Author, Sue.

Feedback and comments are very welcome. Email Sue at wood_bee@yahoo.co.uk.  Please note that due to work commitments, replies may be delayed or not possible. Apologies in advance.

The Eightfold Fence

With no suspicion that he might be under close observation, Brother Michael was able to complete his self-appointed task of taking sandals for repair during the afternoon. Not a man with a ready capacity for deception, he still had enough awareness of the world to understand that his thoughts and actions must be disguised in a cloak of obedience and submission. His Japanese upbringing was his staunchest ally in this; he had been raised to keep his thoughts concealed, to pay lip-service to commands other men might have resented, and to keep such emotions as he might experience a secret between himself and his conscience.

In the Street of Sandal-makers there were a good many people he had known all his life. Old Nurse, who had been his mother's faithful servant, had lived here. Her family still did. Here he had played as a child, mixing freely with the children of inferiors. His father had believed that a young man whose destiny was to govern should know all there was to know about those who would one day be his vassals. It was an enlightened attitude which had not found favour among other senior samurai families but had been tolerated - until the arrival of Father dell'Aqua and his olive-skinned protege Martin Alvito had shaken the family's foundations and destroyed every one of its preconceived notions. Michael's parents had become Christian and Michael himself - drawn into the world of the Jesuit mission through his friendship with Martin - had found himself a candidate for the priesthood. It had happened without his conscious understanding, but it was not a fate he rebelled against; if Martin was to be a priest - and there was nothing more certain - then Michael would be one also.

Kasigi Omi was of roughly the same age; a little younger, perhaps. They had known him as children, although much of his childhood had been spent on his family's estates to the east. Omi had always seemed remote, serious in a way that was wholly Japanese. Michael, strongly under the influence of Europeans, no longer felt himself to be entirely Japanese. It was certainly the case that a gulf of understanding lay between Omi and the two intending priests - a gulf that had persisted for a considerable time, and was beginning to close only now.

Spying Omi in the crowded street, flanked by his samurai, Michael stepped back into the shadow of a sloping roof. Even this far past noon there was still considerable warmth in the sun, and his restless night had taken away a great deal of his physical strength.

"Brother Michael." Omi bowed, reservedly. Michael's whole-hearted embracing of the Christian faith had completely bewildered him, and he was never entirely certain these days whether this was still the Michael he had known.

"Omi-san." The exchange of greetings was formal and cautious, like the preliminary snarlings between warring cats.

"Rodrigo-san suggested you might have information for me," Omi said, briskly.

"Yes. Please tell Toranaga-sama that Tsukku-san wishes to be rescued. And tell him, please, Omi-san, that with great respect I wish to suggest to him how it might be done."

Carefully, missing nothing, he recounted his conversation with Martin Alvito of the previous evening, and as he did so Kasigi Omi listened in growing disbelief and astonishment to a plan whose insane quality of unexpectedness was its greatest brilliance and which would defeat and embarrass the Christian daimyo without a drop of blood being shed. With some trepidation he imagined himself presenting this scheme to Lord Toranaga - but then, compared to the risks others were prepared to take on the Tsukku-san's behalf, it seemed hardly so terrible after all. And if it saved a good man from a horrible death ...

Listening, nodding his head occasionally, he absorbed and delighted in Brother Michael's scheme as he knew the Anjin would when he heard of it. It had the benefit of a magnificent madness - and he knew without a shadow of doubt that it would work.

The following evening after Vespers Toda Buntaro halted a small convoy outside the mission building. There were few lights burning, candles behind the shutters casting only the smallest glow into the street. At dusk, when the outer chapel doors were closed, the community retired to bed with the exception of a few brothers with late evening tasks to perform. A porter would be on duty overnight, in case there should be any late callers on urgent errands, and there was often some penitent on his knees all night, but rarely any other abroad in the late hours.

Buntaro glanced at his travelling companion and gave the signal to dismount. Rodrigues did so, and lurched across to the doorway where he hauled on the bell-rope with unnecessary savagery. His eyes met Buntaro's in the dark, exchanging with them a glare which intimated that anything and anybody getting in their way would be reduced to dust without thought; a basilisk's glare. He recognised the young Japanese who opened the door as Brother Ambrose and spoke to him, as Michael had done, in Portuguese.

"Brother, this samurai-sama has urgent business with His Grace."

"Captain Rodrigues, surely it can wait until morning? Unless, of course, it is a matter of life and death?"

"It's that all right, Brother. Tell the Bishop that he can prevent a murder and a war - save any number of souls - if he comes to speak to Buntaro-sama."

Irresolute, the young brother cast apprehensive eyes over the detail of fully-armed samurai Rodrigues had brought with him. They looked exactly like a war party, and their grim expressions left him with no illusions about their intentions. Buntaro, whose natural expression was a stern one in any event, looked as serious and threatening as it was possible to look; Ambrose shivered slightly, an awareness of their purpose dawning on him only slowly.

"They mean business, Brother," Rodrigues advised him, softly. "Go and turn His Grace out of bed and bring him here, or there could be unpleasantness."

"It will not be necessary." The soft sound of a shoji opening was followed by autocratic tones that cut through the tension of the small group. "Unfortunately, Captain Rodrigues, the illness that deprived me of my sleep aboard your vessel has not abated on dry land. Please ask Senhor Buntaro to enter."

