‘Not if the Retired One has her way. I know she has His Majesty’s ear . . .’
It was the fifteenth day of the fifth month of the first year of Keio, and the rains were late in starting. Every day was hotter, stickier and more oppressive than the last. Dark clouds hid the sky. The paper doors that divided the rooms and the wooden doors that formed the outer walls of the buildings had been taken out, turning the whole vast palace into a labyrinth of interconnected pavilions. But there was not even the tiniest breeze to rattle the bamboo blinds.
That morning Sachi had been given a few minutes off from her duties. She dashed to the veranda and gazed out at the palace gardens. The lawns, neatly clipped bushes and spiky-needled pine trees spread before her in a dazzling patchwork of greens. The elegant lake with its half-moon bridges was as still as a picture. Bamboo shoots thrust out of the soil and gnarled branches groaned under fat new buds and leaves. She breathed the moist air, drinking in the warm scent of earth, leaves and grass.
A cicada shrilled, shattering the silence. The sudden noise took her away, and for a moment she was on a hillside among thick trees. A cluster of slate roofs weighted with stones huddled in the valley below her. She could almost smell the woodsmoke and the aroma of miso soup. The village. The memory was so clear and sharp it brought tears to her eyes.
As she did every day, she thought back to that fateful autumn morning when the princess had passed through. Sachi was back in the entrance hall of the great inn, feeling the wooden floor cold and hard against her knees. Women crowded around her and voices twittered. Her parents were bowing, her mother brushing away tears. Then her father had said, ‘You are to go with them. You’re a lucky girl. Never forget that. Whatever you do, don’t cry. Be sure and make us proud of you.’
The next thing she knew, she had been walking along the road with a lady-in-waiting firmly holding her by the hand. She remembered fighting back tears, twisting around again and again, trying to keep her eyes on the village until it disappeared from sight. Many days later they had reached the great city of Edo and finally she saw the white ramparts of Edo Castle filling the sky in front of her. They had gone inside and the gates had swung shut behind them.
How lonely she had been to begin with! She had never imagined it was possible to be so sad. She hadn’t even been able to understand what anyone said. There had been so much to learn – how to walk and talk like a lady, how to read and write. Since then four winters and three summers had passed. But every day she thought of her mother and father still and wondered how they were and what they were doing.
Now she took her usual place beside the princess and began to fan her, trying to keep the air around her as cool and fresh as possible. A thread of fragrant smoke coiled from the incense burner in the corner. On the other side of the ornate gold screens that enclosed the princess’s private section of the room, groups of ladies-inwaiting reclined, chattering and laughing, their robes billowing around them like leaves on a lily pond. Only a chosen few were allowed behind the screens. If Sachi had not been so young she might have felt it strange that she of all people should have been there. But for some reason the princess cared about her. She found her company soothing, she said.
Sachi glanced at the princess. She knew she was supposed to keep her eyes modestly lowered at all times, and especially in the princess’s presence. But there were so many rules, so much to remember. And besides, sometimes she felt that she was the only person who really cared about Princess Kazu. To Sachi she was perfection. Her handwriting was more elegant than that of any of her ladies, her poems more poignant, and when she played the koto, listeners were moved to tears. When she performed the tea ceremony, her movements were pure poetry. Yet there was something about her that was like a wild creature, trapped within the net of ceremony and deference that surrounded her. Sometimes Sachi thought she saw a flash of panic in her black eyes, like that of a frightened deer. Young and powerless though she was, she yearned to protect her.
From far off came the pad of footsteps, hurrying along the corridor towards them. Sachi heard the door to the outer chamber sliding in its grooves and the boards creaking as the visitor knelt. There was a flurry of voices, the rustle of silk, then a lady-in-waiting appeared, bowing at the edge of the screen. Lady Tsuguko leaned towards her in her lofty way, then turned to the princess and whispered in her ear.
Sachi caught the words: ‘The time of the morning visit approaches.’
The princess froze. Then, for some strange reason, she looked straight at Sachi. Sachi quickly looked down.
