The Return of the Warrior Read online

  Despite his fury, Jack felt a spark of hope. They would be freed! Then he would chase down that swindler Harold Westcott and get back his locket, if it was the last thing he did.

  ‘However,’ continued the bailiff, ‘we’ve now learnt, from what that gentleman said, that you’re a petty thief. Therefore, within my powers as bailiff for this town, I confiscate your belongings, and furthermore sentence you to be put in the pillory a day and a night before being whipped out of town.’

  His fishy eyes then settled on Yori. ‘Since you’re a man of the cloth, I’ll show leniency in your case. You shall not be whipped and only put in the stocks.’

  His cold gaze fell last upon Akiko, who whispered under her breath to Jack. ‘Kore de jūbundesu! Watashitachi wa koko kara denakereba narimasen, Jakku.’

  Jack understood. Enough of this! We need to fight our way out of here, Jack. But to the townsfolk in the crowd, Akiko’s words had sounded strange and disturbing.

  ‘She’s speaking in tongues!’ cried a dough-faced woman.

  ‘She’s trying to curse us,’ screeched another, pointing a fat finger at Akiko. ‘She’s a WITCH!’

  All of a sudden, the crowd’s mood grew fearful and dangerous. A chant of ‘Witch! Witch! Witch!’ went up. Akiko looked around in horror at the baying mob, their cries and catcalls vicious in their intensity.

  ‘ORDER!’ bellowed the bailiff, as the constables tried to hold back the mob intent on attacking the sorceress in their midst.

  The townsfolk fell silent.

  The bailiff stood, glared at Akiko, and pronounced, ‘The devil woman shall face trial by water!’

  Jack watched helplessly, his head and hands imprisoned in the pillory, as Akiko was tied to a wooden chair. His frustration was only matched by his fury at the small-minded and cruel townsfolk, who set about their punishment of Akiko with religious fervour.

  Yori, his legs pinned by the stocks, was equally powerless to stop what was happening. Akiko did her best to resist her captors, but many hands made light work of strapping her to the ducking stool. Once her limbs were bound, the chair was fixed to a long oak beam set on a fulcrum post and lifted high into the air.

  A great cry of ‘Witch!’ went up. The townsfolk, eager to witness Akiko’s trial by water, crowded round the reed-fronded pond at the edge of the marketplace. They continued to hurl abuse as her chair was swung over the frigid and stagnant water.

  ‘She’s NOT a witch!’ Jack shouted. ‘She was only speaking Japanese!’

  An old woman nearby rounded on him. ‘Sounded like a witch’s curse to me,’ she snarled, then lobbed a rotten apple at Jack. She was an infuriatingly good shot, and the apple hit him square on the forehead, the fruit exploding in his face, smothering him in its sticky sour mush.

  Prior to Akiko’s trial by water, the mob had slaked their thirst for violent punishment by pelting Jack and Yori with rotten fruit, mud and horse muck. The two friends had suffered several hours of humiliation, abuse and torture at the hands of the citizens, while the ducking stool was constructed beside the pond’s edge. By the end of the day they were filthy, stinking and bruised. But their experience had been nothing compared to what awaited Akiko.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Jack begged, blinking away the slimy remains of the apple. ‘I tell you, she’s not a witch!’

  ‘That’s for me to decide,’ said the bailiff, marching self-importantly across the marketplace, his gaoler’s keys jangling on his hip. The crowd parted to let him through to the pond, where two burly men still held Akiko aloft. The bailiff gazed up at his prisoner, his thumbs tucked firmly into the belt that secured his ample belly.

  ‘You have been accused of witchcraft,’ he pronounced. ‘Do you confess to being a witch?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Akiko replied defiantly. ‘That wou–’

  At the nod of the bailiff’s head, the ducking stool was tipped into the pond. Akiko plunged beneath the surface, her words lost in a bubbling slosh of foul water. The crowd let out a jubilant roar. Jack and Yori watched horrified, as their friend disappeared entirely, only a swirl of froth marking her entry into the water. After several excruciatingly long seconds, the bailiff waved for the ducking stool to be raised.

  Akiko emerged, gasping and spluttering, covered head to foot in pondweed, sludge and reeds.