Surprised halfway through a sketchy European bow, Rodrigues straightened as the Bishop stepped from the shadows of the hallway into the sparse illumination provided by Brother Ambrose's lamp.

"It won't be possible, Your Grace," he said, uneasily. "Toda Buntaro-sama is here on an embassy from Lord Toranaga. Unless you relax your rule about the wearing of weapons inside the mission he can't enter; Toranaga has given him strict instructions not to remove his swords without his personal permission."

The Bishop's eyes narrowed, the merest flicker of acknowledgement of a strategic intelligence equal to his own.

"Then we must conduct our conversation here," he conceded. "What does he want?"

"Your Grace, I don't have the Japanese for it and the Brother here neither Portuguese nor Spanish enough. We need Brother Michael to interpret. Toranaga's orders were quite specific," he added, passing a hand across his brow in sudden weakness. "He has a high regard for the Brother's honesty - and his scholarship," he added, limply.

"This Toranaga presumes entirely too much!" the Bishop told him, sharply.

"That's so, Your Grace, but it's their way. In his own land he's the lord of everything that moves. The mission is only here because of his generosity; perhaps it would be good to humour him this time, eh?"

"He's a corrupt and unscrupulous warlord and no better than a heathen!"

Rodrigues leaned closer. "All of that may be true, Your Grace, but he'd make a better friend than an enemy. I'd recommend you to hear what he has to say, and Michael is the only one who can give it to you accurately."

The calm sense of these words took a long time to penetrate Bishop Mendoza's offended sensibilities. In the end, he turned to Ambrose with a groan.

"Fetch Brother Michael," he ordered. "And on your way back, light some candles. I want to see this man I am expected to deal with."

Within minutes not only had Michael appeared from the heart of the building but so had Father Soldi and several others, alarmed by Ambrose's description of armed men threatening their Bishop at his own front door. The entranceway was illuminated brightly, and Rodrigues - who was not armed - stepped inside, adding to the confusion. Outside the samurai remained mounted, turning stone faces towards the chaos within, their footsoldiers ranked around them silently and without any obvious interest in what was taking place.

"Brother Michael," the Bishop said, loudly, in an attempt to introduce some sanity into the proceedings, "please ask Senhor Buntaro-sama what it is he wants."

Stepping out into the chill night, Michael bowed to Buntaro and put the Bishop's question in Japanese. "My master asks how he can be of service to your master, Buntaro-sama."

Buntaro explained in a few short, sharp words, keeping it very simple in the knowledge that several of the European brothers had a passing acquaintance with the Japanese language and that it would be best if they all understood one another clearly. Michael, turning to the Bishop, managed to keep his expression neutral.

"Your Grace, he says that Toranaga-sama has heard that we are keeping one of his samurai prisoner here and that the man is sentenced to death. He says that if that is the case it would be a very serious matter, since only a samurai's own lord has the right to order his death. A lord killing another lord's samurai is a murder and would be considered an act of war. He says that if Lord Toranaga's man is harmed in any way it would be necessary for him to evict all the Christians from his lands. As he is Regent, that would effectively mean from the whole of Japan."

The words were absorbed without obvious effect, the Bishop signalling calmly that he understood.

"Naturally no-one would wish to risk expulsion," he said, in his most honeyed tones. "However I am happy to assure Lord Toranaga's envoy that we have none of his samurai here. We hold no Japanese prisoners whatsoever, as he is welcome to see for himself."

Michael, translating, knew the answer to that long before Buntaro had spoken it, but restrained his eagerness to answer until the samurai had finished speaking.

"Your Grace," he said, heart thudding dangerously in his chest, "Buntaro-sama says that the man does not look Japanese. He looks European, which may have caused some confusion. He means Father Alvito," he added, worriedly.

"So I would imagine. And by what twisted logic does he claim Father Alvito to be Japanese?"

"He says ... he does not dispute that in a previous life Father Alvito was a member of our Order, but that he has recently been adopted as a member of a samurai family and is therefore Japanese. He says that naturally a lord of Toranaga-sama's importance would not give a valuable present of kimonos to just anyone, but he would certainly do so to a member of his own family."

"Are you suggesting that Lord Toranaga is claiming Father Alvito as kin?" Bewildered by the Japanese way of sidestepping problems, the Bishop could not help echoing Michael's words.

From the sleeve of his kimono, Buntaro produced a neatly-folded document bearing Toranaga's seal. The direction on the outside was written both in Japanese characters and in a European hand. Breaking the seal, the Bishop opened the paper rapidly and leaned closer to the nearest candle, the better to read it.

"'I, Yoshi Toranaga, Lord of the Kwanto, Regent of Japan, hereby adopt into my own family Martin Alvito, of unknown parentage. I hereby declare that this same Martin Alvito is now samurai and hatamoto, with all the rights and duties entailed therein, and that he is therefore subject only to Japanese law. Any action which threatens his safety and well-being will therefore be considered by me as an act of war.'"

Michael turned away to conceal a smile and met the stony glare of Buntaro. Blackthorne's Portuguese translation of the formal patent of adoption, while carrying the sense of the original, robbed it of the elegance of its language and reduced it to a crisp and understated simplicity. Taking the document as the Bishop held it out to him, he examined the seal and the date. It was an excellent piece of work.

