The Return of the Warrior Page 3

  He tossed it aside, where it landed in the mud. Jack gritted his teeth against the anger rising in him. If only the vagabond knew just how valuable that rutter was, he wouldn’t have discarded it so readily. Indeed, other men had been willing to kill just to get their hands on it.

  ‘We’ve struck gold!’ Porter suddenly cried, fishing Jack’s purse out and jangling the heavy weight of coins.

  Enough is enough, thought Jack. He exchanged a look with Akiko and Yori, then smiled.

  ‘What you grinning for?’ demanded Porter.

  ‘Isn’t it like that line in Shakespeare’s Othello? “The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief”?’

  ‘Never seen one of his dumb plays. What’s that supposed to mean anyway?’

  ‘Perhaps I can explain,’ replied Yori. He took a deep lungful of air, then shouted ‘YAH!’ at the lad pinning him against the wall. The cry echoed loudly through the alley, half-deafening them all.

  ‘No use callin’ for help, little monk,’ laughed Porter. ‘No one in London hears or cares.’

  But the lad with the stick suddenly slumped to his knees as if all the wind had been knocked out of him.

  ‘Get up, you wimp!’ snapped the girl irritably.

  ‘I can’t …’ he gasped, clutching his stomach. His face had turned pale with a combination of pain and confusion. But Jack knew exactly what had happened. Yori was an expert at kiai-jutsu, the art of the kiai. The vibrational energy of his shout had momentarily paralysed the boy, its power hitting him as hard as a punch to the gut.

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ said the girl, booting him in the rear. ‘Get up!’

  In that moment of distraction, Akiko grabbed the girl’s wrist and twisted the butcher’s knife away from her throat. The girl squealed as Akiko over-rotated the joint, pushing the bones to breaking point. She had no choice but to drop her weapon and was driven to the ground.

  Meanwhile, his arms still pinned, Jack used the bear-man’s iron grip to his advantage. Lifting up his legs, he double-kicked Porter in the face, cracking the vagabond’s nose and sending him reeling backwards into the mud.

  But the bear-man was another matter. He began to crush Jack like a walnut. Jack fought for breath as his ribs were compressed and, in a desperate attempt to free himself, he flung his head back to strike his captor on the chin. But it had no more effect than a light slap to the face. Growling in annoyance, the bear-man flexed his muscles and tightened his grip. It felt to Jack as if his chest was imploding. His head pounded and his vision misted …

  All of a sudden the pressure disappeared and Jack felt the air rush back into his lungs. Akiko had struck a kyusho point in the bear-man’s upper arm, sending a shockwave of pain through his radial nerve and forcing him to loosen his hold on Jack. At the same time, Yori targeted the tip of his staff at another nerve point on his foot. Howling in agony, the bear-man dropped Jack and began hopping around like an enraged rabbit.

  ‘I … had … him,’ Jack protested, as Yori helped him to his feet.

  ‘Of course you did,’ his friend replied with a wry grin. ‘He would’ve tired eventually of crushing you!’

  Jack picked up the rutter, wiped it clean and stuffed it back into his pack. Then turning to the bloody-nosed Porter, he snatched his purse out of the vagabond’s hand. ‘I’ll have that back too,’ he said. And, with that, Jack led his friends out of the alley.

  Porter, left fuming in the mud, flicked the blood from his broken nose. He drew a dagger and growled, ‘Get up, you lot. Quick, shake yourselves! After them!’ And the gang gave chase.

  Jack, Akiko and Yori dashed through the gateway and back through the warren of alleys and side streets, before bursting out into Cheapside market.

  ‘We’ll lose them in the crowd,’ said Jack.

  But their Japanese attire meant they didn’t exactly blend in and Porter and his gang were soon upon them.

  ‘No one makes a fool out of me!’ snarled Porter, slashing at Jack with his dagger.

  Hemmed in by the glut of shoppers, Jack barely managed to evade the rusty blade. He unsheathed his katana in one swift movement. The gleam of steel caught people’s attention and the crowd scattered in panic. Porter, glancing at his own dagger and comparing its undersized blade with Jack’s, hesitated – but the lad with the nail-studded stick didn’t. He swung his weapon viciously at Yori, who dived aside at the very last second. The stick smashed into a fruit stall behind. As apples, oranges and lemons splattered everywhere, the girl thrust at Akiko with her butcher’s knife, while the bear-man lumbered in, fists flailing.