  The bailiff repeated his question. ‘Do you confess to being a witch?’

  ‘N-n-no,’ Akiko spluttered, spitting out a clump of waterweed. ‘Why would I con–’

  The bailiff signalled the two men again, and Akiko was once more dunked into the pond. The townsfolk all leaned in, trying to make out Akiko’s flailing figure under the murky waters.

  ‘What’s the point of this trial?’ demanded Yori, his voice trembling.

  The bailiff turned towards him, a sneer on his slimy lips. ‘To prove whether she’s a witch or not.’

  Yori frowned in bewilderment. ‘But how? You’re simply torturing her.’

  ‘If she doesn’t drown, then we know she’s a witch,’ replied the bailiff as if Yori was stupid. ‘Of course, she could simply confess and avoid all this needless suffering.’

  Yori stared at the rippling surface of the pond in mounting distress. ‘But what if she does drown?’

  ‘Then at least we know she isn’t a witch.’

  ‘But then it’s too late!’ cried Yori.

  The bailiff shrugged indifferently. ‘Better to be safe than sorry, I say.’

  After a couple of minutes, he waved to the men to raise the ducking stool. Akiko came up, bedraggled and shivering. She was evidently weaker this time. Gagging, she spewed up the revolting pond water into her lap.

  ‘Do you confess now?’ asked the bailiff.

  Akiko shook her head, her long hair hanging in dark wet tendrils across her pale face. Once again, the ducking stool plunged into the pond. Once again, the crowd cheered.

  Jack raged and kicked against the pillory, trying to loosen the wooden post that held him fast. But the frame was solid and its foundation too deep. He could only watch in terror as the water in the pond settled and the bubbles gradually fizzled out.

  ‘She’s drowning!’ he yelled in desperation. ‘Let her up! I beg you, let her up!’

  The bailiff, however, ignored his pleas. The crowd grew anxiously quiet as the seconds passed, then minutes. No movement could be discerned in the pond’s depths. Finally the bailiff gave the command to raise the stool. A limp and lifeless form came up. Weeds clung to Akiko’s hair like green braids. Sludge spattered her gown in sorry streaks. And white reeds garlanded her head, as if she already lay in her grave.

  ‘NO!’ screamed Jack in agony. ‘NO!’

  Yori mournfully bowed his head, screwed his eyes tight shut and sobbed out a prayer for Akiko.

  With solemn slowness, they pivoted the chair back over dry land and deposited Akiko’s body on the bank. Her bindings still held her upright, but her head lolled unnaturally to one side. Her skin had a bluish tinge and there were no signs of her breathing. The bailiff briefly inspected her, then declared, ‘The girl is no witch.’

  ‘Of course she isn’t!’ cried Jack, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘She was my friend! My dearest friend!’

  Thunder rolled in the distance and dark clouds smothered the setting sun. As heavy drops of rain began to fall from the darkening sky, the crowd silently dispersed.

  The bailiff walked over and rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder, for a moment appearing to console him. Then he said, ‘Tomorrow you shall be whipped.’

  As the jangle of the bailiff’s keys faded up the street, Jack wept. His tears mixed with the rain until his whole world seemed to swim in despair. Akiko’s silhouetted form was slumped in the ducking stool, her body abandoned by the townsfolk, who were more eager to take shelter from the storm than to lay her to rest.

  Yori was curled up in an awkward ball, his feet still pinned by the stocks. His chest rose and fell with soft sobs of sorrow. ‘Akiko is … dead,’ he moaned. ‘How can a l
ight so bright … ever be put out?’

  Jack, too grief-stricken to reply, clenched his fists and trembled with fury. His one true love had been drowned by the ignorance and unfounded fear of his fellow countrymen. What a fool he had been to invite Akiko and Yori to England! What reception had he imagined they would receive? As a stranger in Japan, he himself had been the subject of discrimination, ridicule, torture – even threats of burning and beheading. Why on earth had he imagined it would be any different for Akiko and Yori in England? While it had been the bailiff who’d sentenced Akiko to trial by water, ultimately he was to blame for her death: he had brought her here, he had put her in danger.

  Jack let out an anguished cry; the pain of the pillory was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.

  But no one heard him above the downpour – not even the gatekeeper, huddled in his hut beside the town gate, a little down the road from the marketplace.

