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About the Author

As an author, Chris Bradford employs a technique he terms ‘method-writing’. For his Young Samurai series, he trained in samurai swordsmanship, karate, ninjutsu and earned his black belt in Zen Kyu Shin taijutsu. For his Bodyguard series, Chris embarked on an intensive close-protection course to become a qualified professional bodyguard.

His bestselling books are published in over twenty-five languages and have garnered more than thirty children’s book awards and nominations.

Before becoming a full-time author, he was a professional musician (who once performed for HRH Queen Elizabeth II), songwriter and music teacher.

By the Same Author

Books by Chris Bradford

The Young Samurai series (in reading order)

THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR

THE WAY OF THE SWORD

THE WAY OF THE DRAGON

THE RING OF EARTH

THE RING OF WATER

THE RING OF FIRE

THE RING OF WIND

THE RING OF SKY

THE RETURN OF THE WARRIOR

Available as ebook

THE WAY OF FIRE

The Bodyguard series (in reading order)

HOSTAGE

RANSOM

AMBUSH

TARGET

ASSASSIN

FUGITIVE

Praise

Praise for the Young Samurai series:

‘A fantastic adventure that floors the reader on page one and keeps them there until the end. The pace is furious and the martial arts detail authentic’ – Eoin Colfer, author of the bestselling Artemis Fowl series

‘Fierce fiction … captivating for young readers’ – Daily Telegraph

‘Addictive’ – Evening Standard

‘More and more absorbing … vivid and enjoyable’ – The Times

‘Bradford comes out swinging in this fast-paced adventure … and produces an adventure novel to rank among the genre’s best. This book earns the literary equivalent of a black belt’ – Publishers Weekly

‘The most exciting fight sequences imaginable on paper!’ – Booklist

Winner of Northern Ireland Book Award 2011 Shortlisted for Red House Children’s Book Award 2009 School Library Association’s Riveting Read 2009

Dedication

Dedicated to Jan, Órla and Cíara Murphy, and all Young Samurai fans who have fought for this final chapter!

Map: England – 17th Century

Hole Haven, England, autumn 1616

The galleon ship slid through the sea mist, a phantom in the darkness, her sails rippling like shrouds. Entering the Thames Estuary, the vessel maintained her steady silent course. From the shoreline, keen eyes followed her progress.

‘Smugglers?’ grunted the nightwatchman, a gaunt-faced fellow with a pinched nose underlined by a pencil-thin moustache. He pulled his cloak tightly round his skinny frame to ward off the night’s chill.

The customs officer, a portly gentleman with reddened cheeks, lowered his spyglass. ‘I don’t see any boats waitin’ to greet her. She looks to be a trading vessel, though: the Salamander, ’ccording to her bow. Yet she’s sailin’ far too close to shore to be headed for London.’

A bearded, heavyset constable stood beside them on the sandbank, his cudgel tapping lightly against his leg. As the three-masted ship loomed out of the mist towards them, his deep-set eyes widened slightly. ‘Fie! If the captain don’t change tack soon, she’s going to run aground!’

The three men watched the galleon glide past, eerie and ominous as a monster of the deep. A little further along the shore – just as the constable had predicted – the boat’s keel ploughed into the soft silt of the estuary’s bank and the ship shuddered to a halt. The three men exchanged an uneasy look, then took off down the beach. Their feet squelching in the sodden sand, they approached the galleon. The vessel lay still and bloated as a beached whale.

‘Ahoy there!’ cried the customs officer, craning his neck towards the upper deck.

But there was no reply, only the creak of timbers, the loose flap of a sail and the lapping of water against the hull.

The watchman swallowed uneasily. ‘Shouldn’t we call for the militia?’

The customs officer sneered. ‘And incur the wrath of Sir Francis for waking him at this ungodly hour? No, we investigate further before disturbing the Lord Lieutenant from his bed.’ He gestured towards a loose rigging rope dangling over the side of the ship. ‘Go and look, constable.’