"Your Grace, this document was drawn up and sealed before the parcel of kimonos was delivered," he said, cautiously. "It would appear that Father Alvito was already samurai before he accepted them - and that therefore he was not subject to the rules of the Order."

"And that therefore he has not transgressed them? Ingenious." Bishop Mendoza took the paper back from Michael, inspected its calligraphy and its seal, fingered its fine edges in contemplation. "Father Soldi, please bring Father Alvito to me."

"Your Grace, surely you won't ... " Soldi's incipient protest was silenced by obsidian eyes that turned on him in displeasure. He did not wait for the instruction to be repeated, but made off hurriedly towards the kitchen cellars.

No Emperor's arrival could have been more keenly anticipated; it was not only the samurai who focussed their entire attention on the doorway through which Father Soldi had disappeared, but the assembled brethren of the mission too. Rodrigues caught the Bishop's eye briefly as he, too, directed his gaze towards it, a flicker of mutual disapproval passing between them. Rodrigues had worn out his welcome at the Jesuit mission by aligning himself with Toranaga in this business; it was just as well his departure from Japan was imminent and his return improbable.

A rustle from the doorway, and then the shoji parted and Father Alvito stepped through, a very different Father Alvito from the one Rodrigues had seen in the street a few days earlier. Dressed in rusty black, this one was gaunt, pale, red-eyed and tangle-haired, and seemed to be in some difficulty walking. Nevertheless with a flash of the old arrogance he shrugged Soldi aside and made his way through the knot of gathered spectators. His arrival was the signal for all the samurai assembled, Buntaro included, to make deep and respectful bows towards him, which he acknowledged gracefully. Soldi, face like a thundercloud, closed up behind him almost menacingly as he bowed in turn to the Bishop.

"Father Alvito, I am given to understand that you have accepted service with the warlord Toranaga and that you have been adopted into his family. Is this correct?"

Blinking painfully in the sudden light, Alvito took his time before replying. "It is correct, Your Grace."

"Then you are clearly guilty of apostasy; one cannot serve both God and Toranaga."

"As Your Grace says," Alvito conceded, loftily. A long pause, and then the Bishop drew a deep breath. "You may leave with these heathens now; you have given us a salutary lesson in the evils of pride and lust, and henceforth you are forbidden any further contact with any member of this Order. You are excommunicated. May God have mercy on your heathen soul."

"Your Grace, he must be punished! He has admitted to the most horrible crimes, crimes which have injured the good name of our Order ... "

"Enough! You express yourself too freely, Father Soldi. It is time you learned obedience to those whom God has elected your superiors. This is not a matter for debate. Captain-pilot Rodrigues, you, too, are forbidden to enter this mission again on pain of excommunication. It would be wisest if you did not return to Japan. I will cleanse this place of all malign influences while there is still breath in my body!"

Less concerned with the Bishop's words than with Buntaro's actions, Rodrigues noticed that the samurai had dismounted and was calmly holding his horse's head. Reaching out, he wrapped a hand around Alvito's arm and turned him away from the mission towards the samurai convoy.

"Come along, my friend," he said, reassuringly, "let me help you." So saying, he offered a broad shoulder to lean on and somehow, inelegantly, Alvito clambered into the saddle of Buntaro's mount. Taking the reins he nodded acknowledgement to the samurai, his brain spinning far too rapidly to furnish him with coherent thought or speech at the moment. Rodrigues, also, remounted his horse, and Buntaro commandeered the horse of one of his samurai who promptly aligned himself with the footsoldiers just as if he had rehearsed for it all his life.

"Where are we going?" Alvito asked, shakily.

"My ship, Father. The Virgem Santissima. This year's Black Ship, and better and faster than any other." Pride of ownership was evident in Rodrigues' tone, and the simple emotion came as a welcome relief to Alvito after the devious twists and turns of the ecclesiastical mind. "Once you're safe aboard no-one can touch you. My word on it. And we sail with the tide."

The words were loud enough for the brethren to hear, and the knowledge that Alvito would be out of Japan and away from their well-ordered house that very night came as a profound relief to most, although for differing reasons. Only Soldi still seethed with a frustrated desire for revenge, but he concealed it carefully and made every effort to avoid the Bishop's attention as the samurai prepared to move away. In the last moment Alvito turned and exchanged a look with Michael that spoke eloquently of debts to be paid, and then the dark streets swallowed the distance between them and Alvito turned stinging eyes towards the future.

"Are you injured, Father?" Giving Alvito a few moments to recover his senses, Rodrigues broke the silence with the question uppermost in his mind.

"No, Captain Rodrigues, I'm not injured."

"Pardon me, Father, you seemed to be limping. If you've suffered any hurt Toranaga will want to know about it."

Annoyed at this persistence, Alvito conceded the point. "Soldi took the opportunity to land a few blows of his own," he said, dismissively. "And I'm weary. That's all. I feel as though I could sleep for a month. You mustn't think me ungrateful," he added, recalling the niceties of the situation with painful effort. "It was a wonderfully contrived bluff, and that document you had looked most convincing. The Bishop has not been in Japan long enough to understand how unlikely it would be for a samurai lord to adopt a gaijin, and fortunately no-one saw fit to enlighten him."

Puzzled, Rodrigues leaned towards him. "Did you think it was a forgery?" he asked. "I suppose it could have been, but I thought it was genuine. Well, you know the Jappers, Father, devious; if it was forged, they didn't tell me about it."

