Chapter Text
The main hall had been largely prepared. Rows of tables and benches stood in orderly ranks along both sides, draped with newly hung table hangings. The brocade patterns glowed with a soft, muted sheen beneath the candlelight.
“Bok has come. Come and look.” Consort Son held a household register in her hand, lifted her head, and called out.
Yongbok stepped forward, his gaze gliding down the column of names. The seating was arranged strictly according to the official rank of each household head. Between high and low, noble and humble, there ran an uncrossable dividing line. The central seat at the front was furnished with exceptional opulence. Beside it rested a half-worn straw kneeling cushion—plainly the one the County Mistress used day to day.
That must be Her Highness the Princess’s seat, Yongbok thought. He had heard the tales long before entering the manor. The General was counted among the Princess’s faction, and also a trusted confidant of the King. He came from neither a long-established noble clan nor a regional warlord’s lineage, so the King could employ him without misgiving. From a career soldier to a man of immense influence today—there was glory in public view, yet behind closed doors…
“Tomorrow our master will attend upon Her Highness the Princess in person,” Consort Son said, as if following the direction of his gaze. “You must know, Bok, Her Highness is the King’s own elder sister. The King bears deep affection for her and treats her with the utmost deference. For our General’s official career to run smoothly, martial prowess alone will not suffice. One must cultivate connections, both within the Inner Quarters and the Outer Court, in public and in private.”
Yongbok nodded. He certainly knew of the Princess. Stories of her fateful and shocking wedding still circulated in whispers across the capital. On the day of her birth, a border victory was won and timely sweet rain fell from heaven. The late King cherished her deeply and could not bear to wed her to a mere minister. For one thing, the suitor’s clan status would be too low; for another, her offspring would be barred from direct noble inheritance. After much deliberation, the late King settled upon the heir of his own younger brother—the Princess’s paternal cousin. The two had known each other from childhood and were childhood companions.
Yet ritual propriety stood as an insurmountable barrier. Marriage between close kin would draw universal condemnation. Still, the late King found a stratagem. He had a distant royal kinsman executed for spreading private gossip on the matter, and exiled the man’s entire household. He then adopted the Princess’s cousin into this collateral line. On paper at least, the union became permissible. The wedding was held, and the realm fell silent.
“Bok?” Consort Son’s voice pulled him from his reverie. “You hail from an official household, so you understand proper ritual well. Still, with so many guests tomorrow, I must go over a few matters once more. Do not think me tedious.” Yongbok assented and listened carefully to her instructions.
“Oh, and can you write Hanmun?” Consort Son asked. Yongbok nodded. She at once drew him toward the writing desk. He picked up a brush, dipped it in ink, and inscribed his name upon a blank register. Consort Son leaned down to study it for a moment. “Bold and upright—fine calligraphy!”
Yongbok had first studied the Zhao style upon beginning his schooling. The flowing grace of Zhao Mengfu’s semi-cursive had been the standard model for scholar-officials. Later he also practiced the fashionable Ou-kai and Yan styles, copying the Stele of The Jiucheng Palace Sweet Spring Inscription and The Duobao Pagoda Stele. Yet he possessed no great natural gift for calligraphy. Though he stood out within the Inner Quarters, he could not compare with true literati and scholar-nobles.
“Tomorrow you shall keep the gift-receiving register. Once the feast begins, attend to the elder ladies yonder—pouring wine, serving dishes, assisting with changes of garments and rising to depart. Be most attentive.”
“Yes,” Yongbok replied.
Consort Son added, lowering her voice a fraction further: “Remember, Bok. Tomorrow do not take the initiative to converse with the principal wives of other households. Your status differs, and the County Mistress is sensitive on this point. Keep this well in mind.” With that, her countenance returned to its former gentle, easy manner.
…………
Yongbok walked straight through the main hall of the West Courtyard into the inner chamber. Okjeong followed to help him change. As she undid his sleeve, one corner of the silk handkerchief slipped from the pouch. “My lord, this handkerchief…”
“It was a gift from the County Mistress.” He said nothing of Kim Seungmin. As if he had long prepared the reply, he waited only to be asked.
