Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [303]
Blackthorne was preparing to launch himself at the samurai when the door at the far end of the corridor opened. Fujiko, her hair loose and flowing over the sleeping kimono, approached, the sound of ripping cloth and another clout seemingly not touching her at all. She bowed politely to the guard and stood between them, then bowed meekly to Blackthorne and took his arm, motioning him back into the room. He saw the taut readiness of the samurai. He had only one pistol and one bullet at the moment so he retreated. Fujiko followed and shut the shoji behind her. Then, very afraid, she shook her head warningly, and touched a finger to her lips and shook her head again, her eyes pleading with him.
“Gomen nasai, wakarimasu ka?” she breathed.
But he was concentrating on the wall of the adjoining room that he could smash in so easily.
She looked at the wall also, then put herself between him and the wall, and sat, motioning him to do the same.
But he could not. He stood readying himself for the charge that would destroy them all, goaded by a whimper that followed another blow.
“Iyé!” Fujiko shook in terror.
He waved her out of the way.
“Iyé, iyé,” she begged again.
“IMA!”
At once Fujiko got up and motioned him to wait as she rushed noiselessly for the swords that lay in front of the takonama, the little alcove of honor. She picked up the long sword, her hands shaking, drew it out of the scabbard, and prepared to follow him through the wall. At that instant there was a final blow and a rising torrent of rage. The other shoji slammed open, and unseen, Buntaro stamped away, followed by the guard. There was silence in the house for a moment, then the sound of the garden gate crashing closed.
Blackthorne went for his door. Fujiko darted in the way but he shoved her aside and pulled it open.
Mariko was still on her knees in one corner of the next room, a livid welt on her cheek, her hair disheveled, her kimono in tatters, bad bruises on her thighs and lower back.
He rushed over to pick her up but she cried out, “Go away, please go away, Anjin-san!”
He saw the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “Jesus, how bad are you—”
“I told you not to interfere. Please go away,” she said in the same calm voice that belied the violence in her eyes. Then she saw Fujiko, who had stayed at the doorway. She spoke to her. Fujiko obediently took Blackthorne’s arm to lead him away but he tore out of her grasp. “Don’t! Iyé!”
Mariko said, “Your presence here takes away my face and gives me no peace or comfort and shames me. Go away!”
“I want to help. Don’t you understand?”
“Don’t you understand? You have no rights in this. This is a private quarrel between husband and wife.”
“That’s no excuse for hitting—”
“Why don’t you listen, Anjin-san? He can beat me to death if he wishes. He has the right and I wish he would—even that! Then I wouldn’t have to endure the shame. You think it’s easy to live with my shame? Didn’t you hear what I told you? I’m Akechi Jinsai’s daughter!”
“That’s not your fault. You did nothing!”
“It is my fault and I am my father’s daughter.” Mariko would have stopped there. But, looking up and seeing his compassion, his concern, and his love, and knowing how he so honored truth, she allowed some of her veils to fall.
“Tonight was my fault, Anjin-san,” she said. “If I would weep as he wants, beg forgiveness as he wants, cringe and be petrified and fawn as he wants, open my legs in pretended terror as he desires, do all these womanly things that my duty demands, then he’d be like a child in my hand. But I will not.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s my revenge. To repay him for leaving me alive after the treachery. To repay him for sending me away for eight years and leaving me alive all that time. And to repay him for ordering me back into life and leaving me alive.” She sat back painfully and arranged her tattered kimono closer around her. “I’ll never give myself to him again. Once I did, freely, even though I detested him from the first moment I saw him.”
“Then why did you marry him? You