  The marketplace grew darker still as the storm took hold. Sheet lightning and the cannonball rumble of thunder warred angrily in the clouds overhead. Rain drummed on the roofs of houses and pummelled the earth-packed streets, until puddles turned to streams that grew into torrents. The deluge became so great that it was as if the heavens themselves wept for Akiko’s loss.

  Jack hung his head, the pillory holding his body at an unnatural and excruciating angle. When, after a time, his neck had become stiff and sore, he forced himself to look up and stretch out his aching back. The rain having eased slightly, he spied through the evening gloom four figures riding up the road towards the town gate. Their pace was slow yet measured, like a funeral procession, their bearing sinister and menacing, a clear warning to anyone to keep out of their way.

  Nevertheless, the gatekeeper emerged from his shelter to challenge the late-night visitors. Jack watched as he held aloft a fiery torch and, in the glow of its guttering flame, rivulets of rain gleamed on the riders’ waxed black cloaks, and – briefly – a ghostly vision of four white, beaked masks appeared. The gatekeeper stood stock-still, apparently frozen with fear. Then he dropped the torch and turned to run, but, following a flash of steel, he slumped face-first in the mud, beside the torch’s dying flame.

  Jack blinked away the rain in his eyes, uncertain of what he’d just seen. The movement had been almost too fast to catch in the darkness.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he whispered to Yori.

  ‘What?’ said Yori, uncurling himself and peering into the gloom.

  ‘I thought I caught a glimpse of a sword,’ Jack explained breathlessly. ‘A samurai sword.’

  Yori stared into the rain, trying to make out the four horsemen riding up the street towards them. ‘I don’t see any samurai sword,’ he replied timorously, ‘but I do see four plague doctors!’

  A sudden flash of lightning scorched the sky, revealing in all their morbid horror the riders’ birdlike masks and black hats and cloaks. Jack recalled the courtesy-man’s warning of plague doctors terrorizing London and felt again the paralysing fear from his childhood. Harold had been right to describe them as the horsemen of the Apocalypse: their unearthly appearance struck terror into his heart.

  The four figures pulled their horses up at the edge of the marketplace. They looked cautiously around until their cold, dead gaze fell upon Jack and Yori imprisoned in the pillory and stocks. Dismounting, they began to approach.

  That was when Jack’s survival instinct overcame his crippling grief. He started pulling on his arms and straining with all his might against the pillory. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, Yori … now!’ he hissed.

  Yori, for his part, had begun tugging at his ankles, in vain. ‘But how?’

  ‘Use kiai-jutsu on the lock!’ cried Jack. ‘Like you did in prison.’

  ‘But those chains were rusted!’ Yori exclaimed in panic.

  Seeing their prey pinned and powerless, the four figures took their time crossing the marketplace, one in front, the other three behind. Their long cloaks hid their feet so that they appeared to glide across the puddle-strewn square like wraiths.

  Jack struggled more and more wildly, desperation threatening to overwhelm his reason. Then he stopped dead and a chill ran through his bones. The leader was drawing a long, curved blade, the hamon along its steel glinting like the lightning in the storm.

  Immobilized by the pillory, Jack was helpless. In one easy swipe of the sword, the plague doctor could sever his head from his torso, along with both his hands for good measure. Jack had no idea who was behind the white-beaked, glass-eyed mask – and had no desire at this perilous point to find out. But the presence of a second katana in England both puzzled and disturbed him. How have these plague doctors acquired a samurai sword?

  As the four ominous figures drew nearer, Jack noticed Yori gulping in several deep breaths, preparing to repel them with his kiai-jutsu. Jack knew, however, that each and every kiai strike took a great deal of effort to generate, and Yori would not have enough energy to deal with all four attackers. Jack, meanwhile, had nothing but his legs to defend himself with, and his movements were severely restricted. All he could do was clumsily shovel a mound of mud at his feet in readiness.

  Then a loud clanging broke through the monotonous thrum of rain. The town bell was ringing frantically, sounding an alarm that would wake even the dead. The four plague doctors stopped in their tracks as lanterns appeared and the townsfolk were roused to action.

  The bell’s ringing stopped and out of the darkness ran a familiar flame-haired girl.

