Held in the Lonely Castle Chapter 28

 

 Held in the Lonely Castle  

 Chapter 28

Translated by : DANMEI HEAVEN

   Canglang

After that, the empress maintained her polite yet distant attitude toward the emperor. She diligently managed the affairs of the six palaces, balancing kindness and authority, ensuring order without further disturbances. Only Noble Consort Zhang continued to provoke, demanding to move into the more luxurious Ninghua Hall—a residence title already exceeding her rank. She often bypassed the empress, issuing orders directly to the palace departments, resulting in her provisions surpassing even the empress's. Yet the empress remained unruffled, tolerating all slights without anger.

It wasn't until December that I saw sorrow flicker across the empress's brow again—but not because of Noble Consort Zhang.

One evening, the princess went to Rouyi Hall for her nightly visit, and I accompanied her. Inside, we found the empress sitting alone, reading a document on the table. When she turned to us, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Startled, the princess forgot formalities and rushed over. "Mother, what's wrong?"

The empress wiped her tears and smiled faintly, pulling the princess to sit beside her. After a long silence, she said, "A dear friend of mine lost her husband last month... He died unjustly. She's still young, and her children are all younger than you..."

"An unjust death?" the princess exclaimed. "Then tell Father and ask him to clear his name!"

The empress smiled sadly but only held the princess tighter, not responding.

Perhaps sensing the unspoken difficulties, the princess lowered her lashes, her expression dimming. Nestling against the empress, she pointed to the document. "Is this her letter to you? The handwriting is beautiful."

It didn’t look like a typical letter; the paper and characters were larger than usual. From a distance, I couldn’t make out the content, but the cursive script was bold and flowing.

The empress didn’t confirm or deny but asked the princess, "Can you recognize whose handwriting this is?"

The princess studied it. "The writing is as lovely as newly bloomed flowers, but it’s different from the famous calligraphy Father showed me... It’s hard to guess."

"This person never boasted of his calligraphy, yet people fought to collect even his fragments. The palace collection has surprisingly few of his works, so it’s no wonder you don’t recognize it," the empress said gently. She then glanced at me. "Huai Ji, you’ve worked in the Calligraphy Bureau. Come take a look."

I obeyed and stepped closer. The document was a Shuidiaogetou lyric:

"By the carefree shores of Lake Tai,

Facing the serene Dongting Mountains.

Where fish and dragons hide,

Behind a veil of mist and endless waves.

Just as I recalled Tao Zhu and Zhang Han,

A lone boat suddenly appeared,

Cutting through the waves, bringing perch home.

Sunset brings sudden storms,

The winding path skirts the bay.

A man’s ambition should shine in his prime,

Ashamed of idle days.

Why then, in vigorous years, does he languish,

His dark hair turning white?

I thought to fish by the cold pond,

But feared the gulls would suspect me,

And refuse to approach.

So I pole through reeds,

Silently watching the ripples."

The handwriting was familiar, and the lyric matched the circumstances of the person I suspected. Seeing only a few of the empress’s closest maids nearby, I ventured, "The writing is like flowers in Shanglin Garden or moonlight on the Huai River—it must be Su Zimei’s drunken brushwork."

The empress confirmed, telling me, "Last month, he wrote this lyric, and soon after, he passed away in Suzhou."

"Su Zimei? He’s dead?" The princess was shocked.

The empress nodded sadly. "It’s truly lamentable. The world has lost the man who drank to the Book of Han..."

This referenced a famous anecdote about Su Shunqin. Known for his poetry, he was the son-in-law of the respected statesman Du Yan. Eminent officials enjoyed his company, comparing the pair to ancient paragons of virtue. It was said that in his youth, while living with Du Yan, Su Shunqin would drink a gallon of wine each night without snacks. Doubting this, Du Yan sent someone to observe. The observer reported that Su Shunqin read the Book of Han while drinking, slapping the table and exclaiming over passages before downing a cup. Du Yan laughed and said, 'With such a companion, a gallon isn’t excessive.' This became Su Shunqin’s legendary reputation—drinking to the Book of Han."

