The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by Magnus Mills

  Overhead, the birds continued whirling. She waved her arms and shouted at them to go away, but they ignored her. While all this went on, Hen and I had been watching transfixed. Now we debated going over to help.

  ‘I’m not sure she’ll need it,’ said Hen. ‘She looks very independent.’

  ‘We ought to offer,’ I said. ‘It’s the least we can do.’

  The woman must have heard us talking because suddenly she peered in our direction. Next moment she was marching towards us, and as she drew near I heard Hen take a deep breath.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ she demanded. ‘I arrived especially early to reserve a place, but there’s nobody here!’

  ‘Apart from us,’ I said.

  ‘Obviously apart from you,’ she sighed, ‘but it’s not what I expected at all. I envisaged a vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, flags flying, pennants fluttering and so forth.’

  ‘Must be a disappointment,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it is and it isn’t,’ she replied. ‘To be honest a bit of peace and quiet wouldn’t go amiss.’

  She looked across at my tent, then at Hen’s, then lastly at Thomas’s. Its smooth white canopy was glimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

  ‘Whose is that?’ she asked.

  ‘It belongs to Thomas,’ said Hen. ‘He’s not here at present.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Thomas,’ she said, as though the name stirred some remote memory.

  Her eyes lingered on the octagonal tent.

  ‘And you are?’ Hen enquired.

  ‘Isabella,’ said the woman.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I am called Hen.’

  She looked at him with interest. ‘That’s an unusual name.’

  ‘It’s colloquial,’ he said. ‘It means “someone who lives in the west”.’

  ‘How enchanting.’

  She cast him an engaging smile, then turned to me inquisitively. At the same instant a flurry of movement caught my attention.

  ‘Watch out!’ I said. ‘Your boat’s getting away!’

  We ran to the river bank. During Isabella’s brief absence the birds had descended on the boat and begun pecking at it ferociously. I could now see that it was fabricated entirely from reeds, which must have attracted them. In their excitement they’d managed to dislodge the vessel from its makeshift harbour, and it was drifting rapidly out of reach. All three of us plunged into the water, but it was too late: a swirling eddy seized hold of the boat and whisked it beyond our grasp. Very soon it was floating round the south-east bend of the river, pursued by a frantic whirr of wings.

  To my surprise, Isabella was unperturbed by her loss.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, once we’d regained dry land. ‘I can easily build another boat.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘If things work out here, of course, I won’t need to.’

  ‘So you’re planning on staying?’ said Hen.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Isabella.

  Her belongings lay nearby, and amongst them I could see a neatly folded tent. There was also an eiderdown (tied with silk cord), a tapestry (wrapped in ticking) and a collection of velvet cushions (loose). She stood for a long while taking in her new surroundings, a dreamy expression on her face.

  ‘Aren’t we fortunate,’ she said at last, ‘to have such a lovely meadow?’

  ‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘it’s properly known as the Great Field.’

  The dreamy expression vanished.

  ‘I’m fully aware of that!’ she snapped.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘sorry.’

  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a tent to put up!’

  ‘You don’t need any help then?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Without further comment, Hen and I made a swift withdrawal. When next we looked back, Isabella had already begun her task. She’d chosen a site at the extreme east of the field, close to the river. Evidently she’d done the job before: she tackled it with speed and efficiency, and seemed to be following a tried and tested routine; then, when everything was in place, she heaved on a slender rope and a beautiful crimson tent rose up from the ground. Within minutes, she had the whole structure securely pegged and guyed.

  ‘Most impressive,’ said Hen, as he set off for his own modest quarters.

  Isabella’s work was far from complete. She now began installing her possessions, and this turned out to be a much slower process. She’d positioned the tent facing west, presumably to catch the sun going down, which meant that her doorway was plainly in my view. I lost count of the number of times she carried those precious items in and out while she decided what went where, and only after constant rearrangement was she eventually satisfied.

  Darkness had not yet fallen when Isabella retired for the evening (doubtless in need of a rest after all her exertions). She failed, therefore, to witness Thomas returning across the river. I’d been wondering when he would next grace us with his presence and now, all of a sudden, here he was. I watched intrigued as he came ashore and caught sight of the crimson tent. It looked spectacular in the fiery rays of sunset, and even from a distance I could tell it aroused his interest. Normally, when he arrived back, he swept the field with an all-encompassing glance before switching his attention inward once more: in general he found nothing more engrossing than himself. The crimson tent, by contrast, held his gaze for several seconds. He stood stock still, swathed in his habitual white robes, and gave it a thorough appraisal; then, when presumably he’d seen enough, he continued on his way. A little later I noticed a lamp glowing faintly in the south-east, but it was soon extinguished as he, too, retired for the night.

  The following morning was warm and sunny. A promising day lay ahead, and when I looked out I expected to see one or two early-risers making the most of it. Instead I saw nobody, not even Hen. I knew for sure he’d be roving around somewhere in the west, but for the time being he remained outside my line of vision. All I could see were the two faraway tents, one white and one crimson, both with their entrances fastened, and both silent.

