Kosehira called out to him, “Hurry! We have your horse.”

He saw that Tora, also mounted, held the rein. Saburo was with him. Akitada swung himself in the saddle and asked, “What happened? Somebody attacked the tribunal?”

Kosehira said, “Sohei,” and Akitada realized the magnitude of the mistake he had made.

“Dear heaven,” he said. “I’m sorry, Kosehira. I should have thought they’d try to get him out.”

Kosehira said gruffly, “You informed me. It was up to me to warn the tribunal. Let’s hope it isn’t too bad. They drove them off.”

Akitada guiltily recalled his self-satisfaction in announcing his arrest of the tattooed sohei. Kosehira had been delighted by the tale. It struck him for the first time that Kosehira’s faith in him was not only greatly exaggerated, but positively dangerous. But he said nothing. There was nothing to say and no time.

The gates to the tribunal opened, and armed guards clustered around them. In the courtyard, torches lit the scene, adding to the sense of disaster. The soldiers parted to let the governor and his people through.

Inside they found a scene of chaos. Blood spattered the gravel, and several bodies lay about as soldiers hurried to stand at attention. On the veranda of the main building clustered servants and clerks who had been stationed in the tribunal overnight.

The captain of the provincial guard met Kosehira and saluted. “There were about twenty of them, Excellency,” he said. “They forced their way in, claiming they were under orders to pick up the prisoner. Because they were from Enryaku-ji, the gate guards admitted them. They got all the way to the jail where Sergeant Okura met them and refused to release the prisoner. That’s when they drew their weapons.”

Kosehira’a eyes searched the courtyard. “How many hurt?”

“Two of ours are dead, sir. Sergeant Okura is severely wounded. He doesn’t look good. Fifteen wounded. Five of theirs are dead. They took their wounded.”

Sickened by what had happened here, Akitada dismounted.

Tora’s voice cut across the sober exchange between Kosehira and the captain. “Where’s Okura, Captain?”

The captain gestured toward the barracks, and Tora rode over, dismounted, and went inside. Akitada walked from body to body, forcing himself to look at what he had caused. In some cases, it was difficult to tell if the dead were sohei or guards. Only two wore the white cowl on their heads. The rest had the same armor as all soldiers and had not shaved their heads or facial hair. In a few cases, Akitada noted that their weapons were naginata, the halberds preferred over the sword by many sohei. Given that they had had no warning, the tribunal guards must have fought like tigers.

Kosehira joined him. “These men don’t look like monks,” he said.

“They don’t all take vows. And besides, Enryaku-ji may well have added mercenaries to its own army.”

Kosehira shook his head. “Terrible.”

Akitada straightened up from peering at the face of a very young soldier who had bled to death when halberds had severed his leg. “One of yours?” he asked.

Kosehira nodded. “I think so. He’s so young. What will his parents do?”

The elderly depended on their children to support them. Akitada had no idea how aged or needy this family might be, but the loss of even one promising son and his income would be a blow. He sighed. “I am to blame, and I will speak to the parents of the men you lost when your people tell me more about them.”

“Nonsense. You are not to blame. When provincial guards sign on for duty, they expect to risk their lives protecting the tribunal and those in it.”

“Nevertheless I must express my condolences. Apparently, the brutes got the prisoner.”

“A pity. Okura was a very brave man, and so were the others.”

“Yes, Tora likes Okura very much. Let’s go see the wounded.”

More dismal sights met their eyes there, but at least the men who lay side by side in one of the barracks rooms had been tended, and their wounds had been bandaged. Sergeant Okura was the most seriously hurt, having received two sword wounds and a slash from a halberd. Tora was kneeling by his side. On the other side crouched a young doctor Akitada recognized. He was pleased to see they had sent for Dr. Kimura.

Kosehira bent over the wounded man, “My dear sergeant,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

Okuro tried to smile and made a halfhearted attempt to sit up and bow but was firmly pressed back down by Kimura. “I’m all right,” Okura said, his voice croaking a little at the pain his movement had caused. “I’m sorry we lost the bastard.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Tora said. “Nothing, when you resisted a force of some twenty men or more? It’s a miracle you’re alive. They’d better promote you for what you did last night.”

Akitada cleared his throat, but Kosehira nodded. “Well said, Tora. But first Lieutenant Okura must get well. Doctor, a word?”

Kimura rose to his feet and walked away a little distance, leaving his patient with Tora. Akitada and Kosehira joined him. Kosehira asked, “How is he really?”

“He lost a lot of blood and two of the wounds are deep. The third, to his shoulder, is minor since his armor protected him. The deeper wounds will become poisoned, I expect, and he’ll suffer a fever, but with great diligence to the dressings and to containing the fever, he should survive. If the leg wound worsens, he may lose his leg.”

Kosehira sighed and said, “Dreadful! I count on you, doctor. He’s a good man.”

“I’ll do my best, Excellency.”

Kosehira glanced around the room. “And the others?”

“The others should do well enough.” Kimura paused. “Judging by the bodies of your enemies outside, they must all be good men.”

Kosehira smiled. “Yes. They are! They are all very good men! How lucky I am!”

Akitada did not see much luck in the event, but he said nothing. He felt depressed and discouraged.

∞

A strange thing happened that day. When he returned to his room at Kosehira’s villa many hours later, he saw that the servants had tidied it, rolled up his bedding and taken away his wet clothes. But on his desk lay something new, a letter folded many times around a flowering branch. The blooms were azaleas, but sadly crushed and wilted.

He picked it up. The letter had been crumpled as if someone had trodden on it. His stomach lurched when he realized it was from Yukiko.

How had it got here? Had she brought it while he was gone?

No, surely not. She would not have left such a thing in open sight for the servants to find. No, she must have brought it during the night and pushed it under the door, and neither he nor the servant who had come to wake him had noticed it. In the dark, they had stepped on it, and later a servant had found it and placed it on the desk.

Slowly, fearfully, he untied the letter and unfolded it. It was a poem.

“The drops of pattering rain did not wet my sleeves;

It was my loneliness … and yours.”

He swallowed hard, then raised the paper to his lips. Dear heaven, what was he to do? He could not answer, must not acknowledge this. He must not do anything to make things worse.

The pain of that restraint would be with him from now on, and every day would remind him how close she was, how easy it would be to go to her.

Her words told him she was lonely … no, that she was lonely for him. In vain, he tried to comprehend the astonishing fact that she loved him.

What could so young a girl know of love? Love brought with it pain, the fear of loss. He had lost the son he had loved more than his life and nearly gone mad with the grief. And then he had lost Tamako and had wanted to die. He knew the price of love.

He refolded the letter carefully and inserted it in the thin notebook he carried with him. It would be safer to destroy it, but that he could not do.