The princess took a breath, as if remembering what and who she was. Then she turned to Lady Tsuguko and said with studied calm, ‘Tell my ladies to make preparations.’
Quickly Sachi gathered up the shells and put them back in their boxes, carefully tying the tasselled cords that bound them. When she had first arrived at the palace, everything had been so new that she had barely noticed where she was or been aware of the immense luxury that surrounded her. Now, almost four years later, she handled the tiny painted shells and the lacquered eight-sided boxes with reverence.
Only ladies of the highest rank ever entered the presence of the shogun. The life of the palace revolved around him. When he was absent it was as if darkness had fallen. All the women who pattered about the women’s palace from the highest in the hierarchy to the lowest – grand ladies, lesser ladies, old, young, maids, maids’ maids, halberd-wielding guards, bath girls, cleaning girls, carriers of charcoal and water, even the lowest-ranking errand girls whom everyone called the ‘honourable whelps’ – were silent and afraid. When he returned it was as if the sun had come out. But most of the women who devoted their lives to serving this godlike being never expected to see him.
Indeed, it was extraordinary, as Sachi heard the older women saying to each other, for the shogun ever to have been away. The third shogun, Lord Iemitsu, had visited Kyoto in the Kan’ei era, more than 200 years ago, but since then no shogun had ever left Edo and few left the castle. The previous shogun, poor Lord Iesada, like all his predecessors, had been born, lived and died there.
For why would anyone ever want to leave? The castle was a world in itself. Besides the inner palace, with its offices, guard rooms, great kitchens, dining rooms and baths, its sub-palaces for the great ladies and labyrinths of rooms where the women lived, all set in exquisite gardens with lakes and streams and waterfalls and stages for plays and dances, there was also the middle palace, the shogun’s residence when he was not in the inner palace, and the outer palace, where official business took place and the government had its offices.
The women, of course, never went there and in theory did not know what went on; though in practice news and gossip seemed to flow like air into the inner palace so that even though the women never left, they knew exactly what was happening in the world outside. All this – the inner, middle and outer palaces – made up the main citadel. But there was also the second citadel, where the heir – when there was one – and his mother had their court, and the west citadel, where the widows – the wives, consorts and concubines – of the late shoguns were supposed to live, having taken holy vows. Each was a smaller version of the main citadel, complete with its own outer, middle and inner palaces. Within the great moat and the soaring walls, there was also the wooded expanse of the Fukiage pleasure gardens and Momiji Hill, where the women could stroll to enjoy the changing seasons, and the palaces of the Tayasu and Shimizu families, blood relations of the Tokugawa family.
Everything, in fact, that anyone could ever want was there. Once the women entered the castle they knew that, unless they were unhappy or behaved badly, they would be there for the rest of their lives. Of course they were permitted to visit their families from time to time. Sachi knew that soon she too would be allowed a few days to visit her family, though her old life seemed so far away she could barely remember the little girl she had been when she lived in the village.
In the past when the princess made the daily journe
y to greet the shogun, Sachi had stayed behind in the royal apartments. But today something had changed. Perhaps, Sachi thought, it was to do with her age. Now in her fifteenth year, she had come of age and her monthly defilement had begun. Her hair was knotted in a more adult hairstyle and she wore a style of kimono that marked her as a junior handmaiden. She even had a new name.
Instead of Sachi, ‘Happiness’, she was now officially Yuri, ‘Lily’. She liked the new name. It made her feel delicate and feminine and rather grand, part of a more splendid world than before. Her body too was changing, sprouting nearly as fast as a bamboo shoot in the rainy season. Her arms and legs had grown long and slender and her small round breasts had to be squashed into place inside her kimono. Even her face seemed different almost every time she looked at herself in the mirror.
Perhaps that was the reason why, that morning, Lady Tsuguko had told her to prepare to attend the welcoming for the shogun. But it was not her place to ask questions. As the older women reminded her again and again, she herself and her feelings counted for nothing. No matter what happened, no matter what she felt, she must strive to maintain a placid, unruffled surface, like a pond becoming still again after a stone has been thrown in. The key was to remember her place, to be obedient and never to bring shame on herself or others.