The princess, puzzled by Su Shunqin’s early death, asked, "Father said officials sent out of the capital live freely, touring scenic spots and composing poems—Yueyang Tower Record, Old Drunkard’s Pavilion Record, Canglang Pavilion Record—so widely circulated they drove up paper prices. Didn’t Su Zimei build Canglang Pavilion in Suzhou? How could he die so young? Wasn’t he happy, spending his days with fish and birds?"

The empress asked, "Zhao Rou, do you know why he named his garden 'Canglang'?"

The princess thought but finally shook her head. "Is it from some classical text?"

Just then, someone entered the hall, reciting as they walked:

"When the Canglang’s waters are clear,

I wash my hat strings.

When the Canglang’s waters are muddy,

I wash my feet."

We turned to see the emperor himself. We all stood and bowed.

Having quoted the "Canglang" lines, he must have overheard our conversation. Unannounced, we hadn’t noticed his approach or how much he’d heard. Worried, I glanced at the empress, who hesitated but didn’t remove Su Shunqin’s lyric from the table.

The emperor walked to the table, sat, and examined the lyric closely. After reading, he showed no anger but sighed deeply. "Shunqin retreated to the waterlands, hoping to emulate the carefree fisherman, content with springs and rocks, singing over wine. But this lyric says, 'A man’s ambition should shine in his prime, ashamed of idle days.' Clearly, he couldn’t let go."

The empress stood at the emperor’s side, maintaining a slight distance, her gaze resting quietly on the floor. She replied, "With Canglang Pavilion, he told the world he knew when to advance or retreat, content in simplicity, laughing at antiquity. Yet in the end, he chose death to voice his heart: 'How can purity bear the dust of the vulgar world?'"

The emperor was silent for a long moment, then, as if explaining to the empress, said, "Though he was stripped of rank and banished, never to be reinstated... this year, in the amnesty decree, I added a clause allowing the Ministry of Justice to review cases of minor embezzlement. But critics opposed clearing his name, saying the amnesty originally excluded such cases—that this was special favoritism... Two months ago, I ordered Shunqin reinstated as prefect of Huzhou, planning to gradually recall him to the capital to avoid censure. I never expected him to be so proud, refusing the post even in death."

The princess, listening, couldn’t help muttering, "What’s so bad about serving in those beautiful places? Must he return to the capital to argue with old officials to be happy?"

I tugged her sleeve, signaling her to be quiet. She pouted but said no more.

The empress bowed slightly to the emperor and said gently, "Shunqin may not have refused intentionally. Perhaps fate decreed otherwise. Your Majesty’s wisdom ensures Shunqin’s spirit in the afterlife will recognize your magnanimity and be grateful."

The emperor said nothing, studying the Shuidiaogetou lyric. He then asked the empress, "Did Lady Du give this to you? Is there a letter?"

The empress replied, "She entrusted this lyric to my brother, who passed it to my sister-in-law to bring to me. There was no letter. The messenger asked if she had any message for Your Majesty, and she said, 'This lyric alone conveys my intent. My husband was wronged in life but may yet be vindicated in death.'"

The emperor listened, his eyes drifting over Su Shunqin’s handwriting. After long consideration, he decided, "When Shunqin’s eldest son comes of age, I’ll grant him an official position. Beyond the usual funeral stipend, I’ll bestow additional gifts upon Lady Du."

The empress shook her head. "My brother sent her money, but she declined, saying she submitted the lyric not to beg for favors but in hopes Your Majesty would show more care for the exiled officials—Fan Zhongyan, Fu Bi, Han Qi, and Ouyang Xiu. If they could compose his epitaph, she would ask for nothing more in this life."

The emperor neither agreed nor disagreed. Silently, he rolled up the lyric and left with it.