  A bell started ringing urgently across the market and several men in wide-brimmed hats carrying pikes rushed to contain the violence.

  ‘City constables!’ yelled the girl, splitting from the scene like a scalded cat. The lad fled too. But Porter wasn’t so quick. He was seized by two constables. Another pair tried to contain the bear-man with their pikes, giving Jack, Akiko and Yori the chance to slip away into the crowd. As they pushed through the throng, Jack spotted the iron-tipped pikes of more constables heading in their direction but, keeping low, he steered his friends away. Eventually they came to the corner of Bread Street and stopped to catch their breath under a lavishly painted wooden sign of a woman with a fish’s tail.

  ‘In here!’ cried Jack, and they dived inside the Mermaid Inn.

  Jack pressed himself against the wood-panelled wall, alongside Yori and Akiko, and peered out of the leaded window. Outside the inn, the marketplace was in a commotion, as constables barged through the crowd searching for their quarry. A washerwoman in an apron pointed in the tavern’s direction and Jack’s breath caught in his throat. There was nowhere left to run.

  ‘Why don’t we give ourselves up?’ suggested Yori. ‘After all, we were attacked first.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee they’ll see it that way,’ Jack replied as three pike-bearing men strode purposefully towards the inn. ‘It would be Porter’s word against ours and we’re strangers in this city.’

  ‘You’re not,’ observed Akiko.

  Jack glanced down at his Japanese robes. ‘I feel like it, though,’ he said, as he considered their welcome so far.

  The constables were almost at the door and Jack’s hand instinctively reached for his katana. But instead of entering, the men filed past and disappeared down Bread Street. Jack let out a long sigh of relief, resting his head against the glass.

  ‘Are you ’ere to drink or just stare out me window?’ said a gruff female voice.

  Jack turned round. The inn was gloomy, lit only by guttering candlelight. The stink of tobacco hung in the air, wreaths of smoke swirling like mist up to the rafters. Groups of men and women, rich and poor, clustered round heavy wooden tables piled high with tankards of beer. A burly ale-wife with an ample bosom and arms like a docker’s stood behind the counter. She squinted at them with hostile suspicion.

  ‘We’re seeking lodgings,’ said Jack, offering his most charming smile. ‘Your establishment comes highly recommended.’

  The woman’s stern face didn’t crack. ‘You got the means to pay?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jack, confidently striding up to the bar. ‘Your finest room please, and dinner for three.’

  ‘And a hot bath,’ added Akiko.

  The ale-wife blinked. ‘A bath?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Akiko eagerly. ‘A hot bath.’

  The ale-wife eyed her dubiously. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? You don’t want to catch anything.’

  Akiko frowned. ‘What could I catch? Washing cleanses the body.’

  Shaking her head in astonishment, the ale-wife snorted. ‘Huh! Foreigners!’ Then she turned to Jack. ‘That’ll be sixpence for room and board. Plus another threepence for the bath.’

  Jack baulked at the price but nonetheless paid over the coins from his purse. The sight of hard cash seemed to soften the woman, but only for a moment. ‘BOY!’ she bellowed, and a runt of a lad came scuttling out. ‘Take our young guests’ bags up
to their room, put fresh sheets on the bed and stoke up the fire to heat the water.’

  The boy furrowed his brow. ‘What for?’

  ‘A bath,’ said the ale-wife, rolling her eyes.

  ‘What?’ he moaned, his shoulders slumping. ‘I’ll be to and fro from the conduit all afternoon!’

  ‘Then you’d best get moving!’ snapped the ale-wife. With a put-upon sigh, the boy went to take Jack and Akiko’s packs, but Jack hesitated. He was nervous about handing over his precious belongings, in particular the rutter. Noticing his reluctance, the ale-wife said, ‘Have no fear. There ain’t no thievery in my inn. You have my word.’

  Judging by the size of the woman and her brusque manner, Jack believed her. He relinquished his pack, although still somewhat reluctantly, and declared, ‘We’ll have three mugs of small beer too, while we wait for our food.’

  After plonking three tankards on the bar, the ale-wife disappeared to the back of the inn. Jack, Akiko and Yori took a table in the corner.