At mid-morning, as the hour of the horse approached, the women prepared to leave. The princess rose to her feet and, holding her ceremonial cypresswood fan at her waist, glided out of her apartments. She moved so softly that the smoke coiling from the censer barely quivered. Her wide red trousers rippled and the quilted hem of her brocade coat spread like a fan behind her. A subtle perfume enveloped her, wafting from her scented robes. Her ladies followed, like an endless procession of huge flowers in their thin white summer kimonos and bulky vermilion skirts. Usually Lady Tsuguko would have been at the head of the line, as befitted her rank of chief lady-in-waiting. But today she stayed at the back, shepherding Sachi at her side.
Outside, the passageway was full of women on their knees. Bowing again and again, the ushers greeted the princess. Sachi scurried along with tiny steps, wary of the swathes of fabric that eddied around her feet. Being shorter than everyone else, she almost had to run to keep up. Once she stumbled over her train. ‘Smaller steps,’ Lady Tsuguko cautioned, tucking an elegant finger under her elbow. ‘Toes turned in. Hands on your thighs, fingers straight, thumbs tucked in. Head down. Look at the ground.’
Preceded by the ushers, the princess and her ladies glided infinitely slowly, with measured steps, along one corridor after another, their robes swishing gently like waves lapping at the edge of a river. The palace was a maze. Pattering along, eyes fixed firmly on the tatami mats, Sachi wondered how she would ever have found her way back again if she had been on her own. Glancing up, she caught a glimpse of the long corridor disappearing into the distance, lined with rows of closed wooden doors. Behind them, she knew, would be the crowded rooms where some of the hundreds of ladies-in-waiting and their maids lived.
When she peeked again they were skirting a vast audience chamber. Most of it was swallowed up in darkness. On one set of doors, dimly visible in the gloom, painted cranes soared and turtles swam; on another were mountains and waterfalls that reminded her for a moment of home. Leopards and tigers lurked in the shadows, their eyes glinting. Dragons coiled along the lintels and friezes and the ceiling glimmered with gold. Even the nail heads were of gold, intricately moulded. To one side of the hall was a courtyard with a small pond and a tiny square of grey sky. White flowers sparkled on the rocks. The heat was so intense it was difficult to move. The air was steamy, dense with moisture.
‘Head down!’ barked Lady Tsuguko.
They came to a walkway which led to the shogun’s private wing, rising like a pavilion amid lawns, willows, sparkling streams and beds of purple irises. A crowd of women were waiting on their knees there. They shuffled back as the princess approached. At the front were seven shrivelled women with parchment faces and elaborate wigs of glossy black hair – the elders, who ruled over every detail of life in the women’s palace. They had, so people said, once been beauties, among the hundreds of concubines of Lord Ienari, the present shogun’s grandfather. But as far as Sachi was concerned they were fire-breathing dragons. She lived in fear of their sharp tongues and hard knuckles. What might they say or do, seeing a lowly creature like her daring to climb so high above her station? She raised her eyes just enough to see their faces as Lady Tsuguko ushered her past and was startled to see that they were looking at her kindly. One even smiled and nodded encouragingly.
She barely had time to register the strangeness of it before the princess and her entourage had swept on into a long, gloomy passageway. Reed blinds decorated with huge red tassels formed one wall. At the far end was a hefty wooden door.
This was the famous Upper Bell Corridor, the point of entry into the women’s palace from the middle and outer palaces which were the domain of the men. Only the shogun used it; he was the only man who ever came into the women’s quarters. There were a few men who worked in the women’s quarters – desiccated priests, a couple of smooth-faced doctors, the brawny guards at the outer gates – but they did not count. As far as the women were concerned, they didn’t exist.
Beside the door hung a ball of copper bells that sounded when the shogun was about to pass through; to ring them at any other time was a terrible crime. A lady-in-waiting was kneeling on each side, together with a couple of the lady priests, gnarled old women with shiny shaven pates who dressed like men in priests’ robes. When Sachi had first seen them she had stared in surprise but now they just seemed part of the palace population.