Hooking his cudgel to his belt, the constable waded through the water, then hauled himself up the barnacled planking and over the gunwale. All remained ominously silent. The watchman pulled the collar of his cloak even tighter, the chill in his bones not from the sea mist but from the galleon’s sinister arrival. As they waited for the constable’s return, the customs officer’s feet began to sink into the silt.

‘What’s keeping him?’ he muttered, tugging a leather boot free and irritably kicking off the sludge.

Another minute or so passed. Then the constable’s bearded face appeared. ‘All clear,’ he called, and dropped down a rope ladder for them.

Splashing through the frigid sea, they caught hold of the ladder and clambered aboard. The upper deck was deserted. No lanterns were lit. Not a soul in sight.

The customs officer glanced sidelong at the constable. ‘Where’s her crew, then?’

The constable shrugged. ‘Below decks maybe.’

Cautiously the men approached the main hatch. The customs officer silently beckoned to the constable to open it. With a squeal of hinges, the hatch was heaved back. A set of wooden steps led down into the ship’s black belly.

‘Light,’ ordered the customs officer.

The watchman lit a lantern and passed it to him. The gloom fled the flames, and the customs officer gasped as the lower deck revealed itself. A sailor lay slumped against a wall, his head bent forward as if in sleep. But it was the sleep of the dead. A large black rat that had been gnawing on the man’s fingers scuttled away as soon as the lamplight hit it.

The watchman’s sunken cheeks became even more hollow. ‘You think she’s a plague ship?’

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, the customs officer covered his mouth and descended the steps to inspect the corpse. He set aside the lantern, its orange flame warping the sailor’s waxen face.

‘No sign of black spots on him.’ The customs officer drew his dagger from its sheath and prodded the body with the tip of the blade. The sailor’s head lolled unnaturally to one side.

‘Looks like his neck is broken,’ said the constable, tightening his grip on the cudgel.

‘Perhaps he fell down the stairs?’ the watchman suggested hopefully.

‘Perhaps,’ murmured the customs officer, sheathing his dagger and picking up the lantern. ‘Let’s see if we can find the rest of the crew.’

Reluctantly the watchman followed the constable down the steps. He kept close to the pool of lamplight as his eyes flitted towards every nook and cranny of the lower deck. Shapes took form, then melted back into the shadows: wooden barrels stacked five high … piles of cotton cloth … rolls of expensive silk … hessian sacks of grain … a pair of gleaming black eyes –

The watchman let out a startled cry, causing the customs officer to turn sharply. ‘What?’ he snapped.

‘Someone’s there!’ the watchman whispered, pointing a trembling finger into the inky darkness.

The customs officer directed his lantern at a gap between two barrels. ‘I see no one.’

‘I tell ye, a pair of eyes was watching us.’

Raising his cudgel, the constable stalked forward to investigate. As he approached the barrels, there was a hiss and a black shape bolted from the shadows. The constable brought his cudgel down but stopped short as a furred creature shot between his legs.

‘It’s just the ship’s cat!’ the constable snorted, lowering his cudgel.

The customs officer scowled at the watchman, then turned away with a shake of the head and resumed the search.

‘It wasn’t the ship’s cat,’ the watchman insisted. ‘The eyes were human … or else demon!’

‘Pull yourself together, man,’ muttered the constable as he shouldered past.

Ignoring the watchman’s protests, they headed deeper below deck where they discovered the galleon to be laden with exotic spices from the Far East: clove, nutmeg and mace. A king’s ransom in cargo, destined for the London docks. But still no sign of the crew. The ship groaned as the hull shifted with the incoming tide.

‘Strange,’ remarked the customs officer, completing their sweep of the lowest deck. ‘Her crew must be somewhere aboard.’

‘Let’s try the hold,’ suggested the constable.

As the three men headed towards the ladder that descended into the ship’s bowels, a flicker of movement caught the watchman’s eye. ‘Over there!’

The customs officer swivelled round, the lantern light casting a yellow wave through the darkness. But there was no one to be seen.

‘Call yourself a watchman?’ sneered the customs officer. ‘You’re jumping at shadows!’