Having changed, Yongbok sat upon the low daybed beneath the window. Yeongsun brought in a cup of hot tea, set it on the small side table, and withdrew. The chamber fell quiet, broken only by the occasional cry of birds drifting in from outside. He had been turning the matter over in his mind since earlier that day. Taking a second Omega was a privilege reserved for royal clansmen. While high-ranking yangban keeping secret Omega consorts was an open secret in the capital, his own presence remained without proper legitimacy. Should the General’s fortunes prosper, none would raise objection. But if one day he fell under official impeachment, and the King chose to pursue the matter, this would stand as a clear offence.
Yet the County Mistress had not hidden him away. Tomorrow’s one month banquet would bring Her Highness the Princess and numerous noble inner consorts of the capital. The County Mistress knew this better than anyone. Why not confine him to the West Courtyard, as ritual propriety would demand? What game was he playing? Did he intend to bring him before the multitude, let those eyes fix upon him, so that he might later be cast aside as a disposable pawn when the hour required it? Yongbok sipped his tea and closed his eyes.
————————————
Yongbok was roused from light sleep by Yeongsun. The sky had not yet fully brightened. The silk lanterns along the veranda still burned their last flicker of candle flame, swaying precariously in the morning breeze. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, then slowly slipped his feet into the shoes she held out and stood to let the women dress him.
The garments had been sent from the East Courtyard the day before. The fabric was not extravagant, yet the cut was exceptionally thoughtful, falling smooth and neat. As he moved, the hem swayed gently against his legs like still water stirred by a light wind—restrained yet not shabby, dignified yet without overstepping his station.
The servant who delivered them had left a special reminder: “The County Mistress bids you set aside the ear ornaments for now. Silver or pearl will suffice tomorrow.”
Yongbok understood. The ruby ear ornaments the General had placed upon him were far too conspicuous. Tomorrow’s guests would include royal nobles, household inner consorts, and ladies whose gazes were sharp as needles and whose smiles were as keen as blades. To appear before them wearing those ornaments would bring not honour, but a target upon his back.
…………
The family shrine had been thoroughly cleansed by the maids the day before—ancestral tablets wiped, ritual vessels arranged, sacrificial offerings prepared. Several consorts and their children had arrived one after another. By custom, these consorts were not permitted inside the shrine proper, so they gathered in small groups in the open ground beyond the gates, their neatly attired children trailing behind them.
As soon as Yongbok stood at the outer gate, Consort Sim was the first to notice him. “Ohh, Bok has come.” She wore a pale-yellow blouse, a fresh crab-apple blossom pinned in her hair. She looked him up and down. “I have not seen you these days. Why are you dressed so plainly all of a sudden?”
Yongbok gave her a slight nod. “I shall meet noble lords and their inner consorts today; I dare not attract notice.” Consort Sim raised her brows and did not press further. Consort Yu, standing nearby, took up the conversation in a soft tone: “Are you fully recovered? We heard you were recuperating and dared not disturb you.”“Thank you for your concern,” Yongbok answered. “I am quite well.”
Consort Sim gave a faint sniff. “Yu, I think you need not ask. Look at his healthy complexion.” She turned to Yongbok and tapped his shoulder lightly with her handkerchief. “Tell me truthfully—were you already well, and merely feigning illness to shirk duties?”Consort Son walked over and spoke in a measured voice: “Sim, hold your tongue.”
Beneath Consort Son’s gaze, Consort Sim fell silent, waving her hand awkwardly. “Fine, Never mind.” She turned away, her eyes falling upon several children tussling not far off. Her brows drew tight. “Hey! Soyeon, Hyewon—stop bullying your younger brother!”
Yongbok followed her gaze. Three children tugged at one another by the compound wall. A boy of six or seven stood pouting in the corner, held by two older girls, one hand seized by each, as if under interrogation. The twin girls were around ten, wearing identical double-loop hairstyles, silver pendants on their hair-ties jingling with every movement. At Consort Sim’s shout the girls let go, sticking out their tongues and stepping back.
Yongbok studied the boy. Faint traces of the General’s features could still be discerned, though his face remained childish and plump. He was Consort Sim’s son. Yet even when the boy was still an infant, the General’s affections had already turned elsewhere. Yongbok recalled Eunsun’s words: Consort Sim had been the most favoured in years past, before the arrival of the County Mistress. She must once have believed she would be his last.