  An hour passed and the sun climbed higher in the sky, yet still nothing stirred. Personally, I found this incomprehensible: how anyone could sleep so late in the morning was quite beyond me. After a further ten minutes, however, there was movement at last. Isabella emerged from her tent, wrapped in a towel, and tiptoed across the grass to the river bank. She spent a while searching for a suitable spot where it wasn’t too steep; then she dropped her towel to the ground and slipped into the water. Effortlessly, she swam over to the other side, then back to where she started, then back over again. She repeated this exercise a few times before pausing in the shallows. The river rolled quietly on. Isabella lay motionless as the soft morning sunlight dappled the surface; then gradually the current took hold and she was borne downstream. She spread her arms languidly and offered no resistance. There was a bed of reeds at the water’s edge, and when she drifted past she must have brushed their stems with her fingertips; all their heads bowed and swayed in a series of gentle ripples. For a brief period she was lost from view behind these reeds, but eventually she reappeared and continued to glide slowly along. She was now approaching the south-east curve of the river and had almost drawn level with the shimmering white tent; at which moment its doorway parted and Thomas stepped out.

  He glanced all around, and immediately his eyes alighted on Isabella’s recumbent figure. Naturally, under the circumstances, I expected him to show some discretion and pretend not to notice. Instead, I watched astounded as he strode casually to the river bank and engaged her in direct conversation. Obviously I was unable to hear what was being said, but seemingly Isabella was a willing participant in the exchange. She floated idly towards him as they passed the time of day together; then she gave a little laugh and began swimming upstream once more. Thomas strolled in parallel along the grassy bank, his white robes in full flow. When he spotted her discarded towel he picked it up and folded it carefully over his arm; then h
e stood at the water’s edge and waited. In due course Isabella rose from the shallows and he tossed the towel to her. The discussion resumed as she dried herself down. What exactly they found to talk about so soon in their acquaintanceship I didn’t know, but he detained her much longer than I would have thought necessary. For her part, Isabella made no attempt to get dressed. Instead she just stayed where she was with the towel wrapped tightly around her. Occasionally she placed her hands on her hips, rocked her head, and swished her hair from side to side, presumably hoping to dry it in the sun’s warm rays. Thomas was standing so close to her that the drops of water must have fallen on his bare feet, yet he showed no sign of having felt them. I carried on observing the pair’s behaviour for several minutes: it was a fascinating display from both parties, but their performance was about to be interrupted.

  4

  Suddenly a sail appeared coming downriver. Isabella took one look at it and vanished inside her tent. Meanwhile, Thomas stared at the approaching boat. A moment later it ran against the bank and a man jumped ashore with a painter in his hand. He held it secure as the boat swung round with the current. Then two other men dropped the sail. They had landed in the extreme north-east corner of the field, and they paused briefly to take stock of their surroundings. I was quite some way away, but even at this distance I could tell they were only making a tentative appraisal. They were gazing over the field and speaking quietly among themselves. All three of them seemed most unassuming. Whether they were planning to stay or merely breaking their journey was unclear, yet a swish of white robes told me that someone had decided to intervene. Thomas went striding along the bank just as the other two men gained dry land; there then followed a rather one-sided exchange during which he addressed them loudly and pointed in various directions, including back up the river to where they’d come from.

  The three men stood in a group, facing him but apparently saying little. They had a certain stillness about them which I found admirable, and I was pleased to see that they were standing firm. When Thomas had finished berating them they simply shrugged and remained where they were; then he turned and marched away towards the south-east. When he passed the crimson tent he didn’t even glance at it: evidently he’d forgotten about Isabella for the time being.

  After a brief conference, the three men dragged their boat onto the grass and began unloading various pieces of baggage and equipment. These included a large tent which they proceeded to erect close by the river. I decided to go and say hello. They looked at me warily as I approached, but I reassured them with a smile and a handshake. The first man was called Hartopp, and he was accompanied by his two sons. I liked them all from the start: I thought they had the bearing of unadorned noblemen.

  ‘I gather you’ve already met Thomas,’ I remarked.

  ‘The fellow in the white robes?’ said Hartopp.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He didn’t introduce himself,’ said the younger son, ‘but he spoke to us very haughtily.’

  ‘Made us feel most unwelcome,’ added Hartopp.

  ‘That comes as no surprise,’ I said.

  ‘Thinks he owns the place, does he?’

  Clearly Thomas had upset the three of them, but they rose above the slight with dignity and continued pitching their tent. This was a substantial structure: it comprised multiple curves, planes and angles, and appeared to have been designed by an engineer. According to Hartopp it was more than just weatherproof: it was completely storm resistant. He was visibly proud of its innovations, which included an extended awning and a set of pulley blocks for adjusting the guy ropes from within the tent. I was given a concise tour of the interior; then Hartopp opened a trunk and produced a square container made from tin.