"If it was forged, Pilot, I doubt they would."

Installed in comfort aboard the Virgen Santissima barely an hour later, Alvito had availed himself of the offered opportunity of washing away the dirt and stench of his imprisonment. A wooden tub had been placed for him in Rodrigues' cabin, filled with seawater heated in the galley, and he had sunk into it with gratitude - regretting that it was not as hot as a proper Japanese bath, but only too pleased to be able to scrub away the memories of that dank and dreadful cell.

He sank down deeper into the water as the door opened and Rodrigues entered with a tray of food. Alvito's eyes widened at the sight of the fresh bread, cold meat, oatcakes and fruit. Kicking the door shut behind him, Rodrigues set the tray down and poured a mug of wine, which he handed to the man in the tub.

"Eat and drink slowly," he said. "Otherwise you'll be sick as a dog and roaring drunk."

Alvito took a cautious sip, grimaced, and then sipped again. "Thank you." He handed the mug back to Rodrigues, and resumed washing. Even naked he still wore his dignity wrapped around him like a cloak. "How long until the tide changes?"

Rodrigues shrugged. "Two hours, perhaps. If we don't sail by then we won't get out of harbour until tomorrow morning. If they come after you....."

"Unlikely."

"I'm not taking any chances. I've got armed men on deck, and there are a dozen Toranaga samurai on the quayside. One glimpse of an orange cassock and there'll be violence." Alvito absorbed the words calmly. Then, as if he really did not much care about the answer, he said; "Where is the Anjin?"

"Who?" Rodrigues dealt with his discomfiture badly, not meeting Alvito's eyes.

"John Blackthorne." A harsh, tearing note in his voice as he spoke the name. "Where is he?"

Rodrigues' face became deathly serious. He put a hand to his head, shrugging his broad shoulders uncomfortably. He had been dreading the question. "The Ingeles? I don't know, Father. He insisted on staying out of the rescue. Said he'd made you a promise."

Alvito's eyes closed and he recalled the night in the hunting-camp when he'd lain in John Blackthorne's arms - innocently enough, but if the thought was the deed then he had certainly sinned that night. It had been sweet, though, to know the depth of the Englishman's love for him. Sweet and bitter, both at the same time. He had read it in Blackthorne's eyes, heard it in his every word. And Blackthorne had made that earnest vow not to seek him out. Alvito understood the strength of the sincerity and the intent. Evidently the vow was not to be broken even in times of direst calamity; silently he approved Blackthorne's display of willpower, and wished his own had been its equal.

"Captain Rodrigues, it is no longer suitable for you to address me as 'Father'," he said, recalling himself to the present with difficulty. "My name is Martin - or Tsukku-san, if you find it easier."

Rodrigues sniffed. "You're right," he said. "But old habits die hard; don't be offended if I forget." The realisation that the man before him was no longer to be thought of as a Catholic priest came as something of a shock; even though he had been present when Alvito was excommunicated he had been so concerned with saving the man's life that he hadn't stopped to consider what that life would now be. "Maybe you'd like me to find you some other clothes? Mine are too large, but the Mate's about your size; he's got a good suit of green brocade fit for any gentleman."

Glancing ruefully at the cassock he had worn for almost a week, Alvito declined the suggestion. "No, but thank you. That must serve a little while longer," he said. "The simple fact is, I've forgotten how to wear European clothes. Unless by some miracle you have a kimono aboard?"

"Not a one," Rodrigues told him, sadly. "Not so much as a bolt of silk. I could send one of Toranaga's men to get you something from the Castle, though."

Alvito smiled. "No. It won't be necessary."

Rodrigues threw himself down on the bunk. It was a small enough cabin for one, and even smaller for two, yet it was the only fit place on board the ship to house someone as important as his guest.

"Well," he said, easily, "you've food and drink and a bed and soon you'll be clean again - and there's a guard outside ready to die defending you if needs be. You couldn't be safer in Toranaga's own Castle. Is there anything else you want - apart from to be away from here as soon as possible?"

Alvito paused in the middle of his ablutions. "Captain," he said, slowly, "for all your kindness I thank you, but I should tell you that I do not intend to sail with the Black Ship."

"You don't? What, then? You risk your life if you stay here in Osaka; if the Jesuits lay hands on you again, they'll burn you on the spot. Don't you realise they've cast you out?"

"I realise it very clearly," was the contained reply. "I also realise ... that I have made a substantial error in clinging for so long to a life that held nothing for me. Rodrigo-san, I ask one more favour of you."

"What favour?" The sea-captain's eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he sat up slightly.

"That you send a message to John Blackthorne, the Anjin," Alvito said, quietly. "Tell him I wish to see him. Tell him I am sending for him. Tell him in exactly those words."

Rodrigues swallowed his surprise only with difficulty. Then, standing up again, he took a step nearer the tub. "You wouldn't ... give him hope, only to take it away again?" he asked, sharply. "That wouldn't be the act of a friend, Martin."

"It would be cruelty beyond words," was the quiet response. "On my honour ... on such honour as I have left ... I would do nothing willingly to hurt either him or you. Does that suffice?"

"Then you'll accept him. You'll stay with him." The conclusion was not a question.

