"I agree, Sire, but this makes your position even more dangerous. With Ogama holding the Gates, therefore access to the Emperor, any enemy of Ogama is an enemy of the Emperor."

"Obvious! What can I do? What do you suggest?"' "Immediately send Ogama a letter suggesting a meeting in three days to discuss the ramifications of the visit--he must be as astonished as any daimyo. Meanwhile tonight, after dark we implement the battle plan."

"We can't escape without Ogama knowing, there are spies all around us, and his troops within easy distance. The moment he hears we're breaking camp he will fall on us."

"Yes, but we leave the camp exactly as it is, taking only our weapons--I can outmaneuver him, I know him."

Angrily Sanjiro had said, "If that is so why didn't you sniff out the surprise attack, eh?"' Oh but I did, Katsumata could have said, but it suited me better that Ogama temporarily holds the Gates. Didn't we escape his trap without much trouble? Ogama will never be able to deal with the Court, hostile daimyos, the Tosa, Shogun Nobusada's visit or the Princess Yazu--not that Nobusada will arrive, Ogama will be held responsible for his death also.

"So sorry, Sire," he had said pretending an apology, "I am finding out why your spies failed you. Heads will roll."

"Good."

Soon after dark Katsumata sent specially trained men who quietly decimated the unsuspecting Choshu troop spying on them.

Then, following Katsumata's battle plan, except for him and his hundred cavalry, Sanjiro and the regiment hurried south with orders to leave a hundred men every three ri to join up with him as he fell back, following them.

Confidently Katsumata settled into ambush across the Kyoto road. He was sure that if he could survive until dawn, enticing the Choshu into a running fight, when they would probably break off the fight and return to Kyoto to reinforce their position there, leaving only a token force in pursuit. Rumors were rife that Ogama's alliances were already falling apart, the rift widened by lies spread by Katsumata's covert allies.

He had been astonished to find Ogama leading the chase and that they had caught up with them so quickly.

Karma.

"Attack!" Katsumata shouted and again he whirled his horse from feigned flight. At once his seemingly scattered cavalry joined into violent phalanxes and burst through their opponents who were sent reeling back in disorder, the cold wet air heavy with the smell of sweat and fear and blood burning his nostrils. Men died to the left and right, his and theirs, but he fought his way through and now the path was almost clear to Ogama but once more he was foiled so he broke off and fled --really retreated this time--those alive following him. Of the hundred only twenty remained.

"Bring up our reserve! Five hundred koku for Katsumata's head," Ogama shouted, "a thousand for Lord Sanjiro!"

"Sire!" One of his most experienced captains was pointing upwards. Unnoticed in the excitement, the storm clouds had taken most of the sky and threads reached out for the moon. "So sorry, but the road back to Kyoto is difficult and we don't know if those cunning dogs have another ambush waiting."

Ogama thought a moment. "Cancel the reserve! Take fifty horsemen and harry them to death. If you bring me either head, I will make you a general, with ten thousand koku. Break off the battle!"

Instantly his captains hurried away, shouting orders. Ogama sourly peered into the gathering dark where Katsumata and his men had vanished. "By my ancestors," he muttered, "when I'm tairo, Satsuma will be a Choshu protectorate, the Treaties will be cancelled and no gai-jin ship will ever pass my Straits!"

Then he turned his horse and, with his personal guards, spurred gladly for Kyoto. And destiny.

That same evening in the French Legation at Yokohama the party and recital Seratard had arranged in Angelique's honor was a great success. The chef had surpassed himself: fresh bread, platters of stewed oysters, cold lobster, shrimps and prawns, baked local fish spiced with ginger and garlic served with leeks from his own garden, and tarte au pomme, the dried apples from France only used on special occasions. Champagne, La Doucette, and a Margaux from his home village of which he was very proud.

After dinner and cigars, great applause had heralded Andr`e Poncin, an accomplished though reluctant pianist, more applause after each piece, and now, almost midnight and after three encores, there was a standing ovation as the last lovely chord of a Beethoven sonata died away.

"Marvelous..."

"Superb..."

"Oh Andr`e," Angelique said breathlessly in French from her place of honor near the piano, her mind cleansed of the lurking misery by his music. "It was beautiful, thank you so very much." Her fan fluttered charmingly, eyes and face perfection, new crinoline over hooped petticoats, low-cut, shoulders bare, the fine green silk cascading in gathered tiers accentuating her wisp of waist.

"Merci, Mademoiselle," Poncin replied. He got up and raised his glass, his eyes barely veiled. "a toi!"

"Merci, Monsieur," she said, then once more turned back to Seratard, surrounded by Norbert Greyforth, Jamie McFay, Dmitri and other traders, everyone in evening dress with ruffled silk shirts, vivid waistcoats and cravats--some new but most old, crumpled and hastily pressed because she was to be there. Some French army and naval officers, uniforms heavy with braid, dress swords added to the unaccustomed splendor, British military equally like peacocks.

Two of the other three women in the Settlement were in the crowded, oil- and candle-lit room, Mabel Swann and Victoria Lunkchurch.

Both stout, in their early twenties and childless, wives of traders, both cross-eyed with jealousy, their husbands tethered sweatily beside them.

"'Tis time, Mr. Swann," Mabel Swann said with a sour sniff. "Yus. Prayers n'bed with a nice English cup of tea."

"If you're tired, my dear, you an Vic--"

"Now!"

"Thee, too, Barnaby," Victoria Lunkchurch said, her Yorkshire accent as heavy as her hips, "and put dirty thoughts out of thy head, lad, afore I belt thee proper!"

"Who me? Wot thorts?"

"Those thorts, thee'n that foreign baggage there, may God forgive thee," she said with even more venom. "Out!"

No one missed them or knew they had left.

All were concentrating the guest of honor, trying to get nearer, or if they were within the circle, to stop being elbowed out.

"A splendid evening, Henri," Angelique was saying.

"It's only because of you. By gracing us you make everything better." Seratard mouthed gallant platitudes while he was thinking, what a pity you're not already married and therefore ripe for a liaison with a man of culture. Poor girl to have to endure an immature bovine Scot, however rich. I would like to be your first real lover-- it will be a joy to teach you.

"You smile, Henri?" she said, suddenly aware that she had better be careful of this man.

"I was just thinking how perfect your future will be and that made me happy."

"Ah, how kind you are!"

"I think th--"

"Miss Angelique, if I may be so bold, we're having a race meet, this Saturday," Norbert Greyforth broke in, furious that Seratard was monopolizing her, disgusted that the man had the rudeness to speak French that he did not understand, detesting him and everything French, except Angelique. "We're, there's going to be a new race, in, er, in your honor. We've decided to call it the Angel Cup, eh Jamie?"

"Yes," Jamie McFay said, both of them Stewards of the Jockey Club, equally under her spell. "We, well we decided it will be the last race of the day and Struan's are providing prize money: twenty guineas for the cup. You'll present the prize, Miss Angelique?"

"Oh yes, with pleasure, if Mr. Struan approves."