  ‘Like a biscuit?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘yes, please.’

  He removed the lid and revealed a stash of plain biscuits. We took one each, then went and stood under the awning. My biscuit, I noticed, was imprinted with some numerals.

  ‘It’s the date it was baked,’ said Hartopp. ‘Two years and eleven months ago, to be precise.’

  ‘Very nice,’ I said, munching it slowly. ‘Tastes quite fresh.’

  ‘Actually,’ he explained, ‘the word “biscuit” means “twice baked”.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘The process makes them hard but light, easy to preserve and excellent for sustenance.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Which is why biscuits are vital when travelling.’

  ‘Come a long way then, have you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Hartopp. ‘A long, long way.’

  While we’d been talking, Isabella had emerged from her tent (fully clothed) and was now pottering around on the river bank. Every now and then she glanced in our direction.

  ‘Do you know Isabella?’ I enquired.

  ‘No,’ said Hartopp, ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘She only arrived yesterday,’ I said. ‘I thought you might have seen her during your journey.’

  ‘Our paths were unlikely to cross,’ he replied. ‘The river has many tributaries.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I never realized.’

  At these words Hartopp turned to me. ‘You’re not from the north-east then?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m not from the north at all.’

  He absorbed this information thoughtfully but said nothing more on the subject. His sons, in the meantime, had finished unloading their boat. It was a sturdy vessel with a rounded hull and looked as if it was built to last. They hoisted the sail again so it could dry properly in the sun before being folded away; then they turned and stood peering upriver.

  ‘Expecting somebody?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hartopp, ‘we have some friends coming, but they seem to have fallen behind.’

  Isabella was now standing perfectly still on the bank and gazing into the north-east. Although she was further downstream, she had a better view of the river because of the way it curved. I could tell she’d seen something approaching and, sure enough, a minute later two more boats came in sight. Their crews waved when they saw us. They drew up to the shore and dropped their sails in the same orderly manner as when Hartopp had arrived; then we all manhandled the boats onto dry land. Isabella refrained this time from repeating her dramatic exit; instead, she quietly observed the scene from where she was. Beyond her, in the distant south-east, somebody else was also watching.

  The new arrivals (half a dozen in all) were similar in disposition to Hartopp and his sons: they were friendly, courteous and diligent. Their tents, like his, were angular and extensive, and I sensed Hartopp had a proprietorial interest in each of them. Quickly and efficiently they set up camp nearby; when the work was complete they sat down and shared biscuits with one another.

  There was a single exception amongst Hartopp’s adherents. A man called Brigant had travelled as a passenger in the third boat, and it soon became clear that he wasn’t a natural sailor. He staggered ashore looking rather green in the face and headed directly for the middle of the field, as far from the river as possible. He pitched his tent in isolation, then disappeared into its dark confines: we didn’t see him again for several days.

  The biscuit tin, meanwhile, served as the key to diplomacy. The next morning, Isabella swam and bathed once more in the lower reaches of the river. Again she was intercepted by Thomas, and again he accompanied her along the bank when she returned upstream. He retrieved her towel and they went through the same ritual as before; then the pair of them stood together talking in the sunshine. All this was witnessed by Hartopp and his companions, but to their credit they paid no attention whatsoever: they simply turned their backs until Thomas had gone. At midday, however, as Isabella reposed in the shade of her tent, she was visited by Hartopp’s younger son. He took with him an invitation: would she care to come as a guest of the newcomers and join them for biscuits and fruit cordial? In due course Hen and I also received invitations, but Thomas notably di
dn’t.

  It was late in the afternoon when I strolled over to the north-east. I went alone. Hen had politely declined the invitation, just as I knew he would, and remained ensconced in his spartan headquarters. When my hosts asked after him I assured them that he wasn’t being unsociable; merely that he seldom strayed from the west these days. Their response was magnanimous.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Hartopp. ‘We’ll send him some biscuits as a gesture of our goodwill.’

  Half an hour went by while we waited for Isabella, who eventually arrived looking fabulous in crimson. Despite showing up much later than specified, she was treated like minor royalty and given a conducted tour of the new settlement. Afterwards, we all assembled beneath Hartopp’s awning. Isabella was fulsome in her praise of the angular tents.

  ‘Very tasteful,’ she said. ‘Such neat, clean lines; highly refined; absolutely no fuss or clutter.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hartopp. ‘Obviously they’re only experimental. Tent design is in constant development.’

  ‘I think you’re a bit of a perfectionist,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘when it comes to tents I suppose I am.’

  ‘Do they require much upkeep?’ I asked.

  ‘Ceaseless,’ he affirmed.

  Immediately, he began making adjustments to one of the guy ropes. We watched him carefully tighten it, then slacken it a little, then tighten it again. Finally, when he was satisfied with the tension, he came and rejoined us.

  ‘Maintenance,’ he said, ‘is essential.’