“Ah,” Meng Guqing smiled. “That’s wonderful news! But why do you look so haggard?”
Xu Qiang sighed. Though it had only been a short while, her reactions were unusually strong, her sense of smell had become absurdly sharp; even the faintest odor made her nauseous, and her appetite had turned strange. Sometimes, when she craved a particular food, she couldn’t sleep unless she had it. Once, she even made Guard Tan get up at midnight to buy sesame buns from the city gate. “I used to only taste them when offering incense, never thought I liked them that much. But when I think of that golden, crisp crust and the faint scent of toasted sesame, my mouth just waters. If I can’t have it, I toss and turn all night.”
This, Meng Guqing knew, was a kind of “pregnancy craving.” Her grandfather had once treated such cases. She still remembered the prescription and wrote it down for Xu Qiang, telling her to try it. “It’s something my sister-in-law once used, given by a wandering physician. Mostly herbs to settle the stomach, not strong medicine.”
Xu Qiang gratefully accepted it, then mentioned Guard Tan again: “He’s been so busy lately; out before dawn, back after dark. I sleep early and wake late; I haven’t seen him for days. When I ask what he’s doing, he’s all mysterious. Says he’s looking for men skilled in martial arts but what’s so secret about that?”
Meng Guqing smiled faintly, already guessing the truth. Those martial artists Tan Ying was recruiting, they were really for the Emperor.
Recently, there had been big movements in court. Most of the “Three Departments and Six Ministries” were still dominated by men from Donghu, including Jing Wang and Cheng Wang, and officials like He Yong and Li Wei, all Donghu born ministers, held power not only over the government but also the military. After long, patient maneuvering, the Emperor had finally managed to insert a few southern men into the Six Ministries, but it was barely a drop in the ocean.
This spring’s civil examination had brought in a great many talented young scholars, bright and ambitious, whether posted to local offices or assigned to the capital, they would form the new foundation of the realm.
In truth, the most numerous officials were those in the six ministries: Personnel, Revenue, Rites, War, Justice, and Works, particularly the lower ranks: the Censors, provincial inspectors, and Hanlin scholars. These posts weren’t high in title, but they were essential, the gears that kept the great machine of government turning.
The Regent and Jing Wang were both men of the battlefield, rough in administration, dismissive of these minor posts, so the Emperor had some freedom to act.
Lately, Zhao Donglin had somehow persuaded He Yong, who had long maintained an ambiguous neutrality, to yield his position as Minister of Personnel to Kong Xiaoci, formerly the Left Censor-in-Chief. Kong Xiaoci was a man of remarkable background, once the top scholar under the late Emperor Yan, brilliant and patriotic, deeply versed in statecraft. When the Wu dynasty seized the capital, he had led a group of scholars to surrender and serve. During the Regency, he was sent to a provincial post; early last year, the young Emperor recalled him to the capital as a Censor. None expected He Yong to willingly yield the head of the Six Ministries, the “Heavenly Office”, opening at last a breach in the iron fortress of the Donghu faction.
Following Kong Xiaoci’s replacement as Left Censor-in-Chief was another formidable figure, Wang Yifang, a man who feared neither heaven nor earth, nor even death itself when it came to impeaching officials. He had once served under the former Yan dynasty, but because of his audacious tongue, he had offended nearly every prince and royal relative of Yan. Banished to the provinces for over a decade, he had only been recalled last year by Zhao Donglin.
The Ministry of Personnel managed appointments, and the Censorate supervised all officials, both were critical offices. Behind these two southern officials stood a vast network of civil bureaucrats; Confucian-trained scholars who were far more humble and loyal than the aristocrats of the Donghu. They were, in every sense, the finest instruments of the state.
With the emperor nephew making such bold moves, Jing Wang was no fool; he immediately led his troops north to quell the unrest. For Jing Wang, warfare was as ordinary as breathing, he was on friendly terms with several frontier generals. Zhao Donglin, on the other hand, had never commanded troops himself. To reclaim military power was a perilous move; one misstep, and he could find himself cornered. Jing Wang and his allies were highly guarded; all the training Zhao Donglin did with Tan Ying was little more than playacting. Thus, he had Tan Ying recruit more men. After all, Jing Wang was still one of the Inner Guard Ministers, Zhao Donglin could not rely on him forever.
After sending Xu Qiang off, Meng Guqing planned to retire early. Today was the full-month banquet for the Eldest Prince, and Zhao Donglin was expected to attend. She had just ordered her attendants to prepare for her bath when Feng Gonggong’s familiar voice came from outside the hall.
Meng Guqing looked up at the figure striding in with confident steps, wind seeming to follow in his wake. She was briefly stunned before blurting out, “Your Majesty isn’t going to the Jianjia Palace?”