In her early thirties she remained well-preserved, her figure shapely. Yet standing before the shrine gate, separated by the threshold and the scent of incense, lay a boundary she could never cross. Minho had never intentionally vied for favour among the consorts. But his very existence had dealt a heavy blow to their lives, Yongbok thought silently, shifting his gaze across the assembled crowd.
Consort Choe stood further off, taking no part in their talk, dressed in plain garments. Her son stood to one side, some seventeen or eighteen years old. Two paces separated mother and son—a deliberate, decorous distance befitting a solemn occasion between a mother and her nearly adult child.
Yongbok had heard that Consort Choe’s eldest son and daughter were already wed. Besides this son, only a young daughter remained by her side. The girl was now whispering with Consort Jo beside a veranda pillar, thirteen years old and in that awkward, moody age.
……
A small sedan chair was carried around the corner of the compound wall. Minho, supported by a maidservant’s hand, slowly alighted. Behind him followed his own children. The illegitimate offspring, upon seeing him, knelt in unison upon the ground and performed the full fourfold prostration. “May Father enjoy peace and health. Your children respectfully inquire after your well-being.”
Minho’s gaze swept over the kneeling children. Consort Sim’s young son knelt at the front; the collar that had been tugged awry in the earlier scuffle still remained half-turned, revealing the edge of his pale grey under-robe. Minho reached out and righted the collar with a casual motion. “Rise, all of you,” he said. Then he turned and led his own children across the threshold. The great gate of the family shrine closed behind them.
Inside the main hall of the shrine the doors stood open. Several ancestral portraits hung upon the walls; the spirit tablets were arranged in orderly rows upon the offering table. His two sons stood according to custom on the eastern side of the courtyard, the eldest daughter on the western side, while the wet-nurse held the second daughter at the foot of the steps.
According to the teachings of the rigid Confucian scholars—those followers of Zhu Xi—he ought neither to preside over the sacrifice nor to recite the prayer. Such duties belonged to the master of the house, to senior kinsmen, or to qualified male relatives of the clan. In short, they did not belong to him: an Omega, a man of frontier origin, one who could not even write Hanmun. Fortunately the General came from a military household. Though he valued reputation and face, he was not so rigidly pedantic. Moreover, this was an internal matter of the household; even should someone wish to gossip, in the end the matter still rested upon Minho’s countenance.
An attendant of some fifty years approached from the side corridor. He halted at the foot of the steps, bowed slightly, and indicated that Minho should stand below—the place proper to an appendant of the General. Minho fixed him with a single glance and strode directly across the threshold of the main hall, taking his place before the offering table. That look caused the man, who had served the household for more than a decade and prided himself on knowing every rule, to withdraw his restraining hand in trembling silence and lower his head.
Minho stood before the table, regarding the yellowed portraits of the ancestors. The features of the General’s forebears had grown blurred with the fading of the silk, as though viewed through a thin mist. He had never believed that these tablets or these offerings could truly bring good fortune or protect descendants.
Yet he would not yield. What he contended for was not the privilege of worship itself, but the power it represented—the authority to define the rules within this household. For himself he cared little; for the children he cared greatly. How would others look upon his children? In what tone would they speak of them? Legitimate and illegitimate were divided; a son’s standing followed his procreant’s. In time they would need official privileges, suitable marriages, the ability to hold their heads high before others. The children outside the wall were also the General’s offspring, yet their stations differed as heaven from earth. If the ancestors in those portraits truly possessed spirits, they might perhaps forgive his desire for control and understand the sincerity of his heart.
The light within the hall, filtered through window gauze, fell upon the offerings arranged according to the ancient prescriptions: fish to the east, meat to the west; raw food inward, cooked food outward, each in its proper place. A measure of clear wine and a bowl of white rice announced the birth of a new child and prayed for the children’s food and clothing. White steamed cakes symbolised the flourishing of the family line. Jujubes, chestnuts and persimmons corresponded to early wisdom, respectful observance of ritual, and a life of smooth fortune. Pears prayed for the warding off of illness and misfortune. A whole chicken represented vigorous life; a whole fish prayed for generation upon generation of abundance. A small wooden bow lay upon the table—token of the military household’s tradition and loyalty to the throne.