This was the first time I’d seen the empress discuss state affairs with the emperor. Openly expressing sympathy for the reformist ministers—whom the emperor had personally exiled—risked his displeasure, given his aversion to political interference from the inner court.

But the outcome surprised me.

The following year, the era name was changed to "Huangyou." In the first month, the emperor promoted Fu Bi, who had aided disaster relief in Qingzhou, to vice minister of rites, then elevated both Fu Bi and Han Qi, prefect of Dingzhou, to grand academicians of the Zizheng Hall. Later, under the pretext of "showing favor to former ministers," he promoted and ennobled former chief ministers, including the Qingli Reform leaders: Fan Zhongyan, prefect of Hangzhou, became vice minister of rites, and the retired Du Yan was made grand preceptor of the heir apparent. Public discussion buzzed, and censors protested, but the emperor ignored them, stating this was special recognition for past service, not to be judged by ordinary standards.

The censors’ objections reached the inner court through palace eunuchs, until even the usually apolitical ladies whispered, "Is His Majesty bringing back the reformist ministers?"

This news must have unsettled Noble Consort Zhang and Mother Jia, keeping the Ninghua Hall busy again. Meanwhile, the emperor and empress’s relationship thawed like the brightening weather, with mutual visits gradually increasing beyond formal occasions.

One day, passing the Inner East Gate Hall, I recalled Mr. Zhang’s story of He Yan’s clever response to the emperor’s "smashing his head in remonstration" query. It occurred to me that the empress’s refusal to hide Su Shunqin’s lyric might have been her own version of "smashing her head in remonstration." Fortunately, like He Yan, she achieved the perfect outcome—her subtle yet effective advice not only won the emperor’s approval but also improved his attitude toward her.

A strange thought crossed my mind: the emperor’s treatment of the reformist ministers mirrored his relationship with the empress.

Imperial Uncle Li Yonghe’s health had worsened since the end of the eighth year of the Qingli era. The emperor visited him and promoted him further, but his condition remained unstable. In the spring of the first year of Huangyou, Lady Miao, hearing the imperial uncle was unwell again, prepared tonics and medicines and sent me to deliver them.

That day, the imperial uncle looked terrible, coughing so violently he could barely breathe. Alarmed, I rushed back to summon a royal physician. During the examination, I stayed close, not daring to leave. By the time his condition stabilized and his color improved, I realized it was too late—the palace gates had already closed.

With no choice, I accepted Lady Yang’s suggestion to rest in a guest room at the Li residence and return at dawn.

She prepared the room warmly, but I couldn’t sleep. This was my first night outside the palace since entering it, and I was too anxious to rest. The palace gates opened at the fourth watch, but I rose at the third, washed quickly, and hurried back.

The main gate of the palace, Xuandelou, had five entrances, all with golden nails and vermilion lacquer, the walls inlaid with carvings of dragons, phoenixes, and clouds. At the fourth watch, officials entered for morning court, most on horseback—hence the capital’s ditty: "At the fourth watch, court horses stir, and courtiers arrive."

Officials entered in order of rank. Since it was still dark, those below the chief ministers carried white paper lanterns on long poles, inscribed with their names and titles. Before entering, they gathered outside the gate, their lanterns twinkling like a river of stars—a sight called the "fire city."

Outside the palace was a "waiting hall" for early-arriving princes, princesses, and high officials. Today was the first of the month, a grand assembly day when all capital officials attended court. But I’d come too early—the gates were still closed, the fire city absent, and the waiting hall deserted. Only a single lantern glowed by the gate, where an official on a white horse waited silently beneath the carved eaves.

Approaching, I saw he wore a pale gray outer robe against the dust, with vermilion court robes beneath, a white square-collar, a silver sword and ring, and black leather shoes—the attire of a fourth-rank official.

His profile had been turned toward the gate, but sensing me, he slowly faced me, revealing a handsome face beneath a three-tiered crown with a rhinoceros-horn pin.