  ‘ROSE!’ cried Jack in shock and relief. As she sprinted across the marketplace, Jack heard a jangle of keys. Spotting the would-be rescuer, the plague doctors advanced on Jack and Yori once more. But Rose reached them first.

  ‘Sorry,’ she panted. ‘Had to wait for the bailiff to fall asleep ’fore I could steal ’em!’

  Her hands shook as she tried a key in the pillory’s padlock.

  ‘Where did you go? Are you all right?’ asked Jack, overjoyed to discover his childhood friend hadn’t betrayed him after all.

  ‘Save the questions for later!’ Rose replied as the first key failed and she tried a second – but that one wouldn’t fit either.

  The plague doctors’ leader bore down on them, sword raised high above his masked head. Both Jack and Rose were directly in line of the blade’s lethal path. Jack kicked out with his boot, flicking a clump of mud into the plague doctor’s face. It splattered across his glass eyes, blinding him and halting his attack.

  As the plague doctor furiously wiped away the muck, Rose tried the fifth and final key. The padlock clicked open at last and Rose flung back the top bar that imprisoned Jack.

  ‘Free Yori!’ ordered Jack, as he let loose a side kick that sent the sword-wielding plague doctor tumbling backwards into the mud.

  Rose rushed over to Yori. But one of the other plague doctors had drawn a knife from the folds of his cloak and was intent on slitting Yori’s throat. Unable to run or evade the slash of the blade, Yori roared, ‘KIAI!’

  The force of the shout stunned the plague doctor. The knife fell from his grasp and he dropped to his knees in a puddle, clasping his chest in pain.

  Hurriedly, Rose inserted a key into the stocks’ padlock and got lucky first time. Yori shook the blood back into his little legs and leapt to his feet.

  Jack ran over to his friends just as the two remaining plague doctors began closing in on them. One wielded a chain with pointed weights at each end; the other brandished a straight-edged sword with a distinctive square handguard. They were quickly joined by the other two, both now recovered but more wary of their foe.

  Jack raised his fists in defence.

  ‘We don’t stand a chance!’ hissed Rose, glancing nervously from Jack’s bare hands to the array of deadly weapons confronting them. ‘We’re outnumbered – and out-weaponed!’

  Yori started hyperventilating, in panic and in preparation for another kiai strike.

  ‘The bailiff has our weapons,’ Jack growled, as the plague d
octors slowly began to encircle them.

  ‘Then follow me!’ said Rose, backing away. ‘I know where he lives.’

  ‘We can’t leave Akiko,’ insisted Jack, holding his ground. He felt an insistent tug on his arm.

  ‘What cannot be saved can be remembered,’ Yori said solemnly, retreating with Rose.

  Jack shot one last longing look in Akiko’s direction – her slumped body a shadow in the rain – then took off after Yori and Rose, barely a second before the lead plague doctor lunged with his sword.

  As the three of them fled the market square, their attackers gave chase. By now, the town was on full alert: the chief constable was barking orders and rallying his men, people were spilling on to the streets, alarmed by all the commotion. When they saw Jack, Yori and Rose sprinting across the square, their immediate thought was that they were escaped prisoners. Then the four plague doctors materialized out of the darkness and pandemonium broke out.

  ‘PLAGUE!’ yelled a man in horror.

  Several people screamed and mothers gathered up their children and bundled them back inside, bolting their doors behind them. Townsfolk ran in all directions, desperate to avoid contact with anyone else. The chief constable tried to maintain order, but he was fighting a losing battle.

  Chaos reigned – to Jack and his friends’ advantage. Losing themselves in the melee, they shook off the plague doctors, slipped past the constables and disappeared down a side street. Rose led them to a large brick house overlooking the Cherwell river.

  With no time to waste, Jack hammered on the heavy oak door, yelling, ‘Open up!’

  No one answered. Jack threw his shoulder against the door; the frame split and the door swung open. Inside in the hallway, they found the bailiff packing a trunk, evidently in a hurry to leave. When he saw Jack and Yori, his goldfish eyes almost bulged out of their sockets.

  ‘You!’ he cried, pointing an accusing fat finger at Yori. ‘You and your devil witch brought the plague upon us!’ And he cursed them bitterly.