  ‘What’s wrong with the water here?’ asked Akiko. ‘That landlady didn’t much like my request for a bath.’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Jack, conscious that the English weren’t so regular with their bathing habits as the Japanese – once a year being thought quite enough. ‘But you wouldn’t want to drink it. It’d make you sick. Anyway,’ he said, raising his tankard, ‘here’s to coming back home!’ And they all clinked mugs.

  Jack took a long swig from his tankard, savouring the distinctive malty taste familiar from his early childhood, small beer being the staple drink of all English folk, young and old. Akiko sipped hers and Yori ventured a gulp. A second later he gagged and stuffed a fist in his mouth, his face going green.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Jack.

  ‘F-f-fine,’ Yori spluttered, setting aside his tankard. ‘I guess … English beer is an acquired taste.’

  Jack laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it! It’s safer than drinking the water, I assure you. And don’t worry – there’s barely any alcohol in it.’ He thought of all the strange food and drinks he’d encountered in Japan – small beer was nothing compared to raw fish, fermented beans, pickled salt plums, rice wine and even green tea!

  The ale-wife waddled over and dumped three steaming plates on the table, along with a handful of knives and spoons. ‘Beef and kidney pie,’ she grunted.

  Akiko examined the cutlery. ‘Do you have hashi?’ she asked.

  The ale-wife puffed out her lips. ‘I certainly hope not,’ she retorted. ‘It sounds painful!’ With that, she strode off, her large chest heaving with mirth.

  Jack grinned at Akiko. ‘No chopsticks here, I’m afraid. Now it’s your turn to learn my customs,’ he said, picking up his knife, cutting open the pie and scooping out the thick gravy and meat with his spoon.

  Yori followed suit, while Akiko delicately sliced a cut in the pastry, sniffed the aroma tentatively, then took a mouthful and slowly chewed.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Jack, devouring his own pie.

  Akiko managed a weak smile. ‘Very … delicious.’

  But Jack could tell by her forced swallow that, just like English beer, English food might be an acquired taste too.

  They were finishing their meal when raucous laughter burst from a table nearby. Three gentlemen, merry on ale, were glancing in their direction and making comments loud enough to be overheard. One of them, a fellow with a tight crop of copper-red hair and a preened moustache, and wearing a lace ruff so broad and stiff that it looked like his head was on a plate, remarked, ‘I thought the Globe Theatre was across the river. These players must have forgotten the way back to the stage!’

  He sniggered at his own humour. His companions joined in too.

  ‘With such wit, sir, you should be on the stage,’ said his portly friend, whose flushed cheeks were almost as plum-red as his lavish velvet waistcoat.

  ‘Too right,’ agreed the other man, snorting a laugh and quaffing from his tankard. Tall and thin with long lank hair like combed flax, he peered down his hooked beak of a nose at his friend. ‘You could be Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet.’

  The red-haired fellow grinned beneath his curled moustache. ‘And those three over there could play the fools in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The lad could be Bottom; the monk could be Flute the bellows-mender (he lacks a beard and he’s already wearing a dress!); and the China woman, she could –’

  ‘Akiko is Japanese,’ Jack interrupted sharply, his patience at an end. ‘And a samurai. So show some respect.’

  ‘A what?’ smirked the moustachioed gentleman.

  Jack narrowed his eyes. ‘A samurai. A warrior of the military class in Japan. Like our English knights.’

  Dismissing Akiko’s slight frame with a single look, the man raised an incredulous eyebrow, then turned to his friends. ‘A girl knight! Pull the other one, eh?’

  The whole group fell about laughing.

  ‘These folk aren’t from the theatre, that’s for sure,’ chuckled the portly red-faced man. ‘They’re mad! Must’ve escaped from Bedlam.’

  ‘Or else had one too many ales!’ guffawed the hook-nosed fellow, raising his own tankard to his lips again.

  By now, other drinkers in the tavern had fallen silent, their attention drawn by the boisterous laughter. Incensed that he and his friends were being ridiculed so publicly, Jack rose from his seat. But Akiko laid a hand on his arm. ‘Ignore them,’ she urged. ‘We’ve had enough trouble for one day.’