The princess and her entourage wore the white robes, scarlet trousers and vermilion brocade coats which were the formal costume of the imperial court at Kyoto. But the noblewomen who filled the passageway were dressed in robes more lavish than any Sachi had ever seen. Some were embroidered with designs of wisteria and irises, others with cypresswood fans and oxcarts. On some, miniature landscapes in shades of blue scrolled across the ladies’ curved backs. The princess and her ladies wore their hair long and straight, cascading to the floor. But the heads bent to the ground were adorned with heavy loops and coils of oiled hair bristling with combs, hairpins and ribbons.
The Dowager Lady Jitsusei-in, the shogun’s real mother, was kneeling in the place of honour nearest the closed door. She had a pinched, sallow face. As a widow, she wore the short hair, plain robes and cowl of a nun. Sachi thought of her as the Old Crow. Every day she swooped into the princess’s apartments in her black robes, finding fault here and there. No matter how hard everyone tried to please her, she always unearthed something to complain about.
The princess took her place on the cushion opposite her. But just as she was tucking her skirts tidily under her knees, a bevy of women in richly embroidered robes advanced slowly, grandly, into the passageway. At the front was a tall, imperious woman. She was dressed, like the Old Crow, in a nun’s habit but her robes were of the finest silk, grey verging on purple, and her mantle was cunningly draped to reveal a glimpse of the soft skin of her snowy-white throat. Her bearing made it clear that, no matter what her costume, she was a princess.
Glancing up from her place at the end of the line, Sachi quailed. It was the Retired One, the fearsome Dowager Lady Tensho-in. Everyone was in awe of her. She was said to have a fierce temper and to be as strong as a man. Everyone knew how she had once picked up the late shogun, her husband, in her arms and carried him out of the palace during an earthquake. She was also, the women whispered, a superb horsewoman who could wield the halberd as skilfully as any soldier, and an expert at performing the chanting and dancing of the Noh theatre. Not yet thirty, she was in the full bloom of her beauty. A knowing smile lurked on her jewel-bright lips and her eyes burned with a fiery energy.
But all heads had swivelled to stare at the young woman who flitted behind her. She was no older than Sachi, with the snub nose and olive compl
exion of an Edo girl, quite different from the aristocratic pallor of the Kyoto women. Her childishly plump face was expertly painted in the Edo way, her full lips shiny with the greenish gloss known as ‘fresh bamboo red’. She teetered along with tiny in-turned steps, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, her eyes demurely cast down. But the set of her shoulders showed that she knew every eye was on her.
Sachi gasped when she saw her. Beneath the make-up was Fuyu, the acknowledged star among the junior ladies. Sachi yearned to be as poised and self-confident as she. In Fuyu’s presence she felt terribly conscious of her humble background and lack of breeding. As for Fuyu, she did not bother to speak to Sachi, except on the rare occasions during halberd practice when Sachi managed to get in a strike with her stick. Then Fuyu would raise her chin, look down her dainty nose and say with a sniff, ‘Not bad, I suppose . . . for a peasant!’ She was the daughter of one of the captains of the guard and, like Sachi, a junior handmaiden. For all her airs, she was no more entitled to enter the presence of the shogun than Sachi was.
But what sent a murmur of admiration through the crowd was her spectacular over-garment. On it was embroidered a breathtaking depiction of the city of Edo. Curving around the padded hem was the River Sumida lined with storehouses, with Nihonbashi Bridge arching across it. Edo Bay was a sinuous curve of blue at the hip. Spread across the back and sleeves were houses, temples, a pagoda, streets dotted with tiny embroidered figures, clouds of foliage, even a glimpse of the turrets of Edo Castle picked out in gold thread. It was a work of art, unimaginably costly, designed to draw every eye.
While her ladies took up their places along one side of the corridor, the Retired One swept up to the Old Crow and the princess and bowed deeply.
‘Greetings, Your Imperial Highness,’ she said, addressing the princess. She spoke quietly but her voice – unusually deep and sonorous – carried right to the end of the corridor. ‘You are most welcome. What an honour it is to have you amongst us. I do hope you are taking good care of your health in this hot weather.’
The Last Concubine Page 4
