– XLIV –

In which the master remembers and Shiro says good-bye

During the two weeks that followed, Julian was buried, Shiro’s wound was treated, and Guada gave birth to a son.

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, whose modest house was not far from the Alcázar in Madrid, lay at death’s door, drifting in and out of sleep. He was refusing food except for the simplest of caldos. Like his most renowned creation, he wandered between delusional and rational worlds. While in the former, he was often convinced the bed he lay upon was on board a ship off the coast of North Africa. He could feel the Mediterranean swells beneath, sense the clear heat of the day, smell the brine, hear sails flapping in want of wind, and he would worry, unsure whether the vessel was making its way toward the shore where he would be jailed anew and forgotten in captivity, or he had already been rescued and, pulling away, was on his way back to Spain. In the latter state when reason still had currency and that tended to occur during the morning hours, what he most enjoyed and took solace from were the sounds of two mourning doves coming through his window, the timbre and rhythm of their plaintive cooing. It ferried him back to childhood summer dawns in Alcalá de Henares, to Rome at first light after a night of love, to autumn afternoons in Napoli gazing out toward Capri.

During those same two weeks, the King and his Duke of Lerma returned to the prosecution of their heretics, recalcitrant Moriscos and Jews, and to bolstering the fragile peace along the northern frontiers of the empire. The Delegation from Japan was forgotten until the night before it was to set forth on its journey back south.

Shiro was summoned once again to the King’s private study. Once again they sat by the towering hearth. The dogs were there this time. The Samurai still wore his left arm in a sling.

‘How is the shoulder?’ the Monarch asked.

‘Much improved,’ Shiro replied. ‘It has ceased to bleed, and there has been no further infection.’

‘I am glad to hear of it,’ the King said, petting one of the dogs. ‘And so you are off tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘You are going to miss my son’s wedding,’ said the King.

‘I am sorry for it,’ Shiro replied.

‘The boy is only ten, his bride thirteen, so I expect they shall have to wait a spell before procreating.’

‘Do they get on well?’ Shiro asked.

‘I’m not even sure they have met each other yet,’ said the King, laughing, putting his hands together and raising them toward the vaulted ceiling as if asking God for guidance. Then he reached out and took one of Shiro’s hands.

‘Chances are we shall never see each other again.’

‘Probably not, Sire.’

‘One rarely knows with certainty, I suppose, when one is seeing someone for the last time.’ He handed Shiro a parchment, folded into an envelope and sealed. ‘I want you to keep this with you, in case, for whatever reason, you should change your mind and choose to remain in Spain or anywhere within the empire for that matter. It states that you are under my protection and must be afforded the most generous and respectful treatment.’

Shiro took the envelope and slipped it inside his robe next to the remaining Biwa seeds.

‘I am humbled, Your Majesty. It seems a more fitting gift for Hasekura Tsunenaga.’

‘I suspect your ambassador never wished to leave his homeland, and since I first set eyes upon him, it was clear to me he had only one serious concern, which was to return to Japan. Your story is a different one.’

Shiro smiled, impressed once again by the Monarch’s perspicacity.

‘And he shall have his gift, too, of course,’ the King added.

‘In Japan my people have cast yours out,’ Shiro said, looking into the fire, as the dog closest to him rested its snout upon his thigh. ‘I am told you have cast out foreigners of different faiths, as well, ones who have lived here for centuries. And yet here we are, sitting together, at ease and on the verge of missing each other’s company—if I may speak for myself—two people so different in so many ways.’

‘Let us leave all that aside,’ answered the King, ‘and raise a cup to our late friend the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, and to ask that God grant you a safe journey.’