Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [412]
“Oh, yes. They’ll certainly not move for two days at least.” Alvito had already decided not to mention what he, or more truthfully he reminded himself, what Brother Michael suspected, so he just added, “Don’t forget they’re traveling in state. With Toda Mariko’s rank, and Toranaga’s banners, they’re very much in state. Everyone within four leagues would know about them and where they’re staying.”
Rodrigues laughed. “The Ingeles in state? Who’d have believed that? Like a poxy daimyo!”
“That’s not the half of it, Pilot. Toranaga’s made him samurai and hatamoto.”
“What?”
“Now Pilot-Major Blackthorne wears the two swords. With his pistols. And now he’s Toranaga’s confidant, to a certain extent, and protégé.”
“The Ingeles?”
“Yes.” Alvito let the silence hang in the cabin and went back to eating.
“Do you know the why of it?” Rodrigues asked.
“Yes, in part. All in good time, Pilot.”
“Just tell me the why. Briefly. Details later, please.”
“The Anjin-san saved Toranaga’s life for the third time. Twice during the escape from Osaka, the last in Izu during an earthquake.” Alvito chomped lustily on the thigh meat. A thread of juice ran into his black beard.
Rodrigues waited but the priest said no more. Thoughtfully his eyes dropped to the goblet cradled in his hands. The surface of the deep red wine caught the light. After a long pause, he said, “It wouldn’t be good for us, that piss-cutting Ingeles close to Toranaga. Not at all. Not him. Eh?”
“I agree.”
“Even so, I’d like to see him.” The priest said nothing. Rodrigues let him clean his plate in silence, then offered more, the joy gone out of him. The last of the carcass and the final wing were accepted, and another goblet of wine. Then, to finish, some fine French cognac that Father Alvito got from a cupboard.
“Rodrigues? Would you care for a glass?”
“Thank you.” The seaman watched Alvito pour the nut-brown liquor into the crystal glass. All the wine and cognac had come from the Father-Visitor’s private stock as a parting gift to his Jesuit friend.
“Of course, Rodrigues, you’re welcome to share it with the Father,” dell’Aqua had said. “Go with God, may He watch over you and bring you safely to port and home again.”
“Thank you, Eminence.”
Yes, thank you, Eminence, but no God-cursed thanks, Rodrigues told himself bitterly, no thanks for getting my Captain-General to order me aboard this pigboat under this Jesuit’s command and out of my Gracia’s arms, poor darling. Madonna, life’s so short, too short and too treacherous to waste being chaperone to gut-stinking priests, even Alvito who’s more of a man than any and, because of that, more dangerous. Madonna, give me some help!
“Oh! You reave, Rod-san? Reave so soon? Oh, so sorry….”
“Soon come back, my darling.”
“Oh, so sorry … we miss, ritt’e one and I.”
For a moment he had considered taking her aboard the Santa Filipa, but instantly dismissed the thought, knowing it to be perilous for her and for him and for the ship. “So sorry, back soon.”
“We wait, Rod-san. Please excuse my sad, so sorry.”
Always the hesitant, heavily accented Portuguese she tried so hard to speak, insisting that she be called by her baptismal name Gracia and not by the lovely-sounding Nyan-nyan, which meant Kitten and suited her so well and pleased him better.
He had sailed away from Nagasaki, hating to leave, cursing all priests and captain-generals, wanting an end to summer and autumn so he could up-anchor the Black Ship, her holds weighed now with bullion, to head for home at long last, rich and independent. But then what? The perpetual question swamped him. What about her—and the child? Madonna, help me to answer that with peace.
“An excellent meal, Rodrigues,” Alvito said, toying with a crumb on the table. “Thank you.”
“Good.” Rodrigues was serious now. “What’s your plan, Father? We should—” He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced out of the windows. Then, dissatisfied, he got up from the table and limped painfully over to a land side porthole