The young emperor’s radiant smile paused for a moment. “I’ve already gone,” he said brightly. “I saw the Eldest Prince, he’s strong and healthy, just as Tan Ying described, with the makings of a fine martial talent. When he’s a little older, I’ll have Tan Ying teach him the arts of war, so he can inherit Uncle Jing Wang’s duty of defending Great Wu’s lands.”
Then, leaning closer, he murmured by her ear, “Let’s hurry and have a crown prince of our own. The two brothers can grow up together, support and trust each other. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Meng Guqing had already found his earlier words ill-intentioned; the latter remark made it all the more blatant. She could distinctly feel the possessive weight of his hand at her waist, and the suggestive gleam in his eyes left her nowhere to hide. Momentarily speechless, she averted her gaze. Zhao Donglin noticed her avoidance; his eyes dimmed, but he dared not question her. Better silence than a painful rejection; so long as she said nothing, he could still cling to a faint hope that one day she might answer differently.
Changing the subject, he asked, “Madam Tan came by today?”
“She did. Said that Guard Tan has been too busy lately to come home,” Meng Guqing replied, deliberately omitting Xu Qiang’s pregnancy to avoid unnecessary trouble. Yet “someone” already knew and could not help but mutter, “They’ve only been married four months, and she’s already with child…” He sighed deeply, as though lamenting the trials of fate. What could Meng Guqing say? That wasn’t how time was supposed to be counted!
By the third or fourth month of Jingtai’s tenth year, the entire court had already transformed and this was only the beginning. As the Dragon Boat Festival approached, news came from the front: Sun Chengwang, who had been defending Zhaitang Pass, the last barrier of the Southern Yan court, had finally fled after a year-long stalemate with Han Quan. Great Wu’s army immediately took the pass, gaining full control of the terrain. The fall of Southern Yan was now only a matter of time.
The court planned to appoint another Grand General of the Expedition to assist Han Quan in eliminating the remaining Yan loyalists. But every faction had its own candidate in mind. Jing Wang wanted his eldest son to go to strengthen his hold over the military. Zhao Donglin had another man in mind. Neither side would yield, and in the end, Jing Wang’s supporters outnumbered the emperor’s. They argued that the emperor, who had never even left the capital, had no real understanding of warfare and was merely being idealistic. Both sides compromised by appointing the youngest son of Cheng Wang’s family.
Cheng Wang’s son, Zhao Zhang, was already serving in court, one of the few neutral members of the imperial clan. He had never opposed the emperor, so his appointment was barely acceptable.
Still, Zhao Donglin couldn’t help his resentment. He was already twenty, many of his cousins had long made their mark, yet he still rode under guard, never commanding troops himself. And his Uncle Jing Wang continued to monopolize the command seal under the pretext of “experience.” It was a rule set by the late emperor: military authority was to be divided among the imperial brothers. But as the warrior princes either died or aged, and others lost in the regency’s power struggles, all military control ended up concentrated in the regent’s old faction.
The turbulence between old and new courts was no recent matter. Meng Guqing had spent a year in the palace and learned to keep her head down, especially in sensitive times.
Lately, Zhao Donglin had spent nearly every night at Fengyi Palace for two to three months straight. Even when he didn’t, he slept in his own Huangji Hall and since Noble Consort Xu’s confinement ended, she had yet to be summoned. Even when he visited to see the Eldest Prince, he never stayed the night.
Now, she almost regretted having ever spoken her heart to him. In her past life, when her family arranged matches, she had always refused decisively if she didn’t like the man. But whenever someone changed for her sake, she felt a kind of guilty debt as though she were toying with them by setting expectations she had no intention of fulfilling.
Rubbing her temples, Meng Guqing put down the book she had been reading. Pale sunlight filtered through the gauzy window, dust motes swirling in the air. The noise outside gradually faded. She asked Fusang, “Has the wall beside Yinghua Hall been opened up yet?”
Yinghua Hall was beside Fengyi Palace, both standing isolated in the northwest corner of the Imperial City. Beyond lay the forbidden gardens of the last Yan emperor. That emperor, known as Shenzong, had been indifferent to governance and obsessed with pleasure, especially horse-rearing. To indulge that passion, he built vast stables and a horseyard over a hundred acres wide. After the dynasty’s fall, the regent of the new court sealed it off, leaving only a few western gates leading to the market district.
Recently, to everyone’s surprise, Zhao Donglin had ordered the restoration of the forbidden gardens. A new gate was opened beside Yinghua Hall, and the interior refurbished. By the time the old courtiers realized what he was doing, the emperor had already begun filling the grounds with all sorts of creatures: wild beasts, exotic birds, even camels purchased from the Western Regions. At night, the distant roars and howls frightened the timid maids of Fengyi Palace out of their wits.