He wasn’t young—perhaps in his thirties—but his bearing was striking. Against the backdrop of painted towers and vermilion railings, his sleeves fluttering in the breeze, his brow slightly furrowed, he looked like an exiled immortal.

Having mostly interacted with chief ministers in the palace, I didn’t recognize lower-ranking officials. But since our eyes had met, I didn’t neglect courtesy and bowed deeply.

He smiled faintly, returning the bow from horseback, his gaze kind.

We didn’t speak. As I puzzled over his identity, his lantern swung toward me, and I froze.

It bore his name and title: Vice Minister of Rites, Prefect of Yingzhou—Wang Gongchen.

Five years ago, this name would have prompted the question, "The nineteen-year-old top graduate?"

But now, the first reaction—mine included—was, "The villain who framed Su Zimei?"

Before the Jinyi Academy incident, Wang Gongchen had been a model of scholarly success—a poor student rising to prominence through hard work. Orphaned young, he was raised by his widowed mother alongside several siblings in poverty. Brilliant and studious, he passed the imperial examinations in the eighth year of Tiansheng, ranking first at just nineteen—the youngest top graduate in our dynasty’s history. The emperor, impressed by his honesty in refusing the title (having previously seen the exam questions), insisted on awarding it to him and favored him for years.

His career had been meteoric—every scholar’s dream: top graduate at nineteen, drafter of edicts at twenty-eight, Hanlin academician at thirty. By thirty-one, he headed the Censorate. Had it not been for the Su Shunqin case, he would have risen further. But after destroying Su Shunqin and other academy elites, and causing Du Yan’s dismissal, public opinion turned against him. The emperor, too, seemed to reconsider, exiling him to Zhengzhou, then to Chan and Ying prefectures. For years, he couldn’t return to the capital. Today, though attending court, his title unchanged, he was likely only reporting on his duties.

After destroying the academy’s elite, he’d reportedly boasted, "I caught them all in one net." Having only heard of him, I’d imagined someone like Xia Song—eyes clouded with wine and malice—or Wang Zhi, rat-faced and sly. The refined scholar before me hardly matched that image.

But the name extinguished my momentary admiration. I stepped back, keeping my distance, waiting silently on the other side of the gate.

More officials arrived, gathering in small groups to chat before lining up. None spoke to Wang Gongchen; few even greeted him. Only after a long while did someone approach him with a smile—Wang Zhi.

Lanterns multiplied before the gate like fireflies or a flowing river of stars. At the fourth watch, the chief ministers arrived leisurely. When they reached the gate, the "fire city" extinguished, and the gates opened. Officials entered in order of rank.

I waited aside, unable to enter until all officials had passed. With nothing else to do, my gaze kept returning to Wang Gongchen.

When his turn came, he urged his horse forward, but a fourth-rank official on a chestnut steed cut him off. Their horses collided, nearly unseating Wang Gongchen. He steadied himself, but his ivory court tablet slipped to the ground.

The other official, clearly deliberate, glanced back with a smirk. "Apologies," he said, then sauntered off.

Wang Gongchen reined in, silent and still. Everyone watched—some glancing as they passed, others stopping to observe his reaction. No one offered help.

He simply lowered his eyes, frozen in place for a long moment.

I understood his dilemma—dismounting to retrieve the tablet would be humiliating, but not doing so was equally awkward. Feeling sympathy, I stepped forward, picked up the tablet, and handed it to him.

He looked surprised, then touched, accepting it with both hands. "Thank you, honored eunuch."

I smiled. "A small gesture, Vice Minister. No need for thanks."

He inclined his head slightly. "Might I ask your name?"

"My humble name is unworthy of your attention."

I retreated, gesturing for him to proceed. He didn’t press, merely cupping his hands in farewell before riding calmly through the gate, ignoring the whispers behind him.

(To be continued)