Manbok brought forward a basin of water. Minho dipped his hands in a symbolic washing. Mangeum immediately stepped forward and dried them gently with a silk cloth. Minho glanced sideways. The attendant who had earlier been rebuked now came forward promptly with the incense. Minho took the sticks, lit them from the candle flame upon the table. The flame licked the tips, glowed red for an instant, then subsided into a short length of grey-white ash. Thin threads of blue smoke rose and drifted in the still air.
He inserted the three sticks into the incense burner. Manbok then placed a kneeling cushion in the centre. Together with Mangeum he supported Minho as he knelt and performed the full prostration. Receiving the wine vessel from the attendant, Minho rose, offered the wine upon the altar, stepped back, and knelt once more to bow again. The children in the courtyard—save for the second daughter held in the wet-nurse’s arms—followed his movements in unison.
Mangeum presented the prayer tablet to Minho.
He began to recite:
“In the sixth month of the year Byeong-o, on this auspicious day, with clear wine, pine cakes and sundry offerings, we respectfully present sacrifice before the spirits of the successive martial ancestors.
Our lord, bound by imperial command and detained upon official duty beyond the capital, is unable to return and conduct the rite in person.
I, Lee Minho, bearing the charge of principal spouse of the main lineage, dare not neglect the ancestral sacrifices.
Now a legitimate daughter has been born, and her first month is fulfilled. One branch of the lineage continues the incense-fire of this martial house; a tender young lady of the inner chambers is entrusted to the protection of the ancestors.
We humbly beseech the successive progenitors above to look down with compassionate favour: that the infant daughter may be preserved from illness and grow in health, ever observing the rites of a distinguished house; that our lord’s official path may remain secure, border affairs peaceful, free from the hardships of dust and toil; that the entire household may dwell in tranquillity, and all servants within and without remain in their proper stations.
This day I act in place of my lord, presiding over the household sacrifice, strictly observing my duty, and daring not to overstep or transgress the bounds of ritual.
With reverence we bow and offer this prayer. May the spirits partake.”
……
At the same time, beyond the vermilion wall of the shrine, the illegitimate sons performed their remote prostrations according to custom. Consort Sim’s young son nearly struck his forehead upon the ground as he bowed. When he rose he stumbled, his small body swaying sideways and falling against Yongbok, who stood nearby.
“Ah, this child—” Consort Sim hurried to steady him, but Jinhyeok had already clung to Yongbok’s leg and stood up. Yongbok bent slightly and offered a light supporting hand. “It's all right," His voice was softer than usual. “How old are you? What is your name?”
“Jinhyeok,” the little boy answered, still carrying a childish tone. “Six and a half.” He held up six fingers, then, uncertain, added a seventh, hesitating whether to withdraw it. His small nose twitched. “Hyung, you smell so nice,” he said, and pressed his face against Yongbok’s leg, sniffing vigorously. Because of his height, his nose came to rest near Yongbok’s lower abdomen. Yongbok stiffened for an instant.
He gently cupped the boy’s small face. “Jinhyeok… I should also like to have a younger brother as lovely as you. But I am…”
“The one Father newly took in,” Jinhyeok finished for him. Yongbok’s words hung unfinished. He looked down at the boy, into the dark eyes that gazed up at him. The owner of those eyes sighed—a sigh carrying a melancholy far beyond his years.
Yongbok suddenly found no words. He understood. Jinhyeok knew. The more beautiful this person before him, the more gently he treated him, the sadder the child became—for it meant this person held great charm, and that the General might spend even less time with him and his mother. And he, a child of only six and a half years, could do nothing at all. “Have you begun your studies, little one? Can you write characters?” Yongbok asked, stroking the boy’s hair.
Jinhyeok lowered his head and picked at his fingers. “Not yet.” He hesitated. “Lord Father said everything is to be arranged by Father.” He turned his head, gazing through the closed vermilion gate toward the high wall and the figure who was even now presiding over the sacrifice beyond it. “I heard Father has engaged a tutor for Jinak,” he said. “Perhaps when the time comes I might also…” He did not finish the sentence. Looking toward Consort Choe’s son, he added, “And there is also Seungbin’s marriage matter.” He frowned slightly. “Everything must follow Father’s arrangements.”