Caiwei, ever curious, had followed the servants there once and returned full of excitement describing white peacocks and camels, begging ever since to go again. Seeing Meng Guqing put down her book, she quickly asked, “Your Majesty, shall we go have a look? The craftsmen have all withdrawn today. The gate is watched only by palace eunuchs, only His Majesty can pass through from here. If you go, he won’t mind.”
Meng Guqing nodded, bringing only a few attendants: Caiwei, Mingxia, and four maids. The eunuch at the gate hurriedly opened it at her arrival, not daring to question.
The scenery inside the forbidden garden was wild and lush, unlike the manicured opulence of the imperial gardens, full of unrestrained life. The air smelled of fresh grass; the willows by the river hung thick and untrimmed, and the breeze carried a faint tang of fish.
After long confinement in the solemn palace, even the air here felt sweet. The only flaw was that the people walking about were still eunuchs and maids.
As she strolled along the soft riverbank, a rhythmic clatter of hooves approached. The young emperor, dressed in bright yellow riding clothes, leapt from his horse and ran toward her with a grin. “Why didn’t you send for me when you came? I got my hands on a fine pair of treasures today, come, I’ll show you!”
Sweat glistened on his nose. Meng Guqing reached for a handkerchief, but before she could use it, he scooped her up effortlessly and lifted her onto his horse. Mounting behind her, he tugged the reins, nudged the horse and they were gone in a flash.
Caiwei called after them in vain, then sighed and led the rest back. By the time the sun sank behind the eaves, the imperial couple returned together. Over dinner, Zhao Donglin talked enthusiastically about the garden, how the two hundred rooms weren’t enough, the training ground too conspicuous, how the temples inside should be repurposed. The maids could barely follow the discussion.
Meng Guqing, distracted, never found a chance to speak. After the meal, Zhao Donglin, flushed from the day’s activity, was ready to bathe when she caught his hand and said abruptly, “Your Majesty has stayed at Fengyi Palace for half a month.”
The implication was clear, it was time he visited other quarters, even if just to return to his own hall. The memory of Noble Consort Xu’s deep, unreadable eyes from her recent visit to the Empress Dowager’s palace made Meng Guqing’s head ache. He slept soundly here, why couldn’t he do the same elsewhere?
He froze, caught off guard by her words. A sting pierced his chest. Composing his expression, he said lightly, “From now on, I’ll go nowhere else. I’ll stay in Fengyi Palace. The Empress should grow used to it.”
Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode away.
Meng Guqing stood rooted in place, her good mood ruined. Her thoughts tangled; she lingered by the pool, washing her face for nearly half an hour before finally dressing again. Though it was already June and the air hot, a passing draft still made her shiver. She forgot to ask Fusang to bring her ginger tea.
When she stepped into the inner hall, the bright candlelight illuminated the bed canopy. He was sitting up with a book in hand. Seeing her, he smiled and lifted the blanket. “Come here.”
“It’s hot,” she said, pulling out a thin silk coverlet from the cabinet. “Let’s each use our own.”
Zhao Donglin said nothing, letting her spread the extra quilt and lie down beside him. The room dimmed as the attendants extinguished the candles and withdrew.
Just when she thought he had relented, he slipped into her blanket, grasped her hands, kissing her lips and the curve of her ear, whispering in anguish, “Must the Empress punish me for my mistake for the rest of my life? Tell me what I must do. Don’t torment me anymore, please.”
Meng Guqing was at first stunned. When she realized what was happening, she began to struggle but it only made his grip and rough caresses tighten. Her strength was no match for his; with just a little force, he pinned both her wrists above her head so she couldn’t move an inch. His body pressed between her legs, forcing them apart. She could feel he was struggling to restrain himself but she couldn’t even put her feelings into words. He was already on the verge of losing control, and when she had nowhere left to retreat, Meng Guqing suddenly stopped resisting. She turned her head aside, giving up, letting him do as he pleased.
She no longer resisted, did that mean she was finally accepting him? Holding back the rush of joy in his chest, he followed the rhythm of her breathing, kissing along her cheek as he whispered softly, “Empress, I’ll treat you well, I swear. I’ll never be reckless like before. Believe me. Be with me…”
But all his movements halted abruptly the moment he kissed her eyelids. Zhao Donglin sat up sharply, breath surging. For a long while in the dark, he stayed frozen, voice low and strained as he tried to mask the bitter frustration in it. “Being with me… makes you feel that awful, doesn’t it?”
After a while, when the chill finally seeped in, Meng Guqing realized she was lying bare in the cold air. She wiped away her tears and slowly curled into herself. She hadn’t meant to cry, she simply thought it was all too exhausting to keep circling the same issue with him again and again. It was only that. She was a modern woman; the two of them were lawfully married, what happened between them should have been natural. And yet, she still longed for the day she could leave the palace and go home.