‘B-believe me, I saw a shadow move,’ replied the watchman, his breathing now panicky and shallow. ‘This is a ghost ship! We should leave. Right now.’

The customs officer raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘A ghost ship? I didn’t take you to be such a superstitious fellow. Get a grip of yourself! There’s no –’

His rebuke was cut short by a clatter as the constable’s cudgel rolled across the wooden planks and stopped at his feet. The two men glanced down at the weapon before peering nervously into the gloom for its owner.

The watchman’s eyes were as round as two full moons. ‘Where’s the constable gone?’

The customs officer held up his lantern, pivoting slowly to reveal yet more barrels, grain sacks and piles of cloth … but no constable. ‘Samuel?’ he called. ‘You playin’ games?’

Then the lamplight fell upon an open hatch. Through it, the customs officer could see body upon body piled like ballast in the hold. Their cold dead eyes stared blankly at him. The missing crew!

The customs officer stumbled away. His heart hammering in his chest, he spun back towards the watchman – only to see a black limb reach out and drag his companion away. The darkness appeared to swallow him whole, not even giving him a chance to scream. Dropping the lantern in horror, the customs officer fumbled for his dagger. But his sheath was empty. A moment later, the missing blade was pressed against his neck, the razor-sharp steel cutting into his skin and drawing a bead of blood. A shadow materialized in front of him, silhouetted against the guttering flame of the discarded lantern. Only a pair of demon-black eyes were visible.

‘Is this England?’ hissed the shadow, its accent strange and sinister.

The customs officer nodded, terror taking his tongue. The shadow held a piece of paper before his face. Upon it was a hand-drawn portrait of a young man with straggly straw-blond hair and ocean-blue eyes.

‘You know him?’ asked the shadow.

The customs officer shook his head. ‘W-w-who is he?’

‘Jack Fletcher, the gaijin samurai.’

The customs officer frowned. ‘I never heard of him.’

‘Pity.’

The dagger was drawn sharply across the customs officer’s throat and he collapsed in a spluttering heap. As his blood spilled over the wooden deck and flowed into the hold, three more shadows emerged from the darkness. On their leader’s command, they swiftly and silently made their way to the galleon’s upper deck. Then, vaulting over the side and down the ladder, all four ninjas disappeared into the night.

London, England, autumn 1616

‘Welcome to England!’ said Jack, spreading his arms wide with pride.

He stood on the prow of the Hosiander, the Dutch trading ship that had provided him passage back from the Japans. Before him, in all its glory and majesty, lay the great city of London. An awe-inspiring vista of peaked roofs, church spires and palace towers. Beneath them, a sprawling mass of houses, inns, markets and shops stretched almost as far as the eye could see – further than Jack could ever recall. And from its centre, rising like a great monolith to dominate the skyline, stood the immense Gothic tower of St Paul’s Cathedral.

Yet it was London Bridge that truly took his breath away. He’d forgotten just how magnificent and impressive it was. Built upon huge starlings – low pillars of boat-shaped stone – the twenty arches spanned the mighty River Thames from the Great Stone Gate on the southern bank to the New Stone Gate on the north. Eight hundred feet long, sixty feet high and almost thirty feet wide, the bridge towered over the waterway. And along its length, like frosting on top of a cake, was a tier of spectacular buildings, shops and fancy residences, some as many as six or seven storeys high.

The bridge was far more than just a bridge: it was a symbol of London’s strength and power.

Jack turned to Akiko and Yori, who stood beside him on the deck. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked in English.

His two friends gazed around them, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, speechless at the sight. Jack was pleased at their reaction. After so many years of him talking about England and all its splendour, they were finally getting to see it with their own eyes. During his imposed stay in Japan, he’d been introduced by Akiko to the many glittering jewels of her country: from its ancient Buddhist temples and golden palaces to its paradisal gardens and snow-capped mountains, and from the cherry blossoms in spring to the maple leaves in autumn. Now his country would have its turn.