  Jack fumed. The gentlemen’s behaviour was unacceptable. Yet again his fellow countrymen had let him down. This wasn’t the impression he wanted Akiko and Yori to have of England. Nonetheless he retook his seat, but not before the moustachioed man had spotted the katana and wakizashi on his hip.

  ‘What’s that you’re bearing?’ he demanded.

  ‘My daishō,’ Jack replied tersely.

  The man frowned suspiciously. ‘Look like swords to me. And in London no one may carry a sword unless he’s been knighted.’ He swivelled slightly in his chair to reveal a long slim rapier attached to his own belt.

  ‘And who might you be?’ asked Jack, unperturbed.

  ‘Sir Toby Nashe. And you?’

  ‘Jack Fletcher.’

  ‘No “Sir”?’ He eyed Jack disdainfully. ‘Then you must relinquish your swords, for you are no knight.’

  Jack stiffened. ‘I will do no such thing.’

  Sir Toby got to his feet, planting his hands on his hips. ‘You have no choice. It is the law of this land.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve been bestowed the rank of hatamoto by the Regent of Japan. I am a samurai. So I’ve the right to carry a sword. Two, in fact.’ Jack now stood so the full length of his katana and wakizashi could be clearly seen, their black lacquered sayas gleaming in the muted candlelight.

  ‘That title holds no status here in England,’ answered Sir Toby. ‘Hand over your swords.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack, squaring up to him. There was no way on earth he’d surrender his weapons to a stranger!

  A tense silence descended on the inn. Everyone was watching the stand-off, some still with their tankards of beer half-raised to their lips.

  ‘Jack …’ intervened Yori timidly, ‘perhaps our room is ready now.’

  His eyes still locked on Sir Toby’s, Jack slowly nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve had enough of the poor company in this tavern. Let’s retire to our quarters.’

  ‘Don’t walk away from me! We’re not finished,’ shouted Sir Toby, stamping his foot like an impetuous child.

  Jack continued to follow Akiko and Yori in the direction of the stairs. But Sir Toby rushed forward to block his path. ‘Hand over your swords now!’

  ‘On whose authority?’ Jack challenged.

  ‘The King’s.’

  It was Jack’s turn to laugh. ‘You don’t speak for the King.’

  Sir Toby’s face went livid. ‘You dare to mock me? I have connections with His Majesty, don’t you know!’

  ‘
Oh yes? Well, I know the Emperor of Japan,’ said Jack, pushing past.

  Suppressed laughter rippled through the inn. Sir Toby bristled, his moustache quivering on his upper lip. ‘Are you giving me the lie?’

  Jack glanced over his shoulder at the pompous man and shrugged. ‘If you say you know the King, you know the King.’ Then he turned and headed towards the stairs.

  But he’d barely put his foot on the first step when he heard Sir Toby call out, ‘You have offended my honour, sirrah! I challenge you to a duel!’

  ‘Are all your fellow countrymen so quick to anger?’ asked Akiko as they were frogmarched through the city gates to the open space of Moorfields, a knot of curious onlookers trailing in their wake. ‘Everyone we’ve met so far wishes to insult us, rob us or kill us!’

  ‘Now you know how I felt in Japan!’ Jack muttered irritably.

  Akiko winced and fell silent. Jack immediately felt bad. He knew he’d been rude to her and that his tone had been harsh. But the imminent prospect of the duel, which would further delay his reunion with Jess, had combined with his utter dismay at the hostile welcome they’d received so far in England and had made him tetchy. ‘Sorry, Akiko …’ he muttered, ‘I’m a little tense at the moment.’

  The delicate line of her jaw relaxed and her gaze returned his way. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Jack. But we’re here to meet your sister, not the end of a sword! And it seems pointless fighting over something so small.’

  ‘Well, certain samurai lords would chop off your head if you didn’t bow low enough!’ Jack shot back. He thought of the old blind tea merchant who’d suffered such a fate on the command of daimyo Kamakura – the man who’d become Shogun of Japan and expelled all Christians and foreigners from his domain.

  ‘They are the exception,’ defended Akiko. ‘Most daimyo are fair and just.’

  ‘If you are Japanese,’ said Jack bluntly as they were brought to a halt beside an old oak tree in the middle of a meadow. ‘Anyway, the same applies here. We’ve simply been unfortunate to meet such idiots as this man!’