"If he has not changed his mind." The dark eyes cut through the gloom in the cabin suddenly, a flare of golden fire in the candleglow seared into Rodrigues so unexpectedly that he began to understand the answer to the question he had asked Blackthorne - the question of how it could have happened. In all the time he'd known Alvito he'd seen only the obedient priest, the dutiful and efficient administrator, the talented interpreter; he'd never seen the passion that illuminated the man's soul.

Madonna, if ever there was a wolf in sheep's clothing it's him! he marvelled silently. All the years I've known the man, I never could have guessed it. Put a sword in his hand and give him an army to command and he'd conquer any nation under Heaven. How could such a man ever be content with the priesthood when the world outside is so large? And Blackthorne had seen that, and had freed him. You've loosed a tiger, my friend, he thought, mischievously. Now let's see if you can hold on to him! By all the angels, this tale gets better and better every day!

"Ah, I doubt he's changed his mind, my friend!" Rodrigues told him, with conviction. "Once the Ingeles fixes on an idea, it's set forever - and he's fixed on you." He pulled a coarse linen sheet out of the underbed locker. "Let me help you out," he said, throwing the sheet over his shoulder and approaching the tub. "Then while you dress and eat I'll take the message to the Castle. Myself," he added, meeting the interrogating gaze calmly.

Alvito nodded slowly, accepting the generous offer in the spirit in which it was made.

"Thank you," he said, rising to his feet and leaning heavily upon Rodrigues's shoulder as he clambered out of the water.

It was not easy to convince the guard commander that he needed a footsoldier as escort through the city, but eventually Rodrigues managed it. Any member of his own crew would have gone with him unquestioningly, but so far he had managed to keep his own formidable bulk between them and the wrath of the Church - and if he could continue to do so he would. There was no reason why any of them should come under the threat of excommunication; it wasn't their fight. It wasn't his fight, either, in truth, but he had got himself involved in it out of separate debts of gratitude to Blackthorne and Alvito; if he could pay both those debts in one, so much the better.

He couldn't communicate with Buntaro's man, except in the most basic of terms. The soldier walked along behind him, scanning streets and alleyways for any perceived threat, hand constantly on the hilt of his sword. It was enough that a foreigner in Osaka at night had an escort wearing Toranaga's colours; no bandit or other importuner would dare make any approach to him.

Obviously, though, the man's instructions had not extended to protecting Rodrigues from his fellow Europeans. Before he had nicely got halfway up the hill he found himself facing the very thing he had dreaded most - the orange-cassocked figure of a Jesuit.

"Where away, Captain?" Soldi asked, standing across the passageway Rodrigues and his escort had just entered.

"The Castle," Rodrigues answered shortly. "Let me pass, please, Father."

Soldi, however, stood his ground. Wearily glancing aside at his escort, Rodrigues was suddenly and unhappily aware that for him, at least, the night's travails were far from over.

Blackthorne was on the battlements of the Castle with Omi, looking out over the town towards the harbour. If he screwed up his eyes and peered into the darkness he could make out the bulk of the Virgem Santissima alongside, her elegant lines partly obscured by the intervening oblong of a building. Even at night the lights along the quayside made it possible to see a great deal from this vantage point, and Blackthorne was accustomed to scanning distant horizons and making rapid decisions about what he saw there. He envied Rodrigues the vessel; the Virgem Santissima was a masterpiece of shipbuilding, constructed to stand up to any weather that might be thrown at her and yet swift enough to outrun any buccaneer who tried her.

Rodrigues had expected Blackthorne and his new ship to make the attempt. He'd admitted as much during that endless night at the hunting-camp. He'd suspected that whatever vessel the Englishman and his Japanese craftsmen constructed would be more than a match for the old Nao del Trato, and he'd insisted on a newer and better ship. But The Lady was no longer Blackthorne's to command. Toranaga had taken her away from him and given her to some damned itinerant Dutchman in the China trade - who had promptly lost both her and himself in a taifun. A year's work, wasted; the finest ship in Japanese waters sunk on the Shogun's whim.

"If I still had my ship ... " he said, aloud.

Omi recognised the tone of the words, but not the meaning. Blackthorne had spoken in English, something he rarely did any more.

"Gomen nasai, Anjin-san," he said. "I understand 'ship', but not the rest of what you said."

"I'm sorry, Omi-san. I was thinking that if I had my ship, The Lady, I could have taken Alvito out of Japan myself."

"But you would have broken your promise, Anjin-san."

"Yes. I know that. But the promise was made only because we were both trapped here in Japan. Because neither of us could leave."

"So, Anjin-san, I think I understand. But do you truly feel 'trapped' in Japan? You have great freedom, and Toranaga-sama's favour - do you truly wish to leave?"

Blackthorne turned his attention away from the shoreline and gave Omi a rueful smile. "I don't know, Omi-san," he said. "Once, before Mariko-sama died, Alvito asked me where I belonged. I had no answer then, and I have no answer now. I love Japan with all my heart, but it's cruel to think I will never see England again. And now that Tsukku-san is free to leave, what does Japan hold for me?"

Omi looked away. Such love towards a man was foreign to his nature, although when he considered his love for Lady Kiku it seemed less so. If it had been Kiku leaving Japan forever and leaving him behind, he would also have petitioned Toranaga for permission to commit suicide. He knew better than to suggest that the Anjin might find some consolation with another lover, or that his wounds would heal in time.