The Hosiander changed tack as she eased through the river traffic into port. She was greeted by a cacophony of boats creaking, sailors heckling one another and seagulls shrieking overhead. The waterway was bustling with hundreds of ferries, boats, trading ships and galleons. It seemed everyone was seeking to make their fortune in the burgeoning city and simply finding a place to dock was a challenge. The north bank bristled with quays and wharves, but each harboured such a flotilla of vessels that the riverside was transformed into a thick forest of masts and sails.

‘Look at all the swans!’ Akiko remarked, gazing in astonishment at the flocks of regal white birds dotting the water like snowflakes.

Jack smiled warmly at her wonderment. Akiko’s love of nature was just one of the many things he admired about her, along with her kindness, her steely resolve and her skill with a bow. Like a katana wrapped in silk, she was slim, elegant and razor sharp.

‘What’s that?’ asked Yori, peering over the gunwale. Standing on tiptoe, he pointed at the formidable drum-towered castle commanding the river’s north bank.

‘The Tower of London,’ replied Jack.

‘We must go there!’ Yori said enthusiastically, his eyes widening.

Jack glanced ruefully at his dear friend. ‘I don’t think we’d wish to visit there willingly. It’s a prison for traitors.’

‘Oh …’ said Yori, his eager expression deflating like a balloon. ‘Perhaps another castle then.’

As the Hosiander docked at Somers Quay, they were met by the grim sight of four men hanging by their necks from a gibbet, their feet dangling in the water, their eyes pecked out by crows.

Akiko and Yori exchanged an anxious look, but Jack attempted a reassuring smile. ‘They’re probably pirates. Don’t worry – we’ll receive a far friendlier reception.’

With the gangway lowered, Jack led the way down on to the wharf and planted his feet on English soil for the first time in seven years. ‘Home at last!’ he exclaimed, his heart bursting with joy at being back in his own country.

Yori tottered down the gangplank after him, using his shakujō staff to keep his balance as he adjusted to the sudden stillness of dry land. Akiko joined him too and immediately wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s that smell?’

Jack drew in a deep breath … and almost gagged. The city air was putrid and stagnant compared to the fresh breeze of the open ocean. A strong waft of pitch from the shipyards in Wapping mingled with the stench of countless middens, piled high with human waste, in the streets. To make matters worse, the reek of boiling vats of urine, for making alum, blended with the putrid fumes of the leather tanneries to concoct a stink so bad that it turned all their stomachs. After so many years away, Jack had forgotten how foul-smelling daily life was in London.

‘I think it might be what Jack is standing in,’ said Yori, pointing his shakujō staff at the noxious pile surrounding Jack’s feet.

Akiko grimaced. ‘Ah, horse sh–’

‘Yes,’ Jack cut in, ‘quite right.’ The long twelve-month voyage back to England had given Akiko and Yori the opportunity to learn English and both were now fluent – although Jack considered some of the words the sailors had taught Akiko improper for a lady.

‘I guess … only the reddest rose grows in the most fertile soil!’ said Yori jovially as Jack scraped the muck from his sandals, his face reddening at his undignified arrival on English shores.

‘Oi, I like your skirt!’

Jack glanced up to see a burly dockhand, flanked by two other young brutish lads. They wore shirts and breeches and had a rough unkempt look born of a hard life lugging cargo.

‘It’s not a skirt – it’s a hakama,’ Jack corrected, standing up straight and allowing the full length of his black wide-pleated trousers to show.

The dockhand smirked. ‘Looks like a skirt to me.’

Jack bristled, his hand coming to rest on his samurai sword. Unabashed, the dockhand now eyed Yori in his saffron robes and over-sized straw-bowl hat. ‘And what are you supposed to be?’

Yori frowned. ‘I’m not supposed to be anything. I’m a monk.’

‘You look like a mushroom!’ the dockhand said with a snort.

His two friends laughed raucously. Then the dockhand’s eyes fell upon Akiko in her shimmering silk kimono, her long dark hair straight as an arrow down her back. ‘’Ello, and what do we ’ave ’ere?’ He swaggered up to her. ‘You’re a precious piece of cargo.’

‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ warned Jack.

