was in such a hurry to get away that I accidentally stepped in his blood.”

  Her story had a convincing logic that established Asagao’s motive for the crime and opportunity to kill Konoe; it explained the bloodstained clothes, her lack of an alibi, and why K
onoe had gone to the garden after ordering the palace residents to stay away. However, questions remained in Sano’s mind.

  “If you didn’t want the emperor to find out about your affair with Left Minister Konoe, then why are you admitting to it now?” Sano said. “Why are you so eager to confess to murder, when the penalty is death?”

  “Because murder is wrong. I’m sorry for what I did. To purify my spirit, I must pay for my crime.” Again, that tentative, questioning note inflected Asagao’s voice.

  “Yesterday you told my wife you were glad the left minister died,” Sano reminded her.

  Asagao shifted uncomfortably. “I changed my mind.”

  “I see.” Sano paused, thinking that if her story was a lie, it was a better one than he could imagine Asagao inventing by herself. “Was it your idea to confess?”

  “Yes. Of course.” The emperor’s consort nodded vigorously, while everyone watched, alert and tense.

  “Then no one told you what to say?”

  “No. Nobody did,” Asagao said, looking away from Sano, then back again.

  “You’re not trying to protect someone by taking the blame for the murder?” Sano looked around the room at Ichijo, Jokyden, and Tomohito.

  “I resent your implication that I would have my daughter sacrifice herself to protect me,” Ichijo said with haughty indignation. “I am not a murderer. Neither is she. That she says these things can only mean she has gone mad.”

  “I haven’t gone mad!” Turning on her father with a vehemence that made him draw back from her, Asagao insisted, “I’m telling the truth. I killed the left minister.”

  “There’s one way to settle the matter,” Sano said. “Lady Asagao, I order you to demonstrate the spirit cry for me.”

  There was a moment of stunned quiet. Sano heard silk garments rustle with small, involuntary movements, and saw consternation on the faces around him.

  Then Ichijo said scornfully, “This is ridiculous. My daughter isn’t capable of any such thing.”