"Anjin-san," he said, "sometimes the gods play cruel tricks on mortals. We mustn't resent it, it's just their way. In this life you and Tsukku-san may be parted, but there are other lives - surely you know that? After death you will both return, and perhaps in the next life or the one after that you will be together. If it is meant to be, Anjin-san, it will be. That's karma, neh?"

"My karma is to love and lose," Blackthorne told him, bitterly.

"No, Anjin-san. Your karma is to learn from this life so that in the next life you can be happier. It is the same for everyone."

The open sympathy in Omi's tone touched Blackthorne's heart. The young samurai did not understand his feelings and freely admitted to it, but he was prepared to stand by him as a staunch friend whatever mischief those feelings might engender.

"Omi-san, if Lord Toranaga gives me permission to die I should like you to be my witness," he said, abruptly.

Omi's eyes became large and alarmed in the torchlight. "You honour me, Anjin-sama, but please do not consider seppuku just yet. You are still of so much value to Lord Toranaga, and to Japan."

"When he considers the time is right, he'll give his permission," Blackthorne told him, sagely. "He's a wise man, our Master."

"Hai, Anjin-san, he is. And if he gives his permission, of course I will be honoured to stand with you."

"Then let it be soon," Blackthorne said, suddenly vicious, reverting to English as the hopelessness of his situation struck home.

Why should I go on living, when there is nothing left in life? he asked himself, bitterly. Life's a curse, and I'd as soon be rid of it.

Somewhere below, on that tiny vessel whose slender threads bound it to the shore, was Martin Alvito, about to leave his life for the last time. Martin, whom he had held in his arms throughout that one, bewildering night when love had been acknowledged and shared but there had been no touch between them more intimate than an embrace. They had even slept. Certainly they had barely spoken, simply remaining locked together in that one convulsive hold all night, his cheek resting on Alvito's forehead, Alvito's arms around his waist. At the time he had felt it might be the only comfort they were ever to share, but he had at least cherished the hope of seeing Alvito - even at a distance - thereafter. Now even that hope was gone.

"Gomen nasai, Anjin-sama."

Turning suddenly Blackthorne saw Naga in the doorway behind, bowing gravely.

"Hai, Naga-sama." He returned the bow. "Nan ja?"

"Anjin-san, a messenger from the front gate; the sweating barbarian is asking to see you. He says it's urgent."

"Rodrigues?"

"Yes. Please, Anjin-san, will you go and speak to him? He is disturbing the harmony of the Castle and Lord Toranaga will be extremely angry if he hears of it."

Exchanging a glance with Omi, Blackthorne tore himself away from the vista of harbour and sea. The Black Ship could scarcely sail without her Captain, and if there was some delay ... Hope rose in him, a wild and illogical sensation that swamped common sense. Pushing past Omi and Naga, he had left the Castle and was on his way down its long, shallow stairway before he had time for thought, mania lending speed to his steps as it had on that long ago occasion when he'd feigned madness on this very spot to save Toranaga's life.

He arrived at the gatehouse out of breath and sweating like a barbarian. Rodrigues had seated himself on a convenient rock. He rose as Blackthorne drew near and moved forward to greet him, a grim expression on his normally cheerful features and a silver-mounted pistol thrust into his belt.

"What's amiss?" Blackthorne's tone was sharper than he had intended, but Rodrigues' warlike aspect worried him.

The Portuguese took a deep breath, and heaved out a long sigh. "He'll go with you, Ingeles," he said, uncomfortably. "By God, I hope you know what you're doing." Alert for any threat, Blackthorne's hand went to the hilt of his sword, but either instinct or the set of Rodrigues' shoulders told him it would not be needed; there wasn't a hint of malice in the man's posture, only tiredness. "Get him off my ship, Pilot," Rodrigues told him, in a soft tone that was little more than a whisper. "Priests aboard ship are bad luck, and this one's worse than most."

"What do you mean?"

Exasperated, Rodrigues glared at him. "The message you've been waiting for, Ingeles. 'Tell him I send for him'. Take your heart's desire, you poor bastard, and do whatever it is the two of you are so desperate to do together. But be careful - the Jesuits are trying to take him back. Bring him here, keep him safe. Madonna, this isn't happening!" he growled, passing a hand over his face in confusion. "Listen, Ingeles, the tide changes in an hour, and if I'm not away before then they'll use that stake for me. They sent a man to intercept me, and I had to kill him."

"I said there would be no killing!"

"So you did, Ingeles, so you did."

Reading the expression on Rodrigues' face in one appalled glance, Blackthorne turned back to the gatekeepers and began to issue orders in rapid Japanese; orders about preparing suitable accommodation for the Tsukku-san, who would be staying with them after all. Even as he spoke he did not believe the words he uttered, convinced that he was the victim of some fantastic trick of Rodrigues' - or, more likely, of the Jesuits, with Rodrigues as their innocent dupe.

"If this is a lie, I'll run you through," he promised Rodrigues savagely.

"Madonna, Ingeles, I'd fall on your sword rejoicing!" Rodrigues told him, sourly. "Just stand by me through the town in case that Spaniard has men on the streets looking for me. Although how he could know just yet ... Never mind, it was richly deserved. I can't believe God takes any pleasure in being served by creatures like Soldi."

