Climbing out of the harbour, the troop of samurai wound their way through the terraced paddy fields to join a narrow dirt road. At the lip of the hill, Jack looked back on the port of Toba. It appeared so small now, the boats like petals on a pond. The torii in the harbour glowed fire-red in the early morning light. Then it was gone, lost behind the rise of the hill.

Kyoto was forty ri, some ninety miles, from Toba, Kuma-san told Jack. They would ride until midday, rest, then push on to the village of Hisai. From there, they would head to Kameyama and join the main Tokaido Road, striking inland to approach Kyoto from the southern end of Lake Biwa. The whole journey would take three days.

The route itself was empty of traffic, though little pockets of life came in and out of view along the way. Coastal villages with boats tied to stakes at the shoreline, and fishermen repairing their nets. Paddy fields dotted with farmers tending the frozen rice terraces. A local vegetable market. A roadside inn opening up for business for the day. Half-wild dogs that barked and chased the horses. A lone merchant making for the Tokaido Road, his back laden with goods.

Jack noticed that as Masamoto and his entourage passed each in turn, every villager bowed in deep respect, keeping their heads low until the whole train had gone by.

When they halted for lunch at a roadside inn, Jack sought out Akiko and found her tending her horse.

‘That’s a fine horse,’ said Jack, not knowing quite what else to say, still embarrassed by his tactless remark earlier that morning.

‘Yes, Jack. It was my father’s,’ she replied, not looking at him.

‘Your father’s? What happened to him?’

‘My father was Dāte Kenshin. He was a great warrior, but he died at the hands of his enemies. He was not allowed to commit seppuku and was therefore shamed in death.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…’ stumbled Jack. ‘What’s seppuku?’

‘Ritual suicide. It would have been an honourable death for my father. But don’t be sorry. It happened many years ago. This horse and the swords in my mother’s house are all that’s left of him.’

Jack recalled the red and black swords on the stand in Hiroko’s dining room. It made him think about the only evidence he possessed of his father’s existence – the rutter. He recognized in Akiko’s eyes the same bitter sense of loss that he experienced each day.

‘Well, I am still sorry,’ he said, wishing he could comfort her more. ‘I also apologize for this morning. I upset you. I had no idea a woman could be a samurai. In England, it is only the men who do the fighting.’

‘I accept your apology, Jack,’ she said, bowing, and her face brightened. ‘Sometimes I forget you are not Japanese.’