The dockhand shot him a sidelong look as he took hold of Akiko’s hand and drew her to him. ‘Why? What are you going to do about it?’

‘Nothing,’ Jack replied coolly. ‘It’s what Akiko will do to you.’

All of a sudden, the dockhand’s eyes flared wide in shock and pain as Akiko twisted his arm into a nikyo wrist lock. The lad dropped to his knees, gasping in agony.

‘Help me!’ he cried to the others.

Fists clenched, the two other boys rushed to attack, but Yori stepped aside to let them pass and nonchalantly stuck out his ringed staff, catching one of them by the ankle.

‘Oops!’ said Yori, watching his victim tumble over the quayside and into the water. The boy was swiftly followed by his friend, as Jack grabbed the second boy by the lapel of his shirt and executed seoi-nage, the shoulder throw, sending him sailing through the air and into the Thames with a splash.

The dockhand remained on his knees, confounded by Akiko’s apparently miraculous strength. Jack knew it was all in the technique. He strode up to the ill-mannered dockhand and took over nikyo from Akiko.

‘Show some respect to our guests,’ said Jack. ‘In Japan, it is polite to bow.’

He applied more pressure to the wrist lock, and the dockhand, grimacing with pain, lowered his head until his face was buried in the pile of horse dung. Akiko raised an eyebrow at Jack. ‘I think he’s learnt his manners now.’

Reluctantly Jack let the dockhand go and the lad slunk away, spluttering and retching. After throwing a line to the two boys still floundering in the water, Yori approached Jack with a wry smile.

‘What a warm welcome to England!’

2: Cheapside

‘I see you’re making friends already,’ said Captain Spilbergen, striding down the gangplank on to the quay. As tall and sturdy as a mast, the Dutch captain cut a fine figure in his brown leather jacket, black breeches and white linen shirt with its stiff lace ruff. In emulation of Sir Walter Raleigh, he sported a trimmed beard and thin moustache of light auburn hair.

‘Here,’ he said, handing Jack a heavy purse. ‘Your share of the cargo’s profits.’

Jack held up a hand in protest. ‘You’ve done more than enough bringing me home.’

Captain Spilbergen laughed off the suggestion. ‘Nonsense! You and your rutter cut a whole year off our route and saved me a fortune in supplies and wages.’ He thrust the purse into Jack’s hands.

Gratefully accepting the money, Jack put the purse into his pack beside a dark oilskin-bound book. This was the precious rutter that he’d battled to keep safe and in his possession during his long years in Japan. His father’s navigational logbook was one of the few accurate rutters in existence and it had helped Jack guide Captain Spilbergen’s small fleet of ships across the oceans and through the North-East Passage – the fabled shortcut between Europe and the Far East. This knowledge alone made the rutter invaluable. But its value went beyond safe navigation and secret trading routes. For Jack, the rutter was his last link to his father.

‘Are you sure you won’t stay aboard as a permanent member of my crew?’ continued the captain. ‘I could do with a fine pilot like you.’ His keen eyes scanned the ships in dock. ‘In fact, Captain Kroeger could damn well do with you too! Where the hell’s the Salamander got to?’

‘Thank you for the offer, Captain,’ replied Jack, ‘but I have to find my sister. It’s been seven years. Jess must think I’m dead!’ – like our father, he thought with a sudden stab of sadness. While he longed to be reunited with his sister, Jack dreaded having to tell her that their father had been killed by a ninja – the cruel and ruthless assassin Dragon Eye. The only comfort he could offer her was that Dragon Eye was dead too. Justice had been served when Jack’s friend Yamato had sacrificed himself to save Jack and Akiko from the ninjas during the battle of Osaka Castle.

‘Well, it’s been good sailing with you,’ said the captain, laying a callused hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘I wish you luck in your quest. Remember, you’ve always got a place aboard my ship.’ Then he turned to Akiko and Yori. ‘The same goes for you. I expect you’ll be seeking passage back to the Japans at some point?’

Akiko bowed. ‘That’s very kind of you, Captain, but my fate is bound with Jack’s.’

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