"Soldi? You killed Soldi?"

"Haven't I just said so, Ingeles? That pox of a Spanish Bishop sent him out to find me, to try and turn me back. He was full of threats - oh, not against you or me, but against Brother Michael. They know well enough who it was who passed the word, but I doubt they'll try to hurt him now; they'll think it was Toranaga's men who killed the priest, and you'd do well to let them go on thinking it." He laughed, a nervous, barbarous sound. "Give that Buntaro footsoldier the credit for rescuing me from an enemy, if you like; I won't be here to give him the lie. And watch over Michael, Pilot. He's too good a man to rot away in that mission all his life."

"He'll be safe. I'll put him in Omi's care."

"Good enough. Now give me a samurai escort back to my ship, and let me be on my way. And God curse your rotten English soul for falling in love with a priest; I'll burn in hell now, for your sake!"

"Then we'll meet there," Blackthorne told him grimly.

"That I don't doubt."

The long walk down through Osaka seemed to take forever; there were eyes and ears in every shadow, fleeting glimpses of shapes that moved when they should not, shapes that watched them pass. Rodrigues seemed possessed, eyes bulging with fear. Death that came to him in the ordinary way he could face and defeat on its own terms, but death brought by priests in defence of their laws terrified him.

Blackthorne scarcely spared him a thought, although he too was alert to every unexplained movement. Aware of the curious eyes of his samurai on him, he still managed to move slowly and with dignity. In truth he was more afraid of what he would find aboard the Black Ship than he had been of anything in his life. The nightmares he had endured about Alvito's execution had shown him exactly what the man was facing for his sake; if Alvito had been subject to similar haunts the effect on his sanity could have been devastating. Surely even the priest's legendary serenity could not have survived contemplation of an imminent, agonising death? Was he on his way now to remove a broken madman from Rodrigues' charge?

Yet the message had been clear enough. 'Tell him I send for him'.

At the foot of the gangplank Rodrigues halted and drew his pistol. The sharp scent of treachery was in the air, and every samurai of their escort and the dozen more on the quay tensed.

"Give him this," Rodrigues told him, pushing the gun into Blackthorne's hands. "From one Portuguese soldier of fortune to another."

Blackthorne tucked the weapon into his obi. "Why don't you give it to him yourself?" he asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"You know why, Ingeles," was the simple reply. "Martin Alvito's still by a long way the best man who ever wore a Jesuit's cassock, and you know damned well he'd only have to take one look at me to know what I'd done." Rodrigues' good humour returned briefly, and he clapped a huge, warm hand on Blackthorne's shoulder. "This is 'goodbye', Ingeles," he said. "I won't be back this way. You might look for me some year at the Canton Silk Fair; I've done well enough to be trading on my own account. We'll meet again if the Lord spares us."

Blackthorne's scowl had melted into a quizzical expression of bemusement. Adrift without bearings, he could do nothing but follow the course Rodrigues had set.

"Aye, Pilot," he said, warmly. "If God spares us, at the Canton Silk Fair. Domo arigato gozaimashita." He bowed, his best, formal Japanese bow.

"Do itamashite, you heathen samurai bastard, and God be with you both. Now get that God-cursed motherless priest off my ship before I throw the pair of you in the harbour. He's on the forecastle," he finished, a warm smile belying the harshness of his words. "Take what happiness you can, Ingeles. Life's short. Cast off for'ard," he bellowed down the quayside to one of his crew. "We sail as soon as the lubbers are ashore. Bosun, stand by to warp us out."

Turning away from Blackthorne, he continued giving orders to his crew as though the Englishman had ceased to exist - as perhaps, for Rodrigues, he already had.

Blackthorne moved slowly through the waist of the ship, climbing the ladder to the forecastle without thought, aware only of the gentle movement of the tide beneath the keel. From the higher level there was an extended view of the harbour, still busy with lights and activity during the hours of darkness. Torches and lanterns on the quayside and lamps hung from the rigging of the Virgem Santissima illuminated the scene as though it were the middle of the day, but in the very centre of Blackthorne's vision was a point of utter darkness - a slender, black-clad form silhouetted against the flames. This was an encounter more terrifying than his appearance at Lady Ochiba's reception all those years ago, when Ishido and all the other Japanese had been alert for an excuse to have the barbarian condemned to death for some imagined insult; now, as then, he knew that every move, every word, was a trapdoor which could plunge him into a never-ending fall. As he had done on that occasion, Blackthorne relied on the precise rituals of Japanese etiquette to guide him. Bowing low, he made respectful greeting.

"Konbanwa, Tsukku-sama." Good evening, most honoured interpreter.

The honorific startled Alvito. He turned abruptly from his contemplation of the lights on the water to find Blackthorne standing at the prescribed distance, awaiting his acknowledgement before raising his head.

"Konbanwa, Anjin-sama," he replied, his tone hushed and apprehensive as he returned the bow with equal dignity. "Once again, I thank you for my life."

"The pleasure of seeing you safe and well is all the thanks I need," Blackthorne told him unguardedly, and registered the shock of the words in Alvito's dark eyes. "May I have the honour of escorting you to Lord Toranaga's Castle?"

"Thank you. I should value your protection."

"I have two dozen samurai," was the businesslike response. "And you now own a pistol - a gift from a countryman of yours." Smiling as the sound of Rodrigues' bellowing cut through the night, Blackthorne placed the pistol in Alvito's hands. "If your people want you back, they'll find they have a fight on their hands."

"They are not my people," Alvito replied sharply. "The Society of Jesus has disowned me. I am excommunicated. Cast into darkness." He was examining the pistol with distracted detachment, as though he had never seen one before. Belatedly it occurred to Blackthorne that a priest would have had little use for such a weapon.

"I'll teach you to fire it," he said bluntly. "For now, put it in your belt. Are you ready to leave?"

Alvito did as instructed. "I should thank Rodrigo-san."

"No. You would take away his face."

An arched eyebrow turned quizzically in Blackthorne's direction as Alvito wrestled with a question that in the end he did not ask. The Japanese notion of 'face' was so strong in him that he heeded Blackthorne's warning and did not trespass further. Instead he accepted Blackthorne's assistance in descending the steep ladder to the main deck before he spoke again.

"I trust you will explain that remark when time permits?" was all he said, folding his hands in front of him and giving Blackthorne a look sharper than a samurai knife.

"Before the night is over, on my honour. We're to find Rodrigues in Canton some years hence," Blackthorne told him, by way of response. He was watching every movement of Alvito's, catching every nuance in his tone, struggling to detect any evidence of the man's state of mind.

"Then I am ready to leave," Alvito assured him, on a wistful exhalation that implied a certain reluctance.

The assertion was made in such an unremarkable manner that for a moment Blackthorne was not fully seized of its importance and had in fact already turned away before the impact of the words struck him. When he turned back he met Alvito's calm gaze with renewed astonishment.

"You make it sound such a simple thing," he commented, ironically, stepping aside to allow Alvito to precede him. "But it is not simple at all."

"This is Japan, Anjin-san," was the placid response. "In Japan, everything is simple."

Blackthorne followed him down the gangplank and, like him, returned the salutations of the attendant samurai. "Then I say to you - as you once said to me, Tsukku-san - 'You will never leave'."

The words echoed in Alvito's mind. He recollected well the occasion on which he had spoken them, and the emotions that had prompted him to do so. They had been as correct then as they were now.

"John Blackthorne," he said, tasting the name with the beginnings of a smile, "in time, perhaps, you will be convinced ... You and Japan between you have laid claim to my spirit. I have no desire to leave either of you."

Blackthorne's eyes were on him, devouring his, blue eyes meeting brown in a sudden harmony of understanding.

"You mean it. By God, you mean it!" He was almost incoherent with the shock of the revelation.

"Yes, by God, I do." The mild certainty in the tone held humour, also, and the promise that words spoken in private would add more, far more, to public politeness - for although they spoke in Portuguese there were many in the immediate area who could understand every word.

"I have quarters in the Castle," Blackthorne said, cautiously. "Would it please you to go there with me, or do you prefer that I make some other arrangement?" He could not, for the life of him, remember the substance of the commands he had shouted as he left; he suspected they had been incoherent in any language. Omi, who had remained behind, must make what sense of them he could.

"It would please me to remain in your company," Alvito told him, with sincerity. "I have been alone more than I could have wished."

With a scorch of pity mingled with guilt Blackthorne recollected the punishment the priest had endured - and the death he would have suffered.

"You shall not be alone unless you choose to be," he said, savagely. "My word on it."

"I do not choose to be."

Blackthorne nodded. "Stay close beside me," he said. "I won't risk losing you to an attack on our way through the city."

He gave orders to his samurai to form around them in close echelon, those at the front and back bearing torches, and when he was satisfied with the security of their disposition he gave the order to move.

A fair wind and a calm sea, Rodrigo-san, he thought, stepping away from the golden pool of the Virgem Santissima's lights. The crew were already hauling in the gangplank and loosing the last of the hawsers, hands unfurling canvas at every yard. Blackthorne watched with a mariner's experienced eye, approving the efficiency of the crew. Rodrigues was no plague-ridden Dutchman to lose a ship in the first puff of wind; he'd be there in Canton, just as he said, asking for news of them and padding the price of his silks outrageously. It would be a meeting to relish.

God keep you, you murdering Portuguese pirate!

Rodrigues was watching him from the deck; watching the samurai convoy grouped close around the two Europeans as it reached the lee of a quayside warehouse and turned away up the hill towards the town and the Castle. A fresh breeze was in the shrouds and the current was livening beneath the keel; in an hour the lights of shore would be far astern and he could forget all about Osaka and its people and its problems and all about the priest he had killed.

By the stars, Ingeles, he said to himself silently, it's bad company I mix with - an English pilot and a sodomite priest. But take your stolen happiness, you miserable sinner; take whatever God gives you, and be as happy as you can. If ever a man walked into trouble with his eyes open, it's you.

As he watched, Martin Alvito paused and turned to look back towards the ship. For a second his eyes met those of Rodrigues and the pilot knew a moment of panic, but Alvito merely inclined his head briefly with samurai dignity in a gesture eloquent of gratitude - and as quickly was gone. Rodrigues felt a judder run through the ship as she slipped her last line to shore and began to move out into the black water. When he turned to bellow a further set of orders to his crew, his voice had lost something of its harshness and his eyes were wet - but the drying breeze from the shore and the importance of the task ahead conspired between them to put both matters right almost at once.